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Giorgio is surprised. Puzzled. “That’s Tinka Belle. She’s a local librarian, but she likes to do things for the kids.”
I decide right then that I have to go up to New England. This time, I need to get totally hands-on. One look at those curves, and I’ve got a long, fat Christmas treat buzzing and ready for her.
Oh, baby, I am going to make abso-fucking-lutely fucking certain that my Christmas angel gets all the festive joy that she can take for Christmas. I’m getting that big-eyed beauty bouncing on the top of my tree. Under the mistletoe, stretched on a crib, or away in a manger. Any way and every other way — and whatever the fuck a manger is.
I know, we were supposed to learn about the manger and all in Sunday school. But when I was in Sunday school, I was dreaming my way up into the darkness inside the Sunday school teacher’s yellow skirt, and along the soft insides of her creamy thighs.
When she talked to us, I watched her green eyes flash as her tongue teased and wet her soft, sweet red lips.
An evil-eyed bishop pounced and swept her out of our diocese, and doing that, the lumbering, sly rat in a black cassock and red trim inspired me to grab hold of all the power and influence I could reach, in whatever ways I could, so that I could snatch a woman like her for myself.
It worked. I fought, and I struggled and stole and schemed, and I grabbed all the power there was to be had in New York. There are two mob bosses who may be nearly as strong, but nobody in Manhattan, Brooklyn or New Jersey has more strength, more money, more influence, or a bigger army of soldiers.
But I never found another woman to match the dream of my Sunday school teacher. Not in church or out.
In happy moments in the darkness, sepia-tinted images of her still burst into my fantasies. Alone at night, I wake up with a long, hard woody. When my hands find the hot shaft, it’s still her long, cool touch I’m imagining. Recalling the fleeting flash of her stocking tops, thinking of the warmth of her creamy cleavage.
And her lips. I imagine the welcoming wetness of her soft tongue, slipping, flattening down my length as she leads me into the warm darkness of her mouth. And I dream of her scents and her tastes as I unwrap her and spread her thighs.
But when I saw the picture of Ms. Tinka Belle, the curvy saint in charge of this charitable shindig, I thought my angel had returned to me, and all my Christmases were going to come at once.
My pulse hardens. From the first sight, I know that she has to be mine. I have to have that bouncy bundle of sin wrapped in innocence. I have to have her soft wetness squeezed and pierced, reamed, stretched on my hot, hard log.
I’ll make her days extra merry and bright, and her Christmas nights, too.
Chapter Two
Tinka
Shouts and merry chatter ring out from kids in scarves and thick, hooded coats, running, trudging, chasing, and stomping through the snow to hurl snowballs after one another.
For skaters, snowboarders and sleigh-riders, it’s a winter wonderland. Hillsides, houses, all the roads are deep in a blanket of snow. Evergreen trees and bushes hang heavy with a thick, white, frosty crunch. The sharp evening air is thin and crisp.
These kids are all one hell of a lot luckier than the ones I’m working to make Christmas for.
I grip the steering wheel of my little compact Honda. It’s drafty and it rattles, but compared to my tiny, bare apartment, it’s as cozy as a soft couch by an open log fire.
I let out a tiny squeak as I clear my throat. Everything I’ve heard about the man I have to meet this afternoon makes me wary and sets me on edge. A lethal, ruthless, older man. Powerful and big, in every sense.
The thought sets my imagination into overdrive, conjuring musky, manly scents and the heat of a forceful body. Fantasies from my younger days are never far from the surface. And I ache from how long it’s been since I tasted a man’s skin or felt the press of hard masculine lips on me. Felt myself scooped up and taken in a man’s strong hands.
And, even if the chance came up, I could not give in to any of that. Not today.
Unwilling, I haul myself back into the present and out of the deliciously dark swirl of reverie.
Even from inside my little car, I can feel the hush that landed outside with the snow, and it makes me prickle and tingle. Anticipation for what’s to come. And a chill of fear. Will I be up to this?
I have to be. The children need me, and there’s no one else stepping up.
Pulling my shoulders tight, stiffening myself against the cold, I feel like I’m living wrapped tight in restrictions and other people’s expectations.
Driving, the roads are scary and unpredictable. Stopping without slipping is as tricky as getting going without the wheels spinning. I take each turn slowly and gingerly, and pause at each junction, checking it twice.
Even now, as the time ticks by before I have to meet my potential sponsor, I’m doing all that I can to get everything organized. Dashing through the snow, following the flat voice of the satnav with my eyes on the road.
I’m looking around, way more than usual, and talking on the phone at the same time. I know, that’s not a good thing when you’re driving. But there’s so much to get done. And I have to make this work.
Donleavy’s Catering firm has promised to help, along with some local suppliers, but I’m still frantic. I need to secure decorations, as well as turkeys, pies, desserts, helpers, and, most of all, presents and pretty wrapping.
