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Red Hot Christmas by Mara White, K. Larsen (2)




It was the day from hell in the online auction business. She was stressed to the max and drank enough coffee in the evening to necessitate two sleeping pills to make it through the night without waking up with caffeinated veins and panic attacks. Her head was pounding in the car on her way back to her apartment. She’d need to add Advil or her migraine medicine to tonight’s tonic.

Once she slammed the door behind her, Amber slipped out of her clothes in the hallway. She was left wearing a silk slip and camisole over her bra and panties. The soft carpet in the foyer felt luxurious under her feet. She wiggled her toes and slid onto her leather couch, lifting her ankles to the coffee table. She’d ordered Chinese even though her perfectly prepared meals were waiting loyally in her giant double door stainless steel fridge which served as more or less, a giant storage closet for gourmet water brands, both sparkling and flat. A prepared meal sat, one to each shelf for every day of the week. Margaret, her chef even juiced for her, right next to the meal was a coordinating drink. Her whole life was a catalog. She slurped noodles with zeal straight from the container, took a swig of Prosecco out of the bottle. She was feeling rebellious. She also felt like finding out who the hell Freddie? No, Frankie, was. Fit and full was it? She wasn’t on social media because she didn’t want to advertise her life to anyone. She liked being private, left alone. Amber got more than enough social interaction at work. But she was burning with curiosity about the janitor with an apparently famous body and possibly personality too. It wasn’t hard to see, even through his uniform, why the man was renowned for his physique. But why was the guy working as a janitor when young girls were squealing for his autograph and pictures to show off to their friends? It didn’t make sense. Maybe he liked the job? But who in the world liked cleaning up after slobs for minimum wage or some other paltry salary? The maintenance was unionized so she supposed there were the benefits and other perks. Maybe he had a wife and kids he had to take care of. For some reason the idea of him married with a family irked her. But she noticed, in the elevator, when he was facing toward everyone, that he didn’t wear a ring. Just an observation, not a conclusion.

She pulled her phone out of her purse and tried a few versions of Fit/Full/Freddie/Frankie.  Even within a tiny profile circle, his hazel eyes jumped out at her.  Fit_and_Full_Frankie: twenty-nine-year-old natural body builder, New Yorker, Men’s Fitness Model, Proud Uncle. She began to scroll though the pictures and was riveted by his images. His smile was a mega-watt, million-dollar smile. Perfect teeth, whiskey colored eyes rimmed with lashes so long and dark he looked like he was wearing eye liner. Full lips, strong jaw, sometimes peppered with stubble. The guy was model material. He looked incredible in person, but the photos were pure gold. Gorgeous incarnate. Beautiful.

When she scrolled past one of his full body, she gasped and clutched at pearls that weren’t there. Frankie in the shower, muscles oiled so that the water ran off him in rivulets that looked lickable, w.e.t. boxer briefs, a package that looked like it should win a national medal. The man was a God; he looked like magazine, hell, like movie material. Amber groaned out loud when the stupid format wouldn’t let her enlarge the pictures with her thumb and forefinger. She wanted to take them to the copy shop and have them blown up into posters, she’d wallpaper her room with that man. She could sell them. He should sell them. Those arms, his quads, uff, then she scrolled past his butt and she was so wet between her thighs that she’d probably stain the couch, a present Chase had bought for her. Then the goddamned app wouldn’t let her scroll any more without signing up. She tossed her phone across the room and arched her back against the leather, her hands slid into her lace panties and she began touching herself. All she had to imagine was his rough hands on her thighs, that gorgeous mouth on her swollen folds, sucking her breasts. She came within minutes of rubbing herself, her long red, nails slid easily through the slickness and Amber exploded onto her own hand remembering the photo of him in the shower. Her hips bucked and she arched her back higher seeking the fullness she imagined he could give her. She shuddered as she came down, her nipples so erect under her silk camisole that they hurt.

She showered and fell into bed sated and exhausted. Her sheets were fresh and chilly, indulgent Egyptian cotton. Amber slid underneath them and pulled the down comforter up to her chin. She grabbed her phone off the night stand and angrily pulled up Instagram. She’d make a stupid account if that’s what she had to do to see pictures of him. With spite she typed in her info. What stupid name could she use? Scanning her room for inspiration, her eyes fell to tomorrow’s outfit she had laid out. A black blazer, white silk shirt with pearled buttons, tight black pencil skirt with a slit up the thigh. Her favorite Jimmy Choo’s, four inch red heels. Fuck me shoes. Sometimes women had to demand respect in the workplace and sometimes, if they were Amber, they wielded their sexuality as a weapon. Intimidation was her specialty. Men expected her to be stupid because she was beautiful. Instead, she was a torpedo they never saw coming. She got them stuck on the red shoes, the long legs, and then she pulled the rug out from under them.

She slipped out of bed and crawled over to the expensive heels for a nice low perspective. Snapped a picture where the red of the patent leather shone brightly under the light. They looked like an invitation, a salacious one at that. She made the image her profile, followed Fit_and_Full_Frankie so she could scroll through all of his pictures.

Red_Jimmy_Shoes  liked the shower picture first and then the close up smile that made her lick her lips and close her eyes. That man was a living fantasy and he seemed completely oblivious to it.