"You’ve been squirming since we left the house," Eve said, her fingers tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of some old Christmas song on the radio. Ben shifted in his seat, the leather creaking under him, his thighs pressing together just a little too tight. The cage was small—cruelly small—and every bump in the road sent a jolt of frustrated need through him.
She’d brought it up casually over breakfast three weeks ago. Pancakes stacked high, syrup dripping down the sides, and her voice light as if discussing the weather. "What if we make Advent… different this year?" A slow sip of coffee, her eyes locked on his over the rim. "No touching. No release. Just you, locked up, counting down the days like a good boy." The fork had slipped from his fingers. She’d laughed, reaching across the table to wipe syrup from his chin with her thumb, then sucked it clean with a hum. "Think of how sweet Christmas will taste."
The teasing had been relentless. She’d perch on the arm of his chair while he worked, skirt hitched up just enough to tease the edge of her lace panties—always damp, always fragrant. "You can smell it, can’t you?" she’d murmur, sometimes making him lick her right there, his caged cock straining against its confines while she sighed and stroked his hair. "Poor thing. You’re so desperate, aren’t you?" And then she’d leave him there, throbbing, her taste still on his tongue, her laughter lingering in the air like a taunt.
The hotel was her masterpiece. She’d dropped hints about it for days—how soft the robes would be, how the minibar would be stocked with his favorite whiskey he wouldn’t be allowed to drink, how she’d booked the penthouse suite with a balcony overlooking the city lights. "Imagine the view," she’d whispered against his earlobe in the elevator up, her hand sliding down to cup him through his slacks just hard enough to make his breath hitch. "All those people down there celebrating… and none of them know what I’m going to do to you."
Dinner was a slow, deliberate torture. The restaurant was all low lighting and velvet banquettes, Eve’s foot tracing lazy circles up Ben’s calf under the table while she sipped champagne with a smirk. Every bite of her steak—fork twirling, lips wrapping around the tines—felt like a performance just for him.
"You know," she murmured, leaning in so the candlelight caught the dip of her collarbone, "I’ve been thinking about how to properly unwrap presents this year." Her tongue darted out to catch a drop of red wine at the corner of her mouth. "Some things taste better when you take your time." Ben’s fingers tightened around his water glass—no alcohol for him, not tonight—and he could feel the heat creeping up his neck.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Eve tugged him inside, her dress riding up as she pressed him against the mirrored wall. "Twenty-four floors," she breathed against his throat, her teeth grazing skin. "You think you can make me come with your mouth before we reach our suite?" His hips jerked against hers—helpless, delicious friction—when the doors started to close, only to halt abruptly as a hand shot out to stop them.
Eve's grip on Ben's belt loosened just enough to turn her head, and there he was—broad-shouldered, white-bearded, the velvet trim of his Santa suit straining over thick thighs. The scent of pine and something darker—bourbon?—rolled off him as he stepped into the elevator with a chuckle that vibrated through the small space. "Room for one more?" His voice was syrup over gravel, and Ben felt Eve's nails dig into his hip in response.
Her pout was theatrical, lower lip jutting as she slid a half-step back, but Ben didn't miss how her pupils blew wide when Santa's gloved hand lingered on the door's edge. "Well," Eve sighed, smoothing her dress down thighs that suddenly looked less steady, "looks like we'll have to behave ourselves." The way her teeth caught her lip betrayed her, and Ben's stomach twisted hotly—she'd never been good at behaving.
Santa tipped his head toward the ascending floor numbers, then back at Eve with a grin that crinkled the corners of his too-blue eyes. "Busy day?" she asked, fingers toying with the pendant between her breasts. His chuckle sent a chime through the elevator. "Just one special request," he rumbled, gaze dipping to where her pulse fluttered, "from a very, very bad girl." The doors slid open at the nineteenth floor, pine-scented air rushing in as he stepped backward into the hallway with a wink. Ben watched Eve's throat work—watched her tongue dart out to wet her lips—before the doors sealed shut again, leaving only their reflection and the ghost of peppermint in the air.
The elevator doors slid open with a whisper, and Eve practically dragged Ben down the hallway by his belt loops—her robe fluttering open to reveal flashes of lace and bare skin under the sconces’ golden glow. She fumbled the keycard twice before the lock clicked, and then they were inside, the door slamming shut behind them as she shoved him against it. Ben barely had time to register the champagne chilling by the bed or the rose petals strewn across the sheets before Eve’s mouth crashed into his, her teeth catching his lip hard enough to make him groan.
They were undressed and on the bed in seconds, Eve's robe pooling on the floor as she straddled Ben's hips, the heat of her bare skin scorching where it pressed against his trapped cock. He gasped when she caught his wrists with a silk cord, her fingers nimble and sure as she looped it tight around the bedpost. The knot gave just enough to let him struggle—just enough to remind him he couldn't win.
Eve leaned down, her hair falling in a curtain around them, and her grin was pure mischief. "I lied about the key," she murmured against his lips. "It's not under the tree." Her thigh squeezed against the cage, and Ben hissed, arching up into the cruel pressure. "I gave it to Santa last week along with a letter how naughty I was."
Ben's wrists strained against the silk cords. "Fuck—Eve—" The words dissolved into a groan as she rocked against him, her wetness smearing across his stomach while she laughed softly.
"Oh, sweetheart," she sighed, tracing a fingertip down his heaving chest, "you should've seen the way his eyebrows shot up when I told him about your little... obsession." Her teeth flashed in the dim light as she ground down harder, making the cage dig into Ben's flesh with every shift of her hips. "How you get rock hard just imagining me with someone bigger, stronger—someone who could fuck me hard and fill me up nicely. I think Santa liked that part."
She lifted herself off him slowly, letting the slick mess between her thighs glisten under the bedside lamp, then twisted on the mattress with deliberate, exaggerated grace. Her back arched as she presented herself to him—plump cheeks parted just enough to show the flushed pink between, still glistening from how wet she'd gotten teasing him. "Smell it," she ordered, glancing over her shoulder with half-lidded eyes. "Taste it. Memorize exactly how tight and untouched my yet faithful little kitten feels." Her fingers curled into the sheets as Ben strained forward, his breath hot and ragged against her skin before his tongue flicked out in a desperate, worshipful lick.
The whimper that tore from his throat was raw—half arousal, half grief—as he buried his face between her thighs, inhaling the musk of her arousal like a man committing a sacrament to memory. Eve sighed, grinding back against his mouth just once, letting him feel the way her muscles fluttered around nothing. "Mmh, good boy," she purred, then abruptly pulled away, leaving him gasping against empty air.
She stood in one fluid motion, the robe slipping over her shoulders with a whisper of silk before she cinched it shut with a lazy tug. The heels came next—black, strappy, the kind that made her calves tense deliciously—and Ben watched, wrists straining against their bonds, as she bent to fasten the ankle straps with exaggerated slowness. "Now," she murmured, tapping a fingertip against his parted lips when she straightened, "be a good husband and behave." Her smile was all teeth.
"And when I'm back, I may have your key -" Eve mused, tapping a crimson nail against Ben's swollen lower lip where it trembled with shallow breaths. "And maybe a juicy little present from Santa." The robe flared open as she spun, revealing one last glimpse of damp thighs and puckered nipples before the silk whispered shut. Her heels struck the marble like a metronome counting down Ben's torture—click-click-click—each step stretching the absence between them taut until the door's latch snapped shut with finality.
