I want to curse at Sam as he stands a few feet away, browsing through a stack of sweaters on a display table at Macy’s, but it’s not his fault I feel like I should be at a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting. After the stellar blow job—if I do say so myself—I gave him in Santa’s Workshop, we argued up in my bedroom for twenty minutes about him sleeping on the floor again. He wanted to return the orgasm favor and I didn’t want him to feel obligated to do so. I didn’t suck his dick to pay him back for saying all those nice things to me. Okay, so maybe that was why I dragged him out there to begin with, but once I unzipped his pants and saw that glorious package inside, I really, really wanted to put my mouth on it. Forget the nickname Sox, he shall now be referred to as Hung, forevermore. I felt like it would just be safer all around if he slept on the floor again instead of being a hot-and-sexy-tempting-body-of-gorgeous man spooning me in my twin bed. I’d never be able to resist having sex with him if he was in next to me in bed.
