Santa Daddy (Fantastical Daddy Doms Book 3) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Did you enjoy Santa Daddy?

  Meet Rayanna Jamison

  Also By Rayanna Jamison

  Meet Allysa Hart and AllyCat’s Creations!

  Also by Allysa Hart

  2018 © Published by Allysa Hart and Rayanna Jamison

  ©All rights reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as the author’s advocating any non-consensual spanking/sexual activity or the spanking of minors.

  Edited by Wizards in Publishing

  Formatted by Under Cover Designs

  Cover by AllyCat’s Creations

  “Oh good, you’re here!” My father’s voice was booming and jolly as I appeared in his office, and he welcomed me into his usual bear hug.

  “Of course I’m here. You teleported me,” I grumbled. “Haven’t you ever heard of a text message? Email?”

  “This is faster.” My father shrugged, taking a seat in his massive red leather chair next to a cozy fireplace.

  “Sit, Yule, sit.” Yeah, that’s right. My parents named me Yule. But, it’s really more of a nickname. My real name? Well, that’s complicated. It’s Santa. Santa Claus. As of today, at least.

  Sighing because I knew what was coming, I sat. It wasn’t that I wasn’t excited about being Santa. It was a pretty damn cool job. It was also a damn overwhelming one, and I knew I was about to undergo orientation. Otherwise known as second-thought central and information overload.

  “Now, Yule, as I was saying, I’m glad you’re here. As you know, per tradition, tonight, on the eve of your thirty-ninth birthday, I retire, and you take over in my place.”

  “Yes, sir. I’m aware of the tradition.”

  My father beamed, stood, and then, with an assured nod, crossed to the antique armoire in the corner of the room. He muttered to himself as he opened drawers and took things off hangers, making a pile in his hands.

  Then he turned and held the pile out to me proudly. “Here you are. Don the uniform, then. It’s time to make this official.”

  I closed my eyes and steeled my shoulders. Making it official was daunting. My father’s job was only the most important job in the world. And now it would fall solely on me.

  Last minute thoughts aside, I was ready. It was time. I looked at the stack of clothing in my father’s outstretched hands and took a deep breath. And then I snapped. One simple snap of my fingers, and that was all it took. The articles of clothing left his hand and took their place upon my body. It was official. I was Santa Claus.

  “Oh, no! I missed it? Noel, you were supposed to wait for me,” my mother scolded my father as she bustled in with tears in her eyes and a plate full of cookies.

  “Well, don’t worry, honey. We’ve only done the official donning of the uniform. There is still the reading of the official Santa code, the factory tour, the elf orientation, and, you know, the talk. I would never do the talk without you.”

  I raised my eyebrows and regarded them hesitantly. The talk? That sounded suspicious. Even more suspicious was the fact that I had never before heard of “the talk” as part of the official passing of the jolliness.

  The way my mother blushed and giggled when my father said it, I was reminded of the birds and the bees talk they had given me at the tender age of thirteen.

  “Um, guys? Might I remind you that I am thirty-nine years old, a grown man, and I’ve already been on the receiving end of the talk? It is not an experience I wish to repeat, especially not now.”

  My father rolled his eyes at me.

  “Not that talk. The talk about Mrs. Claus and the nonbelievers,” he whispered, looking around like someone was going to jump out at him for saying some sort of forbidden phrase.

  “I’m sorry? Isn’t that two talks? And why are you whispering?”

  “Sorry.” My father grimaced, looking pained. “Nonbelievers are a tough subject for Santa.”

  “But, you’re not Santa anymore. I am.”

  “Oh. Right. Well, this should be easier, then.”

  “Let’s get on with it, dear. There’s lots to cover before the night is over,” my mother reminded him, patting his knee. “And the boy doesn’t have much time. Christmas is only two weeks away.”

  “Right.” He nodded at her and turned his attention back to me.

  “As you know, Son, there is more to being Santa than making and delivering toys. There is also the mission to rid the world of nonbelievers.”

  “Yes, I know. It is the job of Santa to bring the magic of Christmas to everyone, young and old, and help to rid the world of nonbelievers because nonbelievers dampen the joy of Christmas for others.” I recited part of the Santa code from memory.

  “Yes, and...”

  “And once I begin working my way through the list of nonbelievers, somewhere in my mission, I will find my Mrs. Claus. Just like you found Mom.”

  “That’s right. Your mother was my thirty-fifth nonbeliever. I found her before my first Christmas as Santa. As you will.”

  I narrowed my eyes and squinted at him, frowning. “This Christmas? Like the one that is in two weeks? Holy freaking fruitcake! I hope you are kidding me right now! That’s impossible. There’s no way it will be that easy. And, what if my Mrs. Claus is not a nonbeliever, and I don’t find her in time because all I’m focused on is the mission?”

  “She will be, and you will find her. You see, Son, your mother…well, she was not an exception to the rule, she was the rule, and failure, my dear boy, is not an option.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Your Mrs. Claus will have been a nonbeliever. She must be. It’s in the bylaws. And if you do not make her your wife by Christmas Eve...” He paused and took a deep breath. “Well, let me reiterate, failure is not an option.”

  “Fabulous,” I deadpanned, wondering how many more bombs they planned to drop on me tonight. “Okay, then. This should make for an interesting dating pool. How many existing nonbelievers are women between the ages of twenty and forty? Like fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? A thousand? What are we looking at here?”

  My parents exchanged looks before my father turned to me and held up one finger. “One.”

  “I’m sorry? Did you say one? There is only one nonbeliever left in the whole world?”

  “Erm, females in that age bracket, yes. My father pulled an iPhone from his pants pocket and began clicking away at the keys. “This woman.” He turned the phone to face me. The woman on the screen was a stunning brunette with skin slightly olive in tone and large chocolate-brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with little flecks of gold in them. At least she was pretty. She was beautiful, actually, and I was getting hard lookin
g at her. “Her name,” my father continued, “is Crystal Turner. She’s thirty-one years old, and she resides in Las Vegas of all places.”

  “Oh.” I stopped short in my tirade, stunned with this new bit of information. “Well, Kringle Krisps! Okay, then. At least I’m not running around blind. Any tips for how I turn her not only into a believer, but also into Mrs. Claus in two weeks’ time? It’s not going to be as easy as it was for you with Mom, you know. I can’t just turn an unknown woman over my knee and spank her into believing.”

  My father laughed, a loud guffawing knee-slapping laugh and then, all of a sudden, he stopped and turned very serious. “Well, you could certainly try.”

  I narrowed my eyes and waited for him to say more, but he remained silent. That was all he had on the subject. Fabulous.

  “Hey! What the hell? How did you get in here? Oh my God! Let me up! Get out!”

  One minute I was sitting on my couch, eating popcorn and sipping red wine, watching a documentary on the polar ice caps, and the next minute I was upside down on a stranger’s lap, watching my half-Maltese, half-Pomeranian puppy make short work of the spilled popcorn while a puddle of red wine soaked into my brand-new white cashmere rug.

  From my precarious position, I craned my neck to peek over my shoulder at my captor. The one who had literally appeared out of nowhere. It was like he had just poofed into my house, and then poof, I was over his knee.

  Oh hell no. I was hoping he would at least be hot, or, like, someone I recognized—one of my friends playing some sort of elaborate prank. The guys at the office would totally do something like this. But it wasn’t one of the guys from the office. At least, I didn’t think it was. It was kind of hard to tell behind the huge white beard and fuzzy red velvet hat. Groaning, I looked down at the fabric of his pants. Yep, red velvet, too.

  “What are you doing? Let go of me right now, you jackhole, and reveal yourself before I call the cops. Marcus, I swear to God, if this is your idea of a joke… I’m not gonna bring you any more pumpkin-spice lattes!”

  The bearded intruder did not unhand me. As I watched, he raised his hand high in the air and brought it down hard against my pajama-clad bottom. That’s right, a fucking lunatic dressed as Santa Claus broke into my house and started spanking me.

  “Stop! Ouch! That hurts! What do you think you are doing, you fucking lunatic? You are so going to jail!”

  “I’m spanking you,” the bearded intruder informed me nonchalantly, as if it was no big thing. “You are on my naughty list this year, and worse than that, you’re a nonbeliever. Both of those things qualify you for a good spanking. And besides, everyone knows a peppermint mocha beats a pumpkin-spice latte any day.”

  “Like hell, you delusional prick! The only naughty list you need to worry about is the one in the local paper where they list the names of those who have been arrested, ’cause you’re about to be on it. Ooof!”

  The dickwad wouldn’t stop spanking me. His hand fell across my ass repeatedly while I squirmed, screamed, and squawked. My phone sat on the floor in front of me, at the edge of the slowly spreading puddle of red wine, out of arm’s reach.

  “Dixie!” I cried, waving at my usually yappy furball of a dog, who was sitting there staring at the scene unfolding like a traitorous vixen. She ignored my cries, like I wasn’t being assaulted by some yahoo in a Santa suit going off about naughty lists and peppermint mochas.

  “Traitor,” I muttered. “See if you get a doggie bag the next time I go to the steak house.”

  Realizing I was on my own, I tried with renewed vigor to get away, but it was no use. This bearded stranger had a steel grip. It was like there was an invisible vise holding me in place. Yelling and insulting hadn’t worked, imploring the help of my worthless guard dog hadn’t helped, and getting free of his clutches was a no go. It was time to switch tactics.

  “You know,” I spoke up, enunciating as clearly as I could through the barrage of steady smacks he was laying across my backside. “If you could please stop hitting me for a second, we could talk this out like reasonable adult people. You are obviously quite upset about something, and while I’m not quite sure what it is or how it has to do with me, I’m willing to listen, and help if I can.”

  I sounded insanely normal and nice for my situation, but I was desperate and willing to do just about anything if he would stop spanking me. He had been going at it for a good five minutes by now, and it was really starting to hurt!

  “Okay, let’s talk.” He picked me up, lifting me under the armpits, and set me upright on one knee. “Why don’t you believe in Santa?”

  Dumbfounded, I stared at him, fully aware of the irony in the question. I was sitting on Santa’s lap. Nearly thirty-two years old, and this was my first time. “Santa isn’t real. Santa is a fairy tale created by major retailers to sell more product and guilt parents into overspending and going into debt each year.”

  He shook his head, frowning in confusion. “Man, Crystal, someone really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

  It was my turn to be confused. “Wait, how do you know my name? Damn you, Marcus! I knew it was you, you little prick.” Outraged and relieved, I grabbed the bottom of his curly white beard and tugged hard.

  “Ouch! Hey! What are you doing? Who’s Marcus? You mean Marcus Wheatley? He’s on my naughty list, too. But I don’t spank the boys. I send Vixen the elf mistress to do that.”

  Vixen the elf mistress? This was getting far too weird. I tugged his beard again, standing as I did so. The beard was not going to budge.

  The mysterious Santa stood, too, pulling his beard from my grasp. “Hey, stop it! It’s attached!”

  “I see that! What did you do, Marcus? Super-glue it on? I hope you end up with a serious face rash, and Martin from accounting cancels your date. It would serve you right. He’s way out of your league anyway!”

  “You are crazy,” Santa-man muttered. “And quite mean. No wonder you are on the naughty list, if this is how you treat your friends.”

  I gaped at him. “This is how I treat friends who break into my apartment, start spanking me like a child, and don’t come clean once I’ve caught them red-handed. Now, that’s enough, Marcus. I’m done playing. Take off the beard and ditch the costume, or I really am going to call the cops.” To drive my point home, I bent down and scooped my phone off the floor.

  “Take off the beard, and ditch the costume, hmm? Well, this has taken an interesting turn all of a sudden. Maybe my dad was onto something after all. Very well, then, if that’s what you want.”

  Santa snapped his fingers, and my wish was granted. The beard was gone. Well, not gone. In its place was a sexy salt-and-pepper scruff, and black hair. This man was not Marcus. Not even close.

  “Um...you’re not Marcus,” I stammered, stating the obvious.

  “No stinking stockings, Scrooge. Now, what else did you ask me to do? Ditch the suit?” His eyes twinkled mischievously, and I grimaced, my stomach dropping to my toes as I realized what was coming.

  “No! Don’t!” I yelled, but it was too late. He snapped his fingers again, and poof, no more suit. One second, he was standing there in a full red velvet Santa costume, and the next, all he had on was a pair of candy-cane-striped boxer briefs and a great pair of abs. Holy Hannah.

  He was fucking gorgeous. And ripped. And if the bulge in those ridiculous boxers was anything to go by, he was packing, too. Briefly, I considered licking those hard abs, kissing those red lips, and dragging him back to my bedroom. Then I remembered that he was a batshit-crazy criminal who had probably escaped from a mental hospital.

  It was a damn shame, too. These days, all the hot ones were taken, gay, or batshit-fucking crazy. Sighing as I gave one last longing look at his washboard abs, I dialed nine-one-one.

  “Yes, hello?” I spoke into the phone eying my delusional Santa Claus wannabe up and down, daring him to sneak out now. “I’d like to report an intruder. And, an assault. No, he’s still here. My address? Sure, it’s seven-twenty-f
our North Cherry Street.”

  Santa, or rather the creeper claiming to be Santa, did not look the least bit frightened at the prospect of cops. Ok, so he probably didn’t have a record. That was good news for me, but he was in for a rude awakening. Creepy Santa was about to learn that you couldn’t break into random women’s houses and assault their backsides. It seemed obvious, but there was a serious decline in good parenting these days.

  I hung up the phone and narrowed my eyes, peering at his salt-and-pepper beard. Hmm. Dude had to be pushing forty, which meant the decline in parenting probably wasn’t the issue. Oh God. My chest seized with fear as I considered a new conclusion. What if he actually was mentally ill? Some sort of asylum escapee? This was a big city. I was sure there were more than a few mental wards in the area. Oh God, why didn’t I watch the news?

  Santa met my gaze head-on, and smirked. “I’m not a mental patient nor do I come from a subpar upbringing. My parents are quite lovely. And they are looking forward to meeting you. Of course, there is the little matter of the naughty list and the nonbelieving to clear up first, but I’m working on that.”

  I gaped at him wordlessly, my jaw opening and closing like a fish as I searched my brain for words that were not coming. I was certain that I had not said any of that out loud. And that bit about his parents? Wanting to meet me? What was that about?

  Luckily, I was saved from having to voice any coherent thoughts by a knock on my door.

  Sticking my tongue out at him, I flung the door open.

  “Oh, thank God you’re here!” I exclaimed. “Arrest this man!”

  Poor Crystal. She was absolutely flummoxed by my mind-reading skills, and she was about to be even more confused when I charmed the kind police officers into going away and leaving me to my business.

  Oh well. Confusion looked as good on her as everything else did.

  “What seems to be the problem, miss?”

  The two men stepped in, and I could tell by looking at them that they were fresh out of the academy. Their baby faces were full of eager innocence, and I was about to blow their minds. What kind of police force paired rookies with rookies anyway?