Father Christmas

Santa might be able to do this forever, but Samantha was not so sturdily built. She soon was running short of breath. And she was running short on restraint. As she rose and fell, she made sure his silken hardness caressed her button with nearly its entire length every stroke. Her voice began to cry out with each passage, wordless entreaties to him, and just as her strength was failing, she moaned, finding new energy, and rode him with abandon. Santa too cried out, and she felt him fill her body, warmth and slippery love coursing from him into her. She cried out and collapsed atop him.

Minutes later, they each returned to consciousness. Samantha kissed him, trying to keep his softening length within her. "We are going to need that supper," Santa grunted. Her stomach answered loudly, and they both laughed.

Santa donned a robe, and Samantha, after some discrete cleaning, slipped once more into her dress, ignoring the underwear, spectacular though it was. A meal appeared, and they devoured it, savoring every bite.

But as the meal ended, and elves were coming to clean things away, they both were suddenly awkward again with each other. As an elf arrived to take the plates and vessels away, Santa coughed and looked at Samantha, then away in uncertainty. "Nubbin," he said to the elf, "Um, Miss Samantha must be exhausted... from the whole day, and I think it has been almost thirty hours since she last woke up, what with the time zone... Um, please have the guest cottage made up for her."

Nubbin looked at Santa, half uncertainly, half disapprovingly.

Bed sounded very good... but not in a guest cottage. Samantha took a leap. "Chris... I'd rather spend the night here."

Santa's face sprang back to its accustomed joy. "Excellent!" he roared. "Nubbin, fetch her new things, would you?"

"They are in the bedroom," Nubbin said drily. "I brought them with dinner."

The elf swiftly vanished, and Samantha laughed. "I think the elves like us together, the little matchmakers!"

"They certainly do, but they just like you on your own too. They are thinking selfishly, and they probably like you for you and what you do more than they like you for me!" He chortled to himself, "Ho ho ho! And never let them hear I said it," Santa added, leaning in with a conspiratorial smile, "but they can be lazybones when it isn't about Christmas. They didn't want to make up the guest cottage because you are the first guest in the history of the North Pole. There is no guest cottage. When I said make it up, I meant they needed to build one! Ho ho ho!"

*

The next two days passed idyllically. Santa made sure to send a team of elves each day to Miami, to muss Samantha's bed and order some room service, to make sure the hotel did not grow concerned that she was not in evidence, despite having not checked out.

Santa had already discretely checked out of his own suite.

Samantha saw the team that went to Miami on the second day. It was a male elf and a female, climbing onto Vixen's back, and given what she was beginning to understand about these beings when they were not working, Samantha doubted the room service or mussed bed went to waste...

During the days, they ate and laughed together. Santa was occasionally asked for his input on various matters, and Samantha found her way into several issues herself. When Santa tried to show off for Samantha by taking up some tools and making some toys himself, the tools were firmly repossessed. He was still on vacation, even if had become a staycation, and he was not allowed to forget it. He noted that none of the elves were hesitant to ask Samantha to do things with or for them...

To keep her from the clutches of the elves, Santa took her out into the snow surrounding the village in the foothills. He had almost forgotten the toboggan hill on the south side, but they both spent gleeful hours shooting down it together on the two-person sleds, or racing in individual rubber inner tubes.

A snowman was made.

Off-shift elves were constantly around the both of them, making their own merry, and ensuring that Santa and Samantha had theirs.

Over dinner on the third day, Santa found himself in knots, the succulent meal tasting of ashes in his mouth. Samantha's vacation was over, and she had a flight home from Miami the next day. Her own job waited. Her own life and career.

But she was perfection here at the North Pole. Santa knew it, yet he knew she had to be perfect in her own life already. And she was perfect in more ways than just as part of the team.

Misery was not an emotion familiar to the man, the myth, the legend.

That night, the two of them coupled with almost dire fervor, before collapsing into the gigantic bed and sleeping deeply.

In the morning, Santa woke first. He had known he needed to. He stared at Samantha's gorgeous sleeping face beside him in the bed. He would have to move soon, to be ready to drive her back to her home. He was in no way going to take her back to Miami, then make her ride back to her home city in a human airliner!

But rather than preparing, he lay there in bed. Staring at her face. She stirred, just a little.

He cleared his throat. "The, um, the elves will miss you. More than you know," he said, hoarsely, not in his usually rich baritone.

"Will they?" Samantha asked, frowning at the morning light. She seemed as pensive as he.

"I wanted you to know that... if you didn't already," Santa said. "I mean... I can't tell if you know. It is so strange to realize that you are only the second person in all my life that I cannot read like a book, cannot tell your inner thoughts, even if I look."

"Really?" Samantha said, waking a bit more at this strange news. "Who else?"

Santa just shrugged, "Only Eleanor. Her mind was always her own, which let her give me her heart."

Samantha looked at him wordlessly.

"Please stay," Santa blurted. "I... we... the whole operation needs you!"

"Oh, so you need a management consultant up here now?" Samantha challenged, almost hostilely.

"Yes!" Santa said defiantly. "But, that is what the elves need. I want you. I want you for your magical ability to help the elves in ways like and very unlike the way Eleanor did. Far more, I want you for what you do for me. For how achingly sexy you are, and how complete that makes me. For how beautiful you are. For how funny. And for how you make me utterly joyful just to eat with you, to sleep with you, to wake up with you. Especially that."

She stared at him as he made his uncontrolled speech, eyes bright with each word. "You want me to stay... with you." She sat up, and the covers slid away from her naked form.

"With me," Santa said firmly. Then he sighed. "But, as magnificent as what I am looking at now is, I want you to stay, even if it is not... with me. If you do that, my heart will break every day. But please do it anyway, I'll happily pay that price for Christmas.

"You can't read my mind?" she asked, suddenly intently curious.

"No. And that is why I want, why I know you need to stay," Santa said, warming to a subject he had not previously understood. "I don't know what has made you this way, but I know that it did so because you belong with me. And to be with me, you need that defense."

"I can't imagine needing a defense from Santa Claus!"

"But you do," Santa said softly. "To ensure that you will always and forever be your own person. Whole. And separate from me, so that we can be together." He took a deep breath. "I can be... intense. In times of crisis, and always at the end of the year, I am a force of nature. My drive is... consuming. I sweep up all and everyone who are in my path, and in my wake. I won't be able to do that with you. And you can be you, and happy, because of that."

His breath caught. "If you could be happy with me in the first place..." he added tensely. He looked at Samantha entreatingly.

She stared back at him. Then she leaned into him, held him very, very lightly, and kissed his muscular shoulder softly. "I am thinking, Chris," she said. Then she did so... out loud.

"My job, I can walk away from that. I'm liked. And I am good at it. But consultants get itchy feet. They might not even make me serve out my notice."

Santa tilted his head and thought. "They would not. Especially since it will work its way into their heads, in a general, unfascinating way, that you have gone to work for an important client. They will never quite care who."

"You can do that?"

"Not really," Santa shrugged. "But it will work out like that. If you choose."

Samantha stared at him, clearly seeing yet more to this man that was Santa.

"My friends... I don't have many. They are good people, but none of us expect to be where we are forever. I would miss them, but they would not go looking for me."

"I do not understand why you don't have friends of depth and breadth," Santa said. "You are utterly magnetic." He was glad to hear she did not, but he did not understand it. Samantha just looked fretful. Santa pressed, "But that means you have only yourself to consider when deciding the issue. You can come to be with us... if you desire."

Samantha looked at him, her eyes almost haunted. "I do, Chris. I want it so badly! But my parents! They will miss me. And I love them. I will miss them so much!"

"Why?" Santa asked.

"Why?" Samantha almost shrieked. "I love them! They raised me! You want me to stay here, and they will not know where I am, where I have been?"

"Of course not," Santa snorted.

"What?"

"If you decide to stay, the first thing we have to do is go see them," Santa said, wondering why this wasn't obvious. "I can't ask you to marry me if I don't ask your father's permission."

"Marry me?!?"

"It wouldn't be proper for Santa Claus to just shack up with a woman forever," Santa said miserably.

Suddenly, he was awash in kisses. Kisses from a spectacular naked woman in his bed with him.

"You would tell them? Where I am going? Who you really are?"

"I can't very well make a true offer for your hand, without telling the truth."

Samantha stopped kissing him to give him a skeptical look. "You do know I can choose to marry you without Dad's permission?"

"I am an old-fashioned individual," Santa said sternly. "It comes from being six hundred years old."

Samantha laughed at that, then sobered yet again. "But you will trust my parents with your secret? Or will they forget eventually what we tell them? Eventually, forget me?" Samantha was learning the lessons of the magic well. But not completely yet.

"Your father was an extraordinarily good little boy," Santa said. He stroked his nose with his finger. "I remember. And your mother was an even nicer little girl. And they love you overwhelmingly. What you ask, they will do." He looked at her, his playful nature breaking through the serious tone. "Ho ho ho! And who would believe them anyway?"

Samantha stared at him. She started to speak several times, then always cut herself off. Santa watched her, reveling in the fact that he did not know what she was going through. She would always be a mystery to him... if he could keep her. At last, she sighed and said quietly to herself. "I'm going to marry Santa Claus."

His heart leapt, but he couldn't resist. "Hey! I haven't actually asked you yet."

"You have!" Samantha shrieked, smiling in dismay.

"I have to ask your father first," he chortled.

Suddenly, the massive frame of Santa Claus was pinned to the bed. The next little while was... glorious.

"So when can we arrange to see my father so I can tell him what his answer will be?" Samantha said, her tousled head lying on Santa's shoulder.

Santa lifted his eyes for a moment. "He is off work today, and home with your mother. How about as soon as we can eat breakfast?"

*

Walter Davis sat at the kitchen table with his wife, companionably eating a late afternoon snack. She had made cookies. His wife made excellent cookies, though in their daughter, the student had eclipsed the master. He had had no reason to take the day off, but he liked to do it here and there, just to be with his wife without any real agenda. He had earned the privilege by this point in his career. Marie browsed her iPad, reading the news.

He thought he heard something, and raised his head from his book. The doorbell rang. He and Marie exchanged glances. She just gestured to him, letting him know he was expected to get rid of whomever it was.

He stood and wandered through the living room, pausing at the sight through the front window of the enormous, dark green, Mercedes SUV parked in front of his house. Not a salesman at the door. Not in that kind of vehicle.

He unlocked the front door and opened it slowly, in a manner calculated to be reserved but politely welcoming. His face burst into a huge smile. Samantha, his only daughter, stood at the door. She was radiant, wearing a deep, rich, red dress that suited her coloring so well he instantly mused on why she had not always worn such a color, though it seemed a bit warm for August. Her smile was the sort that made a father's heart sing.

"Dad!" she exclaimed, hugging him instantly. Samantha was not usually given to quite that level of physical enthusiasm. "I have someone I want you to meet," she said, stepping back.

It was a measure of how excited Walter was to see his daughter so unexpectedly that he had managed to initially miss the hulking, yet somehow elegant supermodel standing behind her. Despite his silver hair, shot through with threads of jet black, the man looked unfairly youthful. He towered over even Walter's strikingly tall daughter.

A man who is presented out of the blue by his daughter with a handsome man is naturally suspicious, and it irritated Walter that the man in question was not only insanely handsome, but instantly seemed so darned... likable.

Walter tamped his initial reaction and said only, "Oh?" He stuck out his hand, and said simply, "Walter."

"Chris," the man said, taking his hand in a firm, friendly, hospitable grasp. It was possibly the most perfect handshake Walter had ever experienced. Oh, he was going to hate this guy.

"Get out of the doorway, Dad, so we can come in," Samantha said drily.

Drat it! Walter backed into the living room, shamed that his daughter was schooling him on hospitality. Samantha swept in, her face radiant. This Chris person followed behind her politely.

How had he never heard about this man before from his daughter? Samantha was not around much these days, but she did call her mother, and occasionally even him, regularly. How long had he been in the picture? Samantha had a level head, but any person could get carried away. And she was suddenly going from no mention at all to springing him on her parents?

"Samantha? Is that you?" Marie called, coming out from the kitchen. "Darling, this so un... who is this?" She said, changing gears quickly, and letting the register of her voice drop an octave.

Walter rolled his eyes.

"Mom, this is my... this is Chris. He... I want you both to meet him," Samantha said, bubbling, but suddenly at a loss for words.

Oh dear. She had it bad for this man.

"I am Marie," his wife said, offering her hand. Chris merely shook it with a smile. If he'd kissed her hand, Walter might have lost it. "Please come in. Have a seat," Marie bustled, taking charge. "Can I offer you something to drink? It's a bit early for Walter to offer you a cocktail, but some lemonade perhaps? Iced tea?" She cocked her head at the massive man. "Hot cocoa?"

"Ho ho ho," Chris's laugh boomed across the room. "You have me pegged, Marie! I would love some hot chocolate."

Marie and Samantha shared a wordless look, and the two of them headed for the kitchen. Sammie threw a look over her shoulder at the man, in apparent apology for leaving him with her father.

The man looked slightly uncomfortable. He did not look to be used to being uncomfortable. When you looked like he did, dressed like he did, and drove cars like he did, you probably did not do uncomfortable much...

"So how did you meet my daughter, Chris?" What kind of jerk doesn't offer his last name? And how could Samantha have omitted it?

"I, ah, we met quite recently," he said. "I found it very easy for us to be friends."

I'll be you did.

"As we learned about each other, I found that she could also be quite valuable to my operations," Chris went on.

"Wait. You are a client?"

"Oh no. Ho ho ho. No. But your daughter has an extraordinary mind, as well as heart."

Now Walter was just getting confused. This guy was all over the place. Was he here to hire his daughter, or... court her? And why had she brought him here, if she barely knew him?

Samantha and Marie re-appeared from the kitchen. Uh oh. They were looking conspiratorial. Marie had brought Walter a fresh lemonade, and she handed Chris a mug of steaming hot cocoa.

The man took the cup with an earnest thank you and paused to inhale the steam. Then he took a slow, deep sip. "Ahhh," he rumbled. "That is wonderful. Mexican chocolate?"

Even Walter was impressed. "You know your chocolate," he said begrudgingly.

"Hot cocoa, I suppose you could say, is part of my brand," Chris smiled.

The four of them chatted for a few minutes, without saying much about anything. It was as if they were all dancing around the elephant in the room: Who in the world was this character, and what was he up to with Walter's daughter?

After a bit, Chris cleared his throat. "Samantha and I had hoped to take you to dinner," he rumbled in that voice like liquid silver.

"That sounds lovely, but it is a little early," Marie replied with a smile.

"It's actually a bit of a drive to get there," Samantha said quickly. "If you guys want to come with, maybe you could go ahead and get ready?"

Walter considered the clothes Chris and his daughter were wearing. They even coordinated. And they were both far and away better dressed than he or Marie. The dress Samantha wore was maybe the best thing he'd ever seen her in, and it fit her almost supernaturally well. Where had this character taken her to buy it?

"We'd love to go," Marie answered for him, before Walter could start getting crabby and dig in his heels about the country club being just fine for dinner.

She need not have bothered. He had known the second Samantha asked, he would have no way out of this. He followed Marie to their bedroom to change.

"What. The Heck. Is that?" he asked the moment they were alone gesturing back to the living room and Sammie's mysterious guest.

"That?" Marie replied archly. "I really don't know, beyond 'that' being an insanely handsome man, apparently rich and successful, who values our daughter's professional abilities, and who looks at her like she is the Crown Jewels."

"He's too old for her."

"Please. She is thirty-four. She can be with anyone of any age at this point in her life. And whatever is going on with his hair, he is way younger than we are."

"True," Walter said, allowing the obvious. "But what is with the hair?"

"You are just jealous."

Walter glared at his wife, then grinned ruefully. "Got me there. I'd kill for that head of hair. Or even the beard."

"You could grow a beard if you wanted one, darling," Marie said, caressing Walter's smooth cheek.

"Not like his," he muttered.

"I do think it is amusing, the way he leans into the Santa thing," Marie said with a smile, looking through her things in the drawer.

Walter snorted. It actually was one of the things he had to like about the man. "Well, I suppose if I had that look... Power Santa or whatever, I might lean into it too. I'll bet whenever he wears that red suit, little kids everywhere get a huge kick out of it."

"It's not red. It has red pin-stripes," Marie tried to correct him.