Santa’s thigh is solid as she sits on his lap, his suit rough against the bare strip where her skirt has ridden up.
Sarah wriggles until his cock thickens, hard and eager in the cheap red fabric.
“Careful,” he says, his voice gravelly.
She curls her fingers around his length, a squeeze that makes him grunt.
“What do you want for Christmas?” His breath teasing her ear.
She strokes him again, thumb circling his cock, enjoying the way he tenses. “This. Right now.”
“Have you been a good girl?” She caresses him slowly through the material. “Not even close, Santa.”
