Emmett had been the designated Cullen Santa this year. In truth, he had brought more fun into the Cullen household than Edward the previous year.
“Keep your costume on,” Rosalie’s eyes told him as the party dwindled down.
And so Emmett was sitting on his bed, still disguised, waiting for his wife to show him—Rosalie was more a show than tell woman—what her intentions were for his outfit.
The bathroom door opened. Rosalie stepped out. The earth stood still. A short red dress edged with white fur hugged her luscious body; a Santa hat sat on her head; white stockings caressed her legs; red high-heeled shoes—whimper—adorned her feet. The most perfect creature on earth made her way to Emmett, a seductive sway in her hips.
“Care for a lap dance, baby?” she asked with that smoky voice of hers she only ever used in the bedroom.
As always when he heard that particular tone in his wife’s voice, Emmett found himself speechless. His last conscious thought for the next ten hours was: I’m playing Santa again next year.