9. “Did you touch my cookies, min Twyla?”

Chapter 9

“Did you touch my cookies, min Twyla?”

TWYLA

U gh, I’m terrible at it!

My spine bristles in contempt. After all my time sewing and stitching my own cosplay costumes, you’d think I’d be better at this. But my cookies look more like melted marshmallow men than gingerbread men. Not to mention how Krampus’s stars and bells are annoyingly perfect with every squiggly line in place.

Now and then, he glances over at one of my latest frosted follies, shakes his head with an airy chuckle, then continues with his. Sometimes, he’ll lean over to kiss my cheek and offer me one of his pretty ones.

I cursed under my breath and stomped my foot when he offered to teach me.

After he places his twelfth cookie with its glazed latticework on one of the prepared Christmas-themed plates, I snap.

Finally, I am sick of how perfect he is.

The moment he turns to get more frosting, I mischievously smear those perfect little buttons and perfect little squiggles on every perfect little cookie on that plate. He flicks his head back to me, then immediately swings his gaze to the gingerbread men—probably after noting my smug but embarrassed expression since I had my hands in the cookie jar, so to speak.

I tense as he turns back to me. By now, I’ve overheated so much, and when he narrows his eyes and gives me that predatory smolder, I nearly combust.

“Did you touch my cookies, min Twyla?”

I make a squeamish face, though he knows it’s too theatrical. I take one step back and squeak, “No.”

A muscle bounces in his cheek. He gives me that stern, “naughty girl” look before smirking to one side.

I bolt.

It takes less than two seconds for him to snap out his tail, swing around my leg, and bring me down. Krampus cushions the blow with his arms…and gets his hands on me at the same time. I get no chance to speak before he claws the apron to shreds, baring all of me to his lascivious gaze.

“Oh, come on, it’s just how the cookie crumbled!” I whine, but any protests are weak with how my nipples harden to erect buds again.

A low, velvety growl escapes Krampus’s throat. The next thing I know, cuffs are around my wrists—connected to rope—and I’m spread-eagle before my husband, who chuckles down at me. The hardwood floor is cool against my inflamed backside, but it still chafes the flesh. Not to mention how it puts more pressure on the plug in my ass. Cold air rushes against my exposed pussy, but inside, it’s hotter than Christmas pudding.

“Since you ruined my cookies, skitten jente, I will make you my giant one.” He bobs his brows, and his muscles ripple with eagerness. “Now…”

He rises but continues his speech while moving to the counter to pick up the frosting bag. I would know that mischievous demon smirk and the gleam in his eye anywhere. No one is better at coming up with tricks and treats like Krampus.

“You are going to be a good lille pike and stay very still while I decorate my cookie.” I widen my eyes as he wags the frosting bag at me. “And once I’m ready to eat my cookie, then you are free to move and moan and scream to your heart’s desire.”

“How do you know you won’t be the one screaming?” I giggle, but my chest hitches from the sight of my massive husband lowering himself to straddle me, his great shadow drowning me.

“Because, skitten jente, I am not the one tied up.”

He goes so far as to grind against me. A whimper tears from my throat as that enormous, monster cock rubs my clit from where it’s concealed behind his fur and pouch.

“See how hard you make me, min stjerne?” he growls low. When his tongue snaps out of his mouth to flick my earlobe, I inhale, arching my back. “But I pride myself on my patience, and I will deck your hall with my frosting and sprinkles.”

“It’s halls,” I correct him.

He chuckles deeply and lowers his finger to my pussy, parting the slick folds. “Not this time, kjaere.” His grin is devilish right before he plunges that thick finger inside me, all the way to the knuckle. I hiss, my hips struggling to rise from the floor.

Of course, he pulls out far too soon.

He lowers the frosting bag to my throat. Swallowing hard, I remember what he said—stay very still. I might love to brat out, but I also love to please my husband. I love his ‘good girls’ and his rewards when I exceed his expectations.

My skin tingles as he slowly and carefully pipes swirling, thin frosting to decorate my throat and collarbone area. It becomes quite clear that he is using the frosting for a far more intricate design. Only my artistic monster. I smile, remaining as still as possible, as patient as possible, with Krampus piping thin tendrils of swirling frosting around my breasts, my areola, and finally…my nipple.

The tip of the frosting bag circles my pebbled nipple like a cold kiss. Oh, I bite my lip, blink back tears, and clench my hands. He is a little extra attentive with the hard, little bud, saying how he wants to make sure the frosting is applied with precision and care and artistry—attention to every detail.

I realize that he piped the image of a poinsettia upon my breast.

Flaming tingles erupt all over my body with a deep, hungering ache persisting as he roams that frosting bag lower to adorn my belly. I can’t help but love how he’s turned my body into a work of art with filigree designs and latticework as if I transform into a lace doily. He pipes the image of an elaborate rose all around my navel with my button as the center bud of the flower.

The dastardly demon skips over my pussy and lowers the piping bag to my toes. And his fingers.

“Krampus, don’t you da—” is all I get out before he tickles my toes, and I lock up, throat constricting with the need to thrash and wiggle and pull away. But if I move at all, it will disturb the rest of his design, one I know he’s using his power to preserve since the icing would normally slide off from my body heat.