Chapter 6: Santa’s Baby: Chapter 5

The corridors behind the stores are an industrial labyrinth. Back entrances, with pallets upon pallets of Christmas stock being delivered, and staff coming and going. Reuben tips his head to acknowledge anyone passing, but I keep my eyes away from theirs. I must stand out like a sore thumb, and my shield of confidence seems to have vanished into nowhere. It’s weird. I feel too like me inside me.

A few storeys up and we’re out of industrial turf. Reuben’s office is on the top floor of the complex and has the kind of vibe I’d expect from the CEO of a place like this. His desk is massive, and his monitors are so big they look cinematic, but I’m way more interested in the montage of pictures he has up on his wall. Framed shots of him doing charity work. Presenting cheques, or awards, or helping out at events. There’s a gorgeous photo of him surrounded by a crowd of pre-schoolers raising their fists in the air. They look so proud of themselves, and he looks so proud of them.

I get another fucking sick jab, right on the underside of my belly. The softest part.

Reuben always seems to work with families… single parents and young kids…

The silver fox Santa clears his throat to get my attention. He’s by a closet in the corner, half out of his costume. My eyes can’t help but rove as he buttons up a fresh shirt. Crazy, really. He’s seen every single inch of my body from the neck down – both inside and out, but until yesterday I’d never seen his face, and he hadn’t seen mine, at least not in the flesh.

He puts on a light grey suit jacket which complements his dark eyes beyond belief, and gestures me to take a seat as he steps behind his desk. I plonk my butt down on the chair and spin it from side to side like a naughty kid. I hate corporate bullshit. I’d never make it through a single week in an office job, I swear. Feels like I’m here for an interview, not a forbidden conversation, so fuck that shit.

Creamgirl takes over me. I flash him the eye as I loosen my coat.

“Are we on safer turf now? No hidden cameras we have to worry about, or spies out to strike? No boogeymen lurking in the corners?”

Reuben leans forward, elbows on his desk.

“Don’t be a smartass, Tiffany. You have no idea what goes on behind the scenes, and you wouldn’t want to.”

I laugh. “You so sure about that? I can’t lie, I kinda have a thing about the founders. You may have noticed. The more terrifying, the better.”

“And you may have noticed you’re always hooded,” he says. “There’s a reason for that.”

He may appear calm on the surface, but my attitude is pissing him off. I can feel his energy without needing to see it, which figures. It’s always been part of my job.

“Don’t worry, Santa. Your dirty secrets are safe with me, baby.”

I pretend zip my mouth shut.

Creamgirl’s walls are scaling high, and my bravado is grating me – so fuck knows how it’s grating Reuben with no dick action involved. In a way I wish my entertainer mode would fuck off and leave me alone for a while, but I’d feel kinda floppy without it.

Vulnerable.

Scared.

Reuben doesn’t speak, and neither do I. He stares at me, and I stare back, with Creamgirl’s smirk still coy on my lips, playing the horny hooker. I figure he’ll break first and launch into convo, but his eyes don’t waver, and he sits deadly calm, as though he has all the time in the world.

It’s weird. Really fucking weird.

I feel more exposed with his eyes on my face than I do in a hood with my asshole stretched open. The way it makes my heart race is ridiculous.

I swing in my chair, finally breaking the lock of our eyes to point over to one of the pictures on the wall.

“You seem like a nice guy.”

“Thank you.”

“I’d never have expected you to be one of the founders if I hadn’t bounced my butt on your lap. I wouldn’t have put you down as one. Never. Not in a million years.”

“Really? And why is that?”

I shrug. “Just wouldn’t. Helping homeless families one minute, then spraying piss all over bound, bruised tits the next. Kinda weird combination.”

I lock eyes again to see if my words have hit, but he’s still as composed as ever.

“I really can’t see how those two interests are related. Everything we do at The Agency is completely consensual and well rewarded. Entertainers can tap out at a moment’s notice, as you know.” He pauses. “We’re not devil worshipping savages, Tiffany. We’re a collection of men who like hardcore sex, and hence set up The Agency to facilitate it.”

My interest is piqued at that.

“Come on, then. Spill the beans. How many are in this collection? How many founders are there?”

He raises his eyebrows. “I’m not at liberty to say.”

My mind trawls through some of the scenes I’ve had with these guys. Sometimes I’ve attempted to count the number of people around me. I’ve tried to keep track, even though they’ve been a blur.

“Seven?” I guess. “Maybe eight?”

“I’ll repeat my answer. I’m not at liberty to say.” Reuben’s tone is no nonsense. He’s not going to be laughing with me over this topic of conversation, that’s plain to see.

This is such a weird fucking setup – charitable Santa behind a monster of a desk, in his flash suit with his dark inquisitive eyes, and his hero pics all over the wall. You’d never figure he was one of the beasts who use me like a piece of slutty meat for tens of thousands of pounds a go.

“Why did you come to the club last night?” I ask, like this is a round of twenty questions.

He tips his head. “I was curious. Just like you were today.”

“Curious of how I sounded in a dodgy scene with another punter?” I grin. “I hope I lived up to your expectations.”

“I hated that part, actually. I much prefer it when I’m in control of the scene.” He cracks a hint of a smile. “Being on the sidelines of such filth is like smelling impressive cologne in the air, only to find you’re not the one who’s wearing it.”

My mind whirs.

“So, you are usually in control of the scenes? You are the top of the tree? Caught you.”

He laughs as I jab a finger, and his dark humoured magnetism strikes up again. I stop spinning side to side in the chair because the lurch in my stomach can’t handle it.

“I’m usually in control of your scenes, specifically,” he says. “We all have our personal preferences.”

My mind spins, trying to catch hold of his implication. My scenes, specifically.

“You mean that, you, um…”

He nods before I finish. “Yes, Tiffany. I usually choose you. As I said, we all have our personal preferences. We all have our favourite entertainers. You happen to be mine.”

I get a dumbass glow at his words. I must look like one of the kids on the pictures doing an air punch.

I’m Santa’s favourite. What an achievement.

I can guess why, of course.

“Ah, you like the plus sized box ticked.”

“Yes, I’m very much a fan of curves, but that’s not the deciding factor. Far from it. You’re not just a plus size girl. There are other elements at play.”

I smirk, back on familiar turf. Cream is in her element.

“Ha, yeah. I get it. I’m a curvy girl who also happens to be a dirty bitch who can take just about anything. Especially when it comes to anal. I know you like that, Reuben. Oh, and tit bondage.”

I squeeze my cleavage for effect, but steely-eyed Santa shakes his head.

“You put yourself down through your brashness, Tiffany. There are a thousand tiny details that give you the gold star on my favourites list. It’s not just how big your tits are, and how much you can take in your ass.”

The question like what? is on the tip of my tongue, because I’d like to hear every one of those thousand tiny details, straight from Santa’s beautiful mouth. Me, not Creamgirl. I’d love to hear every little thing that’s cemented the interest of a man like him.

But I can’t ask him. I’m way too fucking nervous.

I start up the chair spinning again, with Cream’s dirty grin on my face.

“Well, for what it’s worth, you’ve got a golden star on my favourites list, too. Especially now I’ve seen your face, you filthy stud.”

He cocks a brow. “Is that so?”

“I wouldn’t be here if you didn’t. You got me good yesterday, Mr Sinclair.”

I watch Reuben’s face turn serious. Shit. I tense up.

“You shouldn’t be here regardless,” he says. “I should never have joined you at the club, and I should never have brought you to this office. I should have waved the association away as nothing, and taken you off my click list without hesitation.”

A flash of horror zaps through me. A click list.

“You haven’t done that, have you? Taken me off your click list?”

“Not yet. No.”

I’ve got goldfish gob again. The thought of being ghosted by him unfathomable. I can’t even…

Suddenly the temperature in here is roasting. I’m burning up in the flames of WTF have I fucking done.

“Are you going to? That means never booking me again, I’m guessing?”

Reuben sighs. “I should take you off the list, Tiffany. The blindfold has come off, quite literally. That can’t be undone.”

“Yeah, should, should, should, whatever. But are you going to?” I feel sick, and the Creamgirl side of me trips up, losing control. “Because if you’re going to bin me off your list, just tell me now and get it over with. I don’t want to start getting all fucking jumpy when proposals come in, hoping it’ll be you. I don’t want to act like a sad, jilted ex or some shit.”

He raises his perfect eyebrows. “That’s quite a dramatic way of putting it.”

I shrug. “I’m quite a dramatic girl.”

He smirks at that. “Yes, you are. That’s one of the reasons you’re on my click list, actually. You’ve got a tremendous range of curses when you’re fighting the game.”

I want to smirk along, but I can’t. I look at my hands in my lap and not at him, because he hasn’t answered the question. It’s freaking me out, waiting for the Royal thumb to go up or down.

“Tiffany,” he says, his serious tone returning. “There is a very strict code that everyone in our organisation adheres to. You included.”

I knew it. He’s going to bin me off.

“Maybe if you hadn’t stalked me to a club last night, you wouldn’t have had to strike me off your damn click list at all.”

He shakes his head. “That’s not true. I would have had to strike you off as soon as you recognised me, face to face.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I didn’t.”

I’m perplexed, flustered. Out of control.

“Do you have to? Really? Because I won’t say anything. I can be hooded and play dumb, Santa. I won’t shout my mouth off and scream your name.”

His gaze sucks me in, still the calm in the eye of the storm.

“I’d hope not.”

The Royal thumb is still hanging, and I can’t hack this. I’m already too invested in the fantasy of a man I only discovered yesterday. I’m such a fucking dickhead.

I have to baulk and run, to try to save a scrap of Creamgirl’s pride.

“I’ll go,” I say, and get up. “It’s fine, it’s cool. You’re the boss. Knock me off the click list and I’ll get over it. I’ve got plenty other appointments on my calendar.”

“Tiffany,” he says as I smooth my coat. “Sit down.”

“What’s the point if your mind is made up? Go on, strike me off. Sorry I saw your face, okay? I loved those fucking proposals.”

“THEN SIT DOWN!”

Holy shit, his voice booms out of nowhere, and the prickles shoot right up my arms.

I’d know that tone a mile off. It’s chided me when I’m a hissing bitch, cursing and wailing and protesting before I turn into a dirty little kink slut and suck it up.

I sit my butt back in the chair, but I don’t speak. He’s seized the power from me in a heartbeat.

“There is no doubt I should adhere to the requirements of the organisation, and refrain from selecting you as our entertainer for the founders’ gatherings, but…” Reuben pauses, and I’m fucking quivering, as though he’s about to dump me off a bridge. “I do have another account at The Agency. One for more personal use.”

“Personal use?”

Ah-ha. My eyes light up, because I get it. I’m as sharp as a knife sometimes.

The account Ella was talking about. The inactive client who reached out to her for the charity gig last Christmas…

Reuben leans forward again, reinforcing his stare.

“Assure me that you will stick to The Agency contract, though. Absolute discretion and client confidentiality at all costs.”

I don’t even have to think about it.

“Cross my heart and hope to die, so help me God.”

Santa’s stare cracks into a smile.

“Again, that’s a rather dramatic way of putting it.”

I smile back. “What did you expect? Pinky promise?” I can hardly believe my own nerve when I get to my feet and offer him my pinky. And fuck, how my pussy flutters when he actually offers his, our little fingers tugging together.

“There now,” I say, sitting my ass back down, “all sorted.”

It’s such a relief to feel Creamgirl back at the fore.

Reuben shakes his head. “You’re incorrigible,” he says.

I hold my head high. “Which is why you love me so much.”

He sits back in his chair and sighs. “I have business to attend to this evening, unfortunately, but make sure to keep an eye on your inbox. You may have a proposal coming in soon.”

“Ah, ok. Cool. You’d better get your proposal in pretty quick though, because my schedule is kinda busy, you know.”

“Yes, I do know.” He smirks. “You’re off to play with a couple of guys tomorrow evening, aren’t you?”

Fuck, he really has been snooping.

I tap my nose. “That’s none of your business. Client confidentiality.”

He likes the way I poke my tongue out, I see it in his eyes, and fucking phew for that.

“I guess I’ll leave you to it, User Unknown,” I say, getting to my feet. “Catch you later. I’ll be checking my inbox.”

“I hope so.”

He raises a hand as I wave him goodbye, and I get out of there, despite his offer to walk me down. I tell him I’ll follow the exit signs. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Truth is, I think I’d fucking combust from just walking by his side.

I manage to navigate the maze and the bustle of the mall with my grin still at the max, but my heart in is my throat as the situation replays in my mind.

He could have said no and binned me off.

But he said I’m his favourite.

His fucking FAVOURITE!

Still, he could have said no and binned me off.

But he didn’t.

Not yet anyway…

By the time I’m out on the street my hands are trembling, my screaming soul desperate to call Josh and talk things through. To get his perspective, his opinion, his surprise and common sense… and security.

But I don’t do it.

For once, I don’t do it. I can’t.

I gave Reuben Sinclair a pinky promise, and I’m never going to break it.