5. Jingle Bells

FIVE

JINGLE BELLS

DEREK

W hen I was a boy and my mom was still alive, my dad was a huge deadbeat, only worse than he is now because he didn’t just take off back then.

Growing up, the bastard pretended like he still gave a shit, but he was never there when it counted. He was either ‘working’— getting drunk at the bar —or ‘working’— fucking his floozy of the hour in some cheap motel —or ‘working’— running with the losers and lowlifes who weren’t even smart enough to get in with organized crime, choosing to screw up all on their own . I can count the Christmas Eves I spent with Jack Coleman on one hand, and since they usually ended up with my mom in tears, I hate remembering them now.

Instead, I think of the traditions we had together, just the two of us. How we watched our favorite Christmas classics—Mom always picked The Year Without a Santa Claus, while I insisted on The Santa Clause —and made chocolate chip cookies to leave out for a Santa that, no matter how my old man gambled or drank the household money away, always had something for little Derek in his sack.

I haven’t celebrated Christmas since she died when I was twenty-four. That was six Decembers ago now, and if it wasn’t for Dove’s obvious enthusiasm for the season, this would’ve been my sixth Christmas sleepwalking through the jingle bells, the tinsel, and the blinking lights.

In my living room, I have a foot-tall tabletop tree that I’ve covered in glittering white dove ornaments I bought online. Silver garland is tacked a little haphazardly beneath my mounted television. Following her lead, I trimmed my windows in white lights. It’s nowhere near as impressive as her decorating skills, but it’s something at least.

Just knowing Dove Yarrow exists in this world makes it a little brighter after Maggie Coleman left it far too soon.

It’s Christmas Eve. As a nod to my mom, I bought some Tollhouse cookie dough and baked up a few more cookies while I watched Tim Allen fall off the roof. I scarfed them down with a glass of milk, and by the time The Santa Clause is over, and I’m all the way up to the Snow Miser’s part in my mom’s pick, I’m dozing on my couch.

I spent three hours at Dove’s last night, sitting on the edge of her bed, running my fingers through her curls as she slumbered away. The night before, we had another snow storm. I didn’t know when it would end, and sneaking out of her window only to leave my boot prints down her fire escape would be more proof that her secret Santa’s been visiting her than I was prepared to leave behind at this point.

To make up for it—and because I knew that I was off today—I stayed with her until her snuffles went from deep to shallow and I could tell she would be waking up soon. I had enough time to leave the best of the first batch of cookies I baked on a platter in her fridge. My Dove is a little forgetful. Sometimes she’s so consumed by a photo project, she’s too distracted to remember to eat. If cookies showed up in her apartment, she’d just convince herself that she tucked them in the fridge and forgot about them.

What’s the alternative? That a cop dressed up as Santa was drooling over her while she slept, tidying up the apartment for her, and leaving her Christmas cookies?

It’s true, but she’d never believe it.

At least, not yet .

It was the same back in October. Her pretty face might’ve gotten a little pinched the first time she saw the candy I set out in a bowl for her to snack on, or was curious when I pointedly left a pumpkin outside of her front door, but before long, she just went with the flow.

That’s something else I love about her. She’s so easygoing, I have no doubt in my mind that, once I explain to her that we’re perfect for one another—and she gets to know me—she’ll agree.

And then I won’t have to force myself to leave her alone in her bed when, fuck it, that’s where I belong.

He sees you when you’re sleeping… he knows when you’re awake…

I know Dove’s schedule. Waverly’s closes early on Christmas Eve. Instead of eight like usual, they closed down at four. Pictures with Santa finished a little earlier. Telling all of the kiddies that he needed to get ready for his midnight ride, Dove would’ve taken her last picture at two. I assumed she’d need to close up her department, make her deposit, put her equipment away all before heading home.

So I took a much-needed nap. I set the alarm on my phone for three o’clock, figuring Dove would be at her apartment by then. Waking out of a dream where I was wrapped around her in her bed, my eyes were barely open before I was reaching for my phone, turning off the alarm, and engaging the app so I could see Dove’s reaction when she opened my latest gift.

I specifically put a big, gaudy ‘do not open until Xmas’ sticker on it because I’d put money down that Dove wouldn’t be able to resist tearing the wrapping paper off as soon as she brought it inside her place.

Only one problem: she’s not home yet.

I scroll through the app, hitting every camera feed there is. Bedroom. Bathroom. Kitchen. No Dove. Living room. Nope. The hallway that separates the narrow, cramped rooms. Nothing.

Where is she?

I close one app and open another. It was easy to install a tracker to the underside of Dove’s car, and though I was worried it might fall off with all of the snow and ice we’ve been dealing with this season, it hasn’t yet. As of this morning when I checked to make sure that Dove made it to Waverly’s safely, the tracker app put her car in the parking lot of the oversized department store.

It’s still there.

For the next twenty minutes, I obsessively go back and forth between my camera feed and the tracker app. Maybe her car broke down and she ordered a ride. Maybe she caught the bus. Maybe something happened and she had to stay late at work. It’s Christmas Eve. I watched Dove bring in a few shopping bags and more than a few delivered packages inside these last couple of weeks, plus a very amusing evening last week when it was Dove versus a roll of wrapping paper, and the wrapping paper won . She might not be spending Christmas with her family, but she sent gifts out for her parents and her brothers days ago. Does that mean she’s not doing some last minute shopping? Of course not, but I’d feel better if I had eyes on her.

Would it be too insane to reach out to Burns and see if there’s been any report of some kind of disturbance at Waverly’s? When I’m off duty, I’m off , but I can make an exception when it comes to Dove.

Three-thirty. Still no movement from either the tracker or the camera.

Three-forty-five.

Four-oh-five…

Just when I’m about to go searching for a pair of shoes and my car keys, the tracker finally beeps.

I sink down on my couch, staring at my phone. I don’t think my anxious heart begins to slow down to normal until her car starts its usual path toward her apartment building.

Fifteen minutes later, she’s walking into her apartment, carrying the long, skinny box that’s about twelve inches tall in one hand. In her other, she has her phone, plus a gift bag with Santa’s face plastered on it hanging off her wrist. She looks exhausted, dark circles under her eyes, and I bet she’s thanking God that the Christmas season is finally over.

Oh, my precious Dove… a small smirk tugs on my lips as I adjust my seat on the couch, getting comfortable… for you, Christmas is only just beginning.

I follow her through the apartment, switching the camera feed so effortlessly because I’ve watched her so often—and she’s such a creature of habit—I instinctively can tell what she’s going to do before she does it.

She shrugs off her coat, tossing it on her couch. Still holding the present, she crouches down, plugging in the lights to her Christmas tree. Dove smiles at the flickering red and green and white lights while tucking the box under her arm.

For a second, I think she’s going to put the box under the low-hanging boughs. When she doesn’t, a flash of excitement mixed with anticipation runs through me. My body goes tight even as my cock starts to come to life. Well, no. It did that the moment I had eyes on Dove again, but now it begins to harden as she sticks out her chest, using her free hand to rub the back of her neck before trudging toward her bedroom.

Dove kicks off her work shoes as she goes. Her adorable toes are painted the same shade of glittery red as her manicured fingernails, though only on her hands does she have itty-bitty candy canes drawn on her middle and ring fingers.

Inside her bedroom, she gets rid of the gift bag—and considering where she puts it, I can tell there’s no present in there—before dropping down on the edge of her bed. I watch her eyes light up as she focuses on the wrapped box in her hand. Setting her phone next to her hip, she taps the ‘don’t open ‘til Xmas’ sticker, snorts, and tears off the wrapping paper.

I hold my breath as she opens the white cardboard box. She frowns when she peeks inside of it, but I picked the right kind of box. It’s the perfect fit so, unless she tips it over, she won’t be able to see what’s inside.

Dove figures that out at the same time. Flipping the box, she shakes it, pausing when the soft tinkling of a more than one Christmas bell sounds.

I grin.

She shrugs, then lets the entire object fall out into her waiting palm.

It’s just about seven inches long, not counting the extra inch added to the base to my specifications. I purposely chose red for the material because I knew I intended it to be a Christmas present, and though the company I worked with to make the sex toy only created an exact replica of my erection out of silicone, I spent my last day off… improving it.

Starting with the jingle bells that I glued near the base that would go ring-a-ting-ting every time she uses it…

Dove gapes at the dildo while I wait on bated breath for her reaction.

What’s going through her mind right now? I can’t tell. Always so expressive, her whole face seems to close off as she lifts the dildo up to her eyes. They’re fucking huge as she twists her wrist, looking at the length and girth of my erect cock.

The bells glued near the top jingle.

She lets out a short laugh, stifling it almost as quickly.

Does she like it? A lump of arousal lodges in my throat. Reaching down, I squeeze my randy cock through my sweatpants. I’m probably just as hard as that silicone model, and I’m suddenly more jealous than I should be that she’s holding onto that instead of me.

Dove shakes her head. She starts to shove the dildo back into the box, but whether it’s the way the bells are jingling as she tries to hide it or that her secret Santa sent her a jingle-dildo as a Christmas Eve present, she pauses.

Her forehead furrows. Twisting her wrist again, she holds it by the base, focusing on the large suction cup that I attached to the end of the mold.

I hold my breath again.

Dove runs her fingers along one of the thick veins. With her other hand, she grabs the folded notecard that fell out of the box with the dildo.

I lean forward as though that’ll help me get closer to her, watching impatiently as she reads the note I scribbled this morning.

Dove …

Dropping the card once she finished reading, she thumbs the suction cup on the jingle-dildo—and then she tosses the dildo onto the bed.

Damn it.

Ah, well. At least she didn’t open the box, freak out, and throw it right into the trash. I don’t think I would’ve been able to handle that rejection from my Dove.

I mean… what did I expect? For her to immediately strip, then jump pussy first onto an erotic gift sent to her by a stranger?

Over the last few months, I’ve seen her with her toys. Dove’s saved many a man’s life by not having a guy over since I’ve started to stalk her, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t take the time to pleasure herself. Seeing her rotate between the handful of toys she keeps in the nightstand by her bed actually gave me the idea to make a model of my own cock as an over-the-top Christmas gift.

I thought she would like it—and, holy shit, she’s heading to the kitchen, grabbing a pot, and filling it with water.

Dove hums a Christmas song—fittingly, I’m pretty sure it’s ‘Jingle Bells’—as she waits for the water to boil. She grabs two of the cookies I baked for her from the fridge, munching on them absently as she peeks inside the pot. Once it’s ready, she slips back into the bedroom, grabs my gift to her, and brings it back to the kitchen. Using a pair of tongs to keep the glued-on bells out of the boiling water, she sterilizes the silicone cock.

I lick my bottom lip. If she’s sterilizing it, does that mean she’s going to use it?

The answer to that is my very own Christmas miracle: yes .

It’s about a half an hour later. I watch Dove as she sets the dildo aside, letting it cool, while she makes herself some spaghetti in a separate spot. By the time she’s done eating and her touch-test confirms that the sterilized dildo isn’t hot any longer, my blue balls have basically turned fucking purple .

It didn’t seem right to rub one out to her slurping strands of spaghetti when the mold of my cock was in the camera frame. Maybe I was just torturing myself, too, trying to convince myself that she would actually use my Christmas gift tonight… either way, when Dove dumps her used dishes in the sink before grabbing the jingling dildo by the base, I can’t wait any longer.

No matter what she does, my real cock needs a little love and affection. Lifting my ass off the couch, I shove my sweatpants down so that I can easily access my erection.

Fuck . I’m so hard, it’s almost painful when I grab myself. I give it a quick stroke, turning the sensation to pleasure just in time to lift my phone up with my other hand.

I almost lose my load when I see that, in the time that I got ready to masturbate, so did Dove.

She’s naked from the waist down. I’m a little rueful that she didn’t take off her shirt so I could watch her tits bounce as she played with herself using the dildo I gave her, but when she tongues the suction cup before sticking the base of the toy to her wall… knowing she’s about to fuck herself with my cock… I can forgive her that.

When I have her on top of me for real, I’ll insist on her having her tits out. For now, I watch in amazement—and, okay, a tiny bit of envy—as Dove double-checks to make sure the dildo is staying put before she swipes a finger up her slit, looking to see if she’s ready to take the silicone monster.

I guess she must be because she goes on her hands and knees, then backs up so that the tip of my dildo is lined up with her entrance.

I swear to fucking God, it’s like I feel it as Dove rears back slowly, taking every last inch of the model inside of her.

Don’t be jealous of the dildo, Derek, I tell myself. Just because she’s fucking the toy, that won’t take anything away from the first time you get to fuck her, and at least now you know how much she’s going to enjoy it when you do if her enticing little moans as she fucks herself is anything to go by…

Don’t be jealous… that’s easier said than done. I want to be the one fucking her. If this is the closest I can get to Dove, her in her apartment as she fucks herself with a silicone cock that’s jingling wildly as she pushes her ass up again it, me in mine as I tug on my real cock… I’ll take it. It’s still the best Christmas Eve I’d had in a long, long time, and I only wish our not-quite-mutual masturbation session lasted a little longer.

It’s not even how quickly my orgasm sneaks up on me that has it ending so abruptly. I’m bucking into my fist, holding tightly to my phone so that I don’t miss a second of the pleasure twisting Dove’s features, when I groan out her name, jets of come spurting out all over my fingers and my sweatpants.

But while I finished, Dove didn’t. At least, I don’t think she did because she’s certainly nowhere near as relaxed and content as she is after a session with one of her toys when she’s smacking the mattress with the flat of her hand before she crawls away from my cock, reaching for her phone instead.

It’s ringing. That’s weird. She’s gotten phone calls during her ‘self-care’ times before and always ignored whoever was calling.

Why isn’t she ignoring this one?

The exchange is quick. Dove answers, the caller says something, and she responds with, “Of course. I’ll be right there.” A pause, and then, “Yup. Same spot as always,” and I know exactly why she answered the phone.

Fucking a Christmas-themed sex toy or not, you can’t keep your customers waiting, can you?

I’m sticky with semen. My own orgasm is short-lived as I watch Dove scatter around her room, putting on fresh clothes, then searching for the supply she keeps hidden in her bottom dresser drawer all while ignoring the red dildo that’s still stuck to her wall.

Do I get up and wash myself off? Not yet. But by the time Dove is grabbing her purse, I’m off the couch. A quick stop to the bathroom and my hands are clean, and now I’m in my bedroom, doing what I do best: plotting .

First step? Like Dove, I need to get dressed. Gotta be quick, too, if I want to finally take the opportunity given to me and, like Burns says, take it.

I pause on my way to my bedroom closet. It’s Christmas Eve. Though I might pretend otherwise, I’ve been looking for an excuse to finally confront my precious Dove. If I had to, I was going to fake a call to the department store, accidentally ‘bump’ into her, pretend like I knew her and wait until she remembered when I responded to that first call with Burns. I’d smile invitingly, maybe even make sure the dimple in my left cheek popped. Run my fingers through my hair and, aw shucks, I’d kill for a cup of coffee at the end of a long shift, wouldn’t she like to join me when hers was done?

I had a plan. A whole fucking plan to use everything I’ve learned about Dove to be the perfect guy for her. Whatever she wanted, I’d give it to her until there was no getting rid of me.

But it’s Christmas Eve. I’ve got a belly full of milk and cookies, fond memories of my mom and a desperation to have Dove as my future, and a cock that’s eager to replace the mold I made of it inside her pretty pink pussy… and my naughty girl is sneaking out before Santa can climb down her chimney—or in through her window.

I had a plan, but with Burns’s advice running through my head, I suddenly come up with a better one.

Once I’m changed and read to go, I hesitate for a moment.

I have one final gift for Dove. I’d planned on slipping it under her tree while she was sleeping tonight. It bothered me that she had a pretty decorated tree and nothing beneath it. I’ve been her Santa all season long. Of course I had something to give her for Christmas Day, and it’s perfect in more ways than one.

Just like how the lacy underwear and jingle-dildo made it clear what her secret Santa wants from her , once she sees what I bought her for Christmas, she’ll understand just how much I’ve been drawn to her, that I love who I think she is and who I know she is, that she’s the epitome of perfection in every way to this lonely, desperate cop—and that, most importantly, there is no escaping Officer Derek Coleman.

And tonight?

That’s exactly who I’m going to be.

Officer Coleman would have no reason to bring a present along on a sting operation. I’m going to catch a criminal tonight; my revised plan hinges on that. So I look at my wrapped box on my table, and I grin.

It’s time for Dove to meet the cop first.

I’ll leave the gift here. That’ll just give me an excuse to come back, change again, and tonight?

She’ll finally get to meet her secret Santa.