Chapter 2

Gerhard

Too eager? Or just too late now?

My heart pounds. I sweat through my sweater, beads gliding down my back to conspire with the woolen weave to itch the hell out of me. It takes every fiber of my being to sit still and not twist my arms behind me to scratch at the nuisance.

A brunette eyebrow quirks toward her cloud of brown curly hair. If I can focus on how I’ve longed to bury my fingers in those curls and clench them in my fists, I can withstand the sweater’s godawful tickling. Her skirt billows as she switches which knee is on top of the cross…revealing the profile of her thick thigh enrobed in velvety fur.

And my cock wakes up for the first time since my divorce.

Every other woman veered into the friend zone before they could make a move. I couldn’t risk my job and reputation with casual sex. Well, how I have sex isn’t casual…and therein lies the problem. My ex-wife trained me too well, so after five years of grieving, I hunted for a place to be anonymous. The dungeon I visited was a dud because the staff knew my ex-wife…and recognized her name when I listed her as my emergency contact. I’ll never forget how hard she slapped me in the lobby. She thought I was stalking her to spoil her fun. I left quietly and never pursued finding my place in the lifestyle after her. Over a decade of dormant libido surges and hardens me to stone with heavy boulders weighing down my boxers.

Guess I’ve stored arousal in my pelvis like a sexual camel.

With a fake huff, she transfers a healthy handful of popcorn from her betting bowl to her half-full snacking bowl. Popcorn spills as she shoves her bet into the center. Ooh, those bratty little tendencies burrow under my skin. She’s grown into a formidable poker player, so I have no qualms about adding brat-taming to the pot…once she loses the shining veneer of being Ms. Krampus. The magic crackling around her should warn me not to mess with an enchanted being, but I’m too far gone to back away.

If tonight is goodbye, then I won’t miss my chance at a night of enchanted passion.

“So, tell me about your night? Was it easier without chasing Dirk up the street?” I ask casually as I deal the flop of three cards face-up between our popcorn buckets.

“Easier than the year he jumped your neighbor’s fence, and their pit bull chased me across the yard,” she says with a melodious laugh that rings like bells. “Or the year he jumped out his bedroom window, and I thought he died. He lay motionless until I yanked you from bed. I thought the top of your head blew off when he hopped to his feet and streaked down the street in subzero temperatures.”

“Those years were the hardest and the best—” I pause to climb out of my memories “—Dirk’s normal childhood. My ex and I destroyed everything after. Not that I regret my divorce, but I regret how we communicated with Dirk. Perhaps if he had a better outlet for his frustration and grief—”

“Better than lighting trash cans ablaze?” I chuckle at her question, but it’s as hollow as the candy cane spoons melting in our drinks. She doesn’t buy it and reaches for my hand. Our fingers lace between the popcorn bowls.

“Yes, our world tells these fragile, young boys they must be tough. Instead, I’d like a world where Dirk felt safe to break down, cry, and attract help. His bottled emotions, not evil intentions, lead to his mischief.”

“Too bad intent doesn’t put you on the naughty or nice list. Only deeds,” she says with a coy smile. “Or is that fortunate since we’re all in without laying down half our cards?”

Her double meaning lifts the corner of my lips and flips my energy from morose to playful once again. I clear my throat as if to swallow my past to focus on the present. I can’t apologize to Dirk since he’s cut me out of my life, so I’ll be better off focusing on myself.

“Since we’re all in—I’ll add the fourth and fifth card to call the river. Is that okay with you?” I release her hand to pick up the deck once more.

“No,” she snaps but gentles her tone, fanning her cards at her high collar. My eyes narrow their focus to the restraining fabric on her neck. A collared lady is like waving a red flag before the eyes of a bull for an experienced Dom like me. “You’ll just have to think of more creative bets than popcorn kernels.”

“What do you have in mind, Ms. Krampus? Do you want the change in my key bowl? Or shall we play strip poker?”

Like any good poker player, I analyze her tells—her lips press with irritation at the suggestion of useless human money, but her pupils dilate when I mention taking our clothes off. She tucks a stray curl behind her horn with trembling fingers. She knows what she wants but holds her wishes inside.

Like the playful lady trapped inside her professional Krampus shell, does a vixen lay in wait within her curvy frame?

“Okay,” I say, contemplating my cards. Unless she flashes royalty or four aces, I have this hand in the bag. “If I win, you must tell me the real reason you visited tonight. You can purchase salty snacks, booze, and fru-fru coffee at the gas station on the corner. Wrap a scarf around your horns, and you’d pass as one of the ladies of the neighborhood. Hell, I bet the attendant is too stoned to notice your hooves.”

“Two pairs,” she says, slamming her cards onto the table with the force to splash her drink over her wrist. “I have two aces, and there are two fours on the table. I have two pairs.”

“What a shame. I’m so sorry,” I say, shaking my head as I lower my cards. “Small straight, kleine dame. My cards are the three and five, and I take one of the fours and the six in the community pile to make the straight.”

“You’re not sorry,” she says, folding her arms across her chest, which presses her breasts above the edge of the table.

“Guilty, but maybe we should retire to finish the movie—now that I have all the popcorn. If you don’t jump at the loud parts to scare me, I’ll share. You must be exhausted from tonight’s discipline. You still have to travel home before sunrise.”

“I’m not in a hurry. This Christmas Eve is different,” she murmurs toward her lap. Her curls bounce with her trembling. What I wouldn’t give to gather her in my arms to soothe her!

“Oh, what’s so different about tonight, Ms. Krampus? Want to honor the bet and tell me?” I want to destroy whatever troubles her, but I have no right. Just because she chooses the Ms. moniker doesn’t mean there isn’t a big, mean Mr. Krampus waiting to beat me unconscious for entertaining his wife.

“Liselotte. You can call me Liselotte, and the next hand, I won’t be betting popcorn.” She stands to collect the cards while I taste her name on my tongue. “I wasn’t joking when I said I came for you.”

Liselotte. Floral like Charlotte but with a sharp German edge. Liselotte.

She’s been a cold, professional Ms. Krampus for a decade. I call her kleine dame because it means little lady in our shared native language. Sure, we’ve flirted shamelessly—the singular bonus of being a divorced dad—but with the boundary of nothing building between us. Tonight’s small touches and the taste of her first name fuel my desire. She offers the deck to cut, but I wave away the honor—too perplexed by her end game. Two cards hit the table before me and then the whole thing shakes as she returns to the kitchen. My fridge seal breathes open and burps shut.

“No opening bets,” she mumbles as if realizing we didn’t ante into the pot before she dealt our hands. With a deep breath, she yanks open the bottle of whiskey cream and tops off her mug. It whitens to beige with booze. “Can I lighten your load?”

Damn, the coffee I gulp to make room for whiskey burns. Liquid fire scalds my tonsils before scorching a path to my stomach. My gums are puffy around my bottom teeth when I check to make sure the scalding coffee hasn’t boiled them away. I hope my smile doesn’t look as strained as it feels as I push my mug toward her. She bites her lip to hold in her giggles at my gaff. Anything to break the tension winding her up. Her hand trembles as she pours the creamy liquid into my mug. She’s fragile and anxious under her thick armor, made of manners and decorum.

I wrap my hand around hers to offer support.

And collect the questions swirling in her gaze when our eyes meet.

Her breath quickens. The modesty of her turtleneck gives up. I watch her restrained bust heave with each inhale. Her little pink tongue reaches out to moisten her bottom lip where she bit back her laughter at my expense. I lean forward to steal a taste, and my knee bangs against the underside of the table. The bowls clank as they knock together. Whiskey sloshes over the side of my mug.

“I’m so sorry,” we say in unison. The whiskey bottle clunks onto the table as we race for the tea towel drawer in the kitchen. Our hips bump and thighs rub as our movements synchronize. Her hand grabs my knuckles as we open the drawer together with twice the force required. Tea towels jump out of the drawer like children released for a holiday break.

“I’m sorry,” we repeat in unison. Who started laughing first?

Who swatted the other with an errant towel first? Her curls fly everywhere, tangling in her horns, sticking to her long lashes, and attacking her mouth. The flush of her cheeks and the sparkle of merriment in her eyes is stunning. This towel duel across my kitchen is the most fun I’ve had in years.

On instinct, I grab her elbows and pin them behind her to stop the assault. My large hand captures them both. Her laughter stops as if I flipped a switch. I bend my elbow to bring the nipples poking through her shirt against my chest. Wearing this damn thick-weave sweater was the worst choice I made tonight. My knuckle lifts her chin, pulling her neck taunt.

“Unless you scream, I’m going to kiss you.”

Her eyes search my face, but otherwise, she’s as frozen as the ice gathered on my windows.

“Last chance to save yourself,” I whisper in a husky voice as air saws from my lungs. “I will kiss you until I’ve memorized you. Your taste, textures, sounds, and surrender to my embrace will be locked away in my heart to recall when I see fit. Then I will let you go.”

I count the brushes of her body against mine. Three breaths. Four. Five.

She opens her lips as my head descends and my shoulders round. Her eyelashes flutter closed. I take a mental snapshot of her awaiting my kiss. If I could paint, I’d capture this moment. Too soon, my lips brush over hers to test her softness. The eager nip of her teeth on my bottom lip snaps the last of my control. I press harder, sliding my tongue behind her bottom teeth to lift hers so I can wrap mine around it—the squeezing and rubbing as our tongues slide along one another coaxes little mews from her.

Still, she doesn’t fight to free her arms. One twist, and I’d let her take the lead…

Because that’s what a good switch does.

Her elbows are loose. Her jaw is pliant as I explore her mouth. How can a woman so imposing melt into my touch? Where did her stiff mannerisms go? Not lost to alcohol. She made her drink ten times more potent than usual but didn’t have time to sip it before our towel fight in the kitchen.

My steps between her legs help guide her backward until my knuckles hit the counter. I use my hand to cushion her elbows from the hard edge while I grind my erection against her. The scratchy wool of her skirt catches on the weave of my cotton pants, lifting it away from her body. Heat smacks my thighs. I’m so lost in her that I’m leaking pre-fluid like a man half my age.

“I have the sudden urgency to finish our game,” I say, my harsh breathing muting my tone.

“Game?” Her brown eyes are glazed with pleasure.

“Yes, kleine dame, I have just the prize in mind for when I win.”

“When you win?” The husky notes in her voice lift like fog melting in the afternoon sun. “What if I have a prize in mind as well?”

“Let’s hope we want the same prize,” I murmur with a swivel of my hips against her.

“Well, that’s a start…”