How far would you go if you had the chance to fulfill your secret fantasies?
What would you ask someone to do, if you knew they’d do anything?
After the death of her mother and the abrupt end of her marriage, Kate is desperately unhappy to be spending the holidays alone. She vents her frustration in a letter to the one man her mother taught her to believe in: Santa Claus. This year she is rebelliously requesting something guaranteed to raise his eyebrows.
Brock Foster has wanted Kate since they were in high school. When he finds her letter, her hot Christmas wish becomes his obsession. Winning her will require skill and deception. Brock initiates a game that will bring them together—and tear them apart.
Join Kate and Brock as they discover what happens when Santa puts you on his Naughty List.
I hate you.
I know hate is a harsh word and that a lady never uses it, but my days of being proper are over.
I’m sure you recognize my handwriting. There can’t be many twenty-eight-year-old women who still write to you.
You can thank my mother for that. When I stopped believing in you as an actual person, she held out that you were the spirit of hope and dreams. Each time I doubted you, she would retell the story of the year her family had nothing and you brought them food, clothing that fit, and shoes for each child.
Between you and me, your involvement in that was a crock of shit. We both know it was probably someone from her church who felt bad for her family.
When I think of all the time I wasted crafting the perfect letters to you just because it made my mother smile, I want to hunt you down and kick your red-velvet-covered ass. You never gave me what I asked for. You only sent a mockery of it.
Remember in high school when I asked for a boyfriend who would hold my hand and listen to me? What I got was a borderline stalker with hands so sweaty they felt like sponges. Sure, he wanted to hold my hand. He also wore the underwear he stole out of my gym bag. He said it was his way of staying close to me. Then he followed me all over town trying to explain why that was normal. I told him not to touch me so much that I gained the nickname Untouchable Kate.
I didn’t out him because ladies are above vindictiveness.
I guess I’m not a lady anymore, either, because I want to find him and beat his sorry ass, too.
I wrote to you in college. I don’t know why. I guess it made me feel closer to my mother, and I missed her. I was in such a hurry to grow up back then. My friends were all getting married. I asked you for a husband—and you sent Wayne Price.
Just like you, he was all show. He came from a good family, made the right amount of money, looked like one of the Kennedys, and said he loved me. I thought you had finally listened to me. When he asked me to marry him, I had no idea what a twisted sense of humor you have, Santa.
If you were going to send me a man who would sleep with every last one of my friends, couldn’t you have at least made him good in bed? Is an orgasm here or there too much to ask for?
When Mom found out she was sick, I wasn’t going to ask anything of you. I’d stopped believing in you long before that. But there we were last year, Mom and I, in a hospital room just before Christmas, and she wanted both of us to write to you. I didn’t ask you to cure her. All I asked was for you to take away her pain.
I hate you more than I thought I was capable of hating anyone.
It’s Christmas time again. If Mom were here she’d ask me to write to you. So here is your fucking Christmas letter.
Santa, if you are indeed real, I’m not looking for love anymore. You’ve thoroughly killed my belief in happily ever after. I do, however, have a Christmas wish.
To help me get my mind off how much this time of year sucks, I’m asking for a good old-fashioned, down-and-dirty fucking. I want a man who knows his way around a woman’s body. Give him a long tongue and a nice big cock, and make him strong enough to be able to fuck me against a wall.
He should not only know where a G-spot is, but what to do with it once he finds it. Someone who doesn’t finish until I do. I don’t give a shit who the man is or if I ever see him again. I want to come so many times I can’t remember my name. That’s what I want under my tree this year.
This is the last time I’ll write to you.
Hating you in a most unladylike fashion,
P.S. Fuck you
Your letter has been received and processed. Santa doesn’t grant the type of Christmas wish you requested, but I do.
In the spirit of the holiday, I’ll offer you twelve temptations that will guide you to what you’re craving. In return, you will follow my instructions and tell me every juicy detail of your journey.
We will communicate only through texts.
Temptation number one is right in front of you. Turn on the phone, Kate. I’m the only number in there.
Waiting to hear from you,
Head Elf in charge of the Naughty List