A Perfect Man for Christmas
An erotic serial in 12 parts
8th Day of Christmas
by Kay Manis
“Thanks for the ride.” Wynter flashed Michael a mischievous smirk and slammed his car door, rattling the leather console.
She was going to pay for that. No one fucked with his baby…and by baby, he meant the Porsche 918 Spyder that purred underneath him.
Wynter tucked one of those fucking swans under her arm as she sauntered into the hotel lobby. She said you could attract more men with a swan than honey. “Don’t wait up!” She blew him an obnoxious kiss and waved good-bye as her luscious hips swayed from side to side. She was on a mission and as Michael wanted to stop her, he couldn’t.
Michael growled. Damn foolish woman is going to banish all to Hades.
“May I park your car, sir?” The valet saddled up to his Porsche, licking his lips in anticipation.
Yeah, right, you little pimply-faced kid. Like I’m gonna let you spin out the tires of my million dollar sports car.
Michael gazed out the passenger side window and watched helplessly as Wynter disappeared into the mass of half-naked men inside. What the fuck? Was there a stripper convention at this hotel? The men parted like melted butter and stared at her backside as she waltzed through the crowd. She was good. Too good. Fuck.
“Fine,” he growled through gritted teeth at the valet.
He stumbled back as if Michael had struck him.
Michael shoved the car door and held it open for the twerp but stepped in front of him before allowing him inside his precious baby. His massive body towered over the boy’s small frame. “If there is one scratch on this motherfucker, one teensy, tiny scratch when I get it back, I’ll rip your head off, shit down your neck and feed you to the fucking swans at my girlfriend’s house. Got it?”
Wait, what? Girlfriend? What the fuck? Did he just call Wynter his girlfriend? He hadn’t had a partner, a girlfriend, hell, a wife for that matter, in over two hundred years. If Wynter fucked this assignment up, that would all change though.
“Y-yes, sir,” the boy stuttered. “N-not a scratch.”
The poor kid sounded like a bumbling fool. Maybe Michael should put him on his payroll. He laughed at the lunacy.
Michael watched as the valet slid into the driver’s seat and drove away at a snail’s pace. Good boy. At least he wouldn’t have to cast a spell that kept the kid’s pecker limp for the rest of his life.
With a heavy sigh, Michael waltzed through the hotel doors, not surprised to see a flock of men around Wynter. They looked like the squawking birds in her back yard.
Girlfriend. Michael laughed to himself. Wynter was nothing more than a piece of ass, a mission. She could have all the men she wanted as long as she found the perfect one before Christmas.
As if sensing his presence, Wynter’s gaze caught his. One side of her plump lips curled into a delicious smirk.
Mission. Mission. He reminded himself. She’s just a mission. A means to an end…your end if you fuck this up.
Suddenly the shrill sound of women screaming came from behind him.
Michael turned on his heels.
Not one, not two but…wait…Was that eight fucking chicks flooding out of the elevator? Their screams echoed through the hotel as if their hair extensions were on fire. They were dressed the same, in hotel uniforms marking them as maids.
“A Dios, mio!” one shouted.
“Help! Help!” A pixie minx with red hair slammed into him. “Get it out of here!” She pointed back toward the elevator.
“What’s going on?” One of the strippers who’d been enthralled by Wynter saddled up to him.
He eyeballed the guy up and down, his menacing gaze obviously speaking volumes as the stripper stepped away.
He pushed the maid away and gazed down into her blue eyes. “What’s going on?”
“Yes?” he asked.
“Mierda es un reno!” a Hispanic woman screamed, jumping up and down, her hands slapping against her hips.
“Did you say moose?” His Spanish was rusty, but he was pretty sure that was the translation.
“No! Es un reno! Salga de aquí!”
“Holy, hell,” Wynter whispered next to him. “Is that a fucking reindeer?”
“Yes.” The redhead nodded, her body trembling. “And the man in the ivory suit asked if we wanted to ‘milk his reindeer.’” She used air quotes. “He made it sound--” Her eyes darted between Wynter and him as she leaned in closer. “--sexual,” she whispered.
“Kris Kringle,” he and Wynter said in unison.
Eight maids a’ milking.
That motherfucker was the biggest practical jokester Michael had ever met. “Enough with the symbolism, Kris,” he moaned.
“Ho, ho, ho!” Kris’s robust voice echoed through the lobby as he led the reindeer through the posh hotel like it was an everyday occurrence. “I didn’t mean you’re a whore, Wynter.” Kris laughed as he nudged my arm. “Although you have been on my naughty list for quite some time.” His white eyebrows waggled as he ogled Wynter.
Michael wanted to punch him in the nuts. Kids may adore him, but Kris Kringle was the biggest man whore on the face of the earth.
The reindeer picked that moment to lay a massive Christmas “gift” on the imported Italian tile floor.
“Ewww!” everyone groaned.
“Word in the Underworld is that you’re looking for the perfect man, Wynter.” Kris smirked and held out his arms. “Here I am.”
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