Part 2

“Have you ever had a sexual fantasy about Santa Claus? If yes, describe in detail below.”

I look up from the paper in front of me, at my roommate Heather.

“This is wrong on so many levels. Explain this to me again?”

We’re in the breakroom—I’m starting my break and she just came in to start her shift. She twists her blond hair into a bun on top of her head and puts her purse in the locker. “It’s called The Naughty List—it’s an anonymous survey for my human sexuality class. I need to gather responses from friends and acquaintances over the winter break, so do me a solid and fill it out.”

Heather is working toward her physical therapy degree.

“What do naughty fantasies have to do with PT?” I ask.

“I have two theories. A—physical therapy is about the health of the whole person, sexual health included. Or B—my professor needs fodder for his spank bank.” She shrugs. “Probably some combo of the two.”

Heather’s hazel eyes open wide. “Oh! I almost forgot . . . speaking of spank banks . . . I got some saucy holiday fashion for the Christmas party this week!”

She reaches back in her locker, and pulls out two clingy t-shirts, holding them up. In jolly green letters, one says, “I love big balls,” above an image of two, large Christmas balls hanging suggestively below it. The other shirt displays, “Who wants to stuff my stocking?” across the chest in bright, Santa-red writing.

“What do you think?”

I laugh, giving the thumbs up. “I think we’re going to look like a couple of ho, ho, hoes.”

“Perfect!” She heads for the door, pointing toward the paper on the table. “Now get to writing down your dirtiest fantasies! And be honest—I promise I won’t read it—and your name isn’t on it.”

Once she’s out the door, I take a sip of my hot chocolate and focus on the Naughty List. Here we go:

Have you ever fantasized about bondage/kink?

I don’t think I’d be into the full-out Anastasia Steele experience or anything—peeled ginger root in the ass is a hard no for me.

But a guy who’s take-charge? Bossy? Someone who’ll bend me over, twist me around, pull my hair, hold me down—because he knows exactly what he’s doing and that I’m going to love every second of it? Hell yeah. Sign me up for that.

Yes

Have you ever fantasized about being spanked during sexual intercourse?

I imagine Jace pressing my cheek down against the leather seat of one of the bar stools, then smacking the globe of my ass with one of his big, rough, beautiful, hands because I’d been avery bad girl. A liquid trail of sexy heat blazes through my mind, straight down to my core, making my muscles clench.

I may not have fantasized about spanking before—but it’s going to be at the top of the menu from now on.

Yes

Have you ever fantasized about food play during sexual intercourse? If yes, what kind?

Grinning like a naughty girl, I pick up the spoon on the table and stir it through the thick hot chocolate. When I lift the spoon out, creamy dark molten liquid cascades down into the mug in a slow, thin line—perfect for dripping, then licking off all sorts of interesting places.

Melted chocolate

Check all that apply:

I enjoy dirty talk.

Check

I enjoy baby talk.

Noooooo. I grimace. That box stays empty.

I enjoy swallowing during oral sex.

Spitters are quitters, and I’m no quitter.

Check

I enjoy gagging during oral sex.

Hmm…that’s a new one. I tap the pen against my lips. Would I be okay with gagging on Jace’s cock?

Why yes . . . yes, I would.

Check.

I enjoy anal sex/play.

I check the box, but clarify:

Never tried, but open to new experiences.

What are your naughtiest recurring fantasies? Describe below:

Although names are completely unnecessary, I’m on a roll. The images play out in my mind like a sensuous silent film, making my breath quicken and my nipples hard. So I just write what I see.

- Jace lifting me onto the bar. Kissing me everywhere—my mouth, my neck, my breasts, between my legs. Then he pulls me down, turns me around, and fucks me hard and fast over the bar as he groans in my ear.

- Jace pulling my hair while I’m on my knees for him—showing me just how he likes it, taking what he wants, while I give him everything he needs. Making him feel so good, he never wants to let me go.

- Jace making love to me, slow and sweet, for hours on the bear rug in front of the Black Diamond’s fireplace. The two of us warm and wrapped around each other, while the snow falls outside the window.

- Telling Jace Winters I’m in love with him. Knowing he feels the same way. Running the bar with him, marrying him, having 3.5 kids and a Husky named Snowbell with him. Making a life with him.

The last one is different from the others—not really naughty at all. I don’t know why I write it. Maybe to sort it all out in my mind.

Or maybe because Christmas is a time when wishes come true . . . and that last one is the wish I want most of all.

“Hey Chickadee.” Kevin Grady says, coming into the breakroom.

Kevin’s a Willie Nelson, “cool uncle” type of guy—early sixties, long gray hair tied in a low ponytail, functioning pot-head, who can pretty much fix anything and makes a mean batch of chocolate chip cookies. He’s worked for Jace as the back-up bartender and cook longer than any of us. Kevin is good people.

“Hey Kev.”

“One of Dooney’s guys just dropped something off for you in the back parking lot.” He smiles, holding up a jingling set of car keys. “I believe these belong to you.”

I squeal. Literally squeal—like a kid opening the latest iPhone on Christmas morning—but louder.

“Oh my God! It’s here!” I fold the Naughty List into my back pocket. “Come see it with me Kevin!”

He opens the door. “Lead the way, pretty lady.”

I stick my head into the kitchen. “Ryan—it’s here! Come see!”

Ryan smiles from behind the stainless-steel counter.

“The Christmas present to yourself?”

“Yes! Come check it out!”

Out in the main area, I grab Heather’s hand and call Jace from behind the bar to follow us out the back door. It’s before the evening rush, so the customers will be good for a few minutes. Everyone files out into the parking lot, surrounding my beautiful new, used, car.

It’s the first big thing I ever bought for myself. The first car I ever bought period. And she’s every bit as adorable as when I first saw her.

I lift up my hands, like a dark-haired Vanna White.

“Tada! What do you think? Isn’t she pretty?” I ask, bouncing.

But none of them seem as excited as I am.

“Yeah,” Heather tries—but I can tell she’s forcing it. “It’s a gorgeous car, Evie.”

“Definitely.” Ryan agrees, looking confused. “Real pretty.”

Kevin scratches behind his head. “Uh…it’s a Mustang, baby-doll.”

Yes, it is. Cherry red, with a white top and all mine.

“I know! I always wanted a Mustang.”

And then I look at Jace—because his reaction matters most of all. But his expression makes my heart shrivel a little inside my chest. Because Jace looks pissed-off. Like super pissed off.

Like his glare could melt snow, and burn Santa’s reindeer right out of the sky, kind of pissed off.

“Jace?”

“It’s a convertible, Evie,” he growls.

“Yeah, I know.” I say softly this time.

Jace holds his arms out—gesturing to the snowflakes falling all around us.

“It’s a goddamn convertible!” He points at the car. “Does it have rear-wheel drive?”

“Yes,” I admit, my face starting to feel hot.

“Do you have any idea how dangerous it is to drive a rear-wheel drive, Mustang, fucking convertible around here? On these roads?” he snaps. “Dooney sold you this death trap? He didn’t even throw in chains or snow tires, the bastard.”

“It’s not a death-trap.” I argue. “It’s my dream car and I love it.”

“Oh yeah? Do you love breathing? Cause I give it a fucking week before we’re dragging you out of a ditch or scraping you off a tree.”

I fold my arms.

“You have a Harley, Jace.”

It’s dark blue, and shiny chrome, and seeing him ride it is an orgasm for the eyes.

“A Harley I drive a total of two weeks a year, when it’s not snowing.” He jabs his finger toward the black pickup parked across the lot. “The rest of the time, my ass is in a safe, reliable truck! What the hell were you thinking?!”

“Easy brother.” Kevin says, but Jace just continues to shoot blue daggers at me.

He holds out his hand and snaps. “Give me the keys. I’ll get your money back tomorrow. You’re not driving this.”

My grip on the keys tightens. And he notices.

“I’m an adult.” I lift my chin. “And I don’t need you—”

Then Jace does something he’s never done before.

He yells at me.

So loud and sharp, I jump.

“Fucking keys, Evie! Now!”

Jace is bossy and take-charge. He’s tough and stubborn. But he’s never been mean.

Until now.

My cheeks burn with embarrassment and my eyes go damp with hurt and fury. And I feel everyone—everyone that I care about—watching me. Watching us.

So I slap the keys in his stupid hand. Because for the first time in ever—I don’t want to be near him. And giving him the keys is the fastest, easiest way to get away.

With my head up and my shoulders straight, I turn my back on him and walk into the bar. Behind me, I hear comments—and it makes me feel better knowing my friends are on my side.

“Harsh, dude. Way harsh.”

“Nice job, Jace.”

“Merry fucking Christmas, everyone!”

“Way to be a ho, ho…asshole, man.”

Did I say Jace was perfect? That statement still stands. But at this moment, he’s a perfect jerk.

Ten minutes later, I’m still in the breakroom—at the table, sucking on a candy cane within an inch of its life and about to cross out Jace’s name on the Naughty List with swift, murderous strokes of my pen.

But before I do, his voice comes from the doorway behind me. His normal voice now. Strong and steady and warm.

“That candy cane is looking pretty dangerous. Should I be worried?”

I glance at the peppermint stick in my hand—at the sharp, pointy-tipped weapon I’ve sucked it into.

I put the pen on the table and shrug. “Maybe.”

I fiddle with a corner of the paper on the table, as Jace walks into the room.

“I’ll stab you in the heart and eat it after. The perfect crime.” I tell him. “Bet you thought I was too stupid to think of that.”

He sighs.

And pulls out the chair next to me, sitting on it backwards, the way guys do.

“I never said you were stupid, Eves.”

My heart feels sore. Achy.

“You implied it. Same thing.”

He’s quiet for a few moments and I don’t look at him, but I feel the touch of his eyes on me.

“I was a dick,” he says gently.

“Yup.”

“And I’m sorry.”

I look at him then. And God, he’s beautiful. It’s really not fair. His gorgeous mouth is heavy at the corners and his eyes are sky-blue, soft with remorse.

“Can I have my keys back?”

He snorts. “I’m not that fucking sorry.”

I roll my eyes, “Jace—”

“I’ll take you car shopping. We’ll go this weekend. For a different car—something you’ll love as much as the Mustang but that will keep you safe.” His voice goes raw. Strained. “You’re important to me, Evie. If something ever happened to you . . . I’d lose my mind.”

His words are like a balm to my heart, and the bruised feelings disappear, replaced with something warmer, lighter, more exciting. Hope. Joy. Maybe even the spirit of Christmas, which makes any wish come true.

“Important to you like Kevin and Ryan and Heather are important to you?” I venture, testing the waters. “Because we all work here?”

Say no. Please, god—please say no. Tell me I’m different. Special. Tell me I’m more. Because you want me. Here, now, on the table, over the couch, against the wall, and later, in your bed . . . in your life. Forever. Just say no.

“Yeah.”

Shit!

The Christmas spirit goes up in flames—like a Christmas tree catching fire from a faulty lights wire.

“I guess.” Jace looks toward the lockers, rubbing the back of his neck. “Kind of.”

I hop up from the chair, so he won’t see my disappointment. And I shove the Naughty List in my back pocket so I can stick it in Heather’s locker. But then Kevin pops his head through the door, making me spin around fast.

“Hey kiddies! The slopes closed ten minutes ago and the bowling league championships just finished. It’s a madhouse out here.”

“I’m coming now,” I say, bending down to pick up my apron from the floor.

As Kevin disappears from the doorway, Jace moves to stand in front of me—a solid warm wall of muscle and desirability.

“We all good, Evie?”

“Yep. Sure. Totally.” I reply, a little more chipper than necessary. I tie the apron behind my back and look up into those incredible eyes.

“I’m heading out.”

“Yeah.” Jace gazes back at me. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

I nod. Then walk through the door to the bar, and get to work.

“Are you sure you don’t have it?”

It’s after closing—after what turned out to be a crazy-busy night. The floors are swept, the chairs are up, Ryan is wiping down the kitchen and Kevin and Jace are closing out the register, and restocking the bar. Heather and I are ready to head home . . . except for one massive sticking point.

“I’m sure-sure,” she says, down on her knees looking under the couch. “Retrace your steps. When’s the last time you definitely had it?”

I blow a strand of wavy brown hair out of my face. “Here, in the break room. I was talking with Jace after the “Mustang meltdown” and I could’ve sworn I picked it up and put it in your locker . . . .”

But it’s not in Heather’s locker. It’s not anywhere—we’ve looked.

The Naughty List is M.I.A.

My deepest secrets, my dirtiest fantasies . . . poof. Gone. In the wind. Maybe mailed off to Santa’s fucking workshop—who the hell knows.

I cover my face with my hands. “This is so humiliating.”

Heather squeezes my shoulder. “It’s not that bad. I mean . . . you didn’t put your name on it, did you?”

“No.”

But I sure put Jace’s name on it. All the hell over it.

What a nightmare. Move over Grandma—let me get run over by a reindeer.

“Then you’re fine!” Heather says all cheery-like. “It probably fell on the floor and Kevin swept it up. You know how OCD he can be.”

That’s true. Kevin is pretty anal when it comes to clutter or dirty floors.

“And besides, even if someone read it—they won’t know you wrote it.”

Also true.

And the panic that’s been squeezing my lungs since we realized the survey wasn’t in Heather’s locker, finally starts to loosen and dissipate.

Because wherever the Naughty List ended up—whoever’s hands it may have landed in—they’ll never know I’m the secret someone who wrote it.

Right?