The Russian's Christmas Present

Some crazed, breeding fantasy he has. I’m sure he would have condom’d up if I’d let things go that far…

“If he’s okay, our date is still on.” Martel leans down and kisses the top of my head. “You paid good money for all this.” He stands tall, brushes his hands up and down the front of his torso. “I plan on giving you your money’s worth and then some.”

I shake my head on a smirk; my body still reeling from the orgasms and the wildness of the activities upstairs. The way he talked to me. The things he said.

His tongue.

Oh my god, this man’s tongue.

“Okay, just go. Take care of things.”

“Yes, I’m sorry, Snowflake. I’ll message you as soon as I know anything and you message me when you get home, okay?”

With another kiss, the scent of me still all over his beard, Martel disappears out the front door. I watch him walk, he goes to one of the valets, turns, pointing at me and tells him something with an intensity that has the poor kid looking like his life is being threatened.

A second later, the valet is standing in front of me, looking scared to death.

“Ma’am. I need your valet ticket.”

“Sure. What’s going on?”

“That man…he paid the valet fee and the tip, but he said if I don’t make sure you get into your car safety, he’ll come looking for me.”

I stare up at the moon through my bedroom window, a wave of uncertainty making me shiver. It’s past midnight and Martel’s been texting me nearly every fifteen minutes since he left the hotel.

The good news is, his grandfather is fine. Martel is still with him at his family’s home, making sure he’s getting settled in and resting comfortably.

I’m tired but sleep doesn’t seem to be possible. Every time I close my eyes, all I see is Martel.

All I hear is his voice.

Alice is working so I don’t even have her as a sounding board and a distraction. My father is still up, he has three of his friends over playing poker and every once in a while I hear one of them yell curse words or let out a hoot of excitement over what I assume is a winning hand.

How could I have let things go so far with a man I barely know?

How come it feels like I’m half in love with him already?

Maybe it’s inexperience. Maybe I’m just being swept up into something that really isn’t anything more than a quick fling.

I’m thankful for the cock-block his grandfather’s fall provided, at least. I could have given him everything and for all I really know, that ten grand wasn’t much more than a very generous escort fee.

“Fuck,” I groan between clenched teeth, kicking my feet on the bed, deciding I need to stop this before it goes any farther.

I reach to my nightstand and grab my phone, poking at the screen and pulling up the string of messages Martel has sent since he left the hotel.

The last few make my heart skip a beat as doubt lingers, tightening my throat as I read.

Martel: Snowflake, I’m thinking of you every second. I want you to get some rest and make sure you eat something. We missed the dinner buffet and I’m worried you didn’t eat. When I told you I wanted to take care of you, I meant it. All of you. I’ll message again soon. Let me know how you’re doing.

Fifteen minutes later…

Martel: Message me anytime. Call me anytime.

Another fifteen minutes…

Martel: I hope you’re just asleep, Snowflake. You aren’t answering me. Are you okay?

I start to reply, typing out words, erasing them, typing again, erasing again, before my stomach lets out a loud growl and the thought of a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with a big glass of milk sounds like the bit of comfort I could use right now.

I grab my floor-length, lavender chenille robe and wrap myself in it, tying the belt tight and slipping the phone back onto my nightstand, anxiety knitting the muscles in my back into knots.

With a cursory glance in the mirror on the back of my bedroom door, the glamour of the evening has faded. The waves and curls my hair held at the beginning of the evening are gone. My lips have reverted to their usual pale pink, and the expertly-applied eye makeup has lost the drama.

Just like my mood. I know Martel said his own Christmas is the seventh, but deep down it feels like there’s no Christmas cheer for me.

I clench my teeth as I walk into the living room, the scent of cigarette smoke and spilled beer reminding me of what Christmas usually smells like in this house. It’s the same smell as the other three hundred and sixty-four days of the year.

As I pass through the room, I see my father is asleep or passed out on the tattered brown sofa, with the television playing a poker tournament in the background. His friends ignore me as I pass, intent on their bets and their beer, and I’m thankful for small favors. Being invisible is something I always thought of as a disadvantage but there are times it’s more my superpower.