Company Christmas parties were the one time a year that an employee’s drunken decisions were forgiven, regardless of what they might have been. The five years I’d worked for Savoy Marketing stood as proof.

It seemed every year I ended up with part of my female anatomy on the copy machine and my friend Kaci pressing the copy button a dozen times. Awkward looks and snickering in the hallways followed when we returned from our holiday break, but I was never reprimanded.

I viewed the gatherings as a free pass to let my managerial hair down, and do or say what was off-limits the remaining 364 days of the year.

“I can’t believe Mister Shirley combined our party with theirs,” Kaci complained. “I don’t know half these people.”

The tuxedo-wearing bartender could have played basketball through his college years. As I wondered how difficult it was for him to get a tux that fit, he handed me a glass of Moscato and grinned. I shot him a smile and turned toward the open room. Of the hundred or so people in attendance, I recognized only a handful.

“I don’t know half of them either,” I said in agreement. “But, who cares? The drinks are free.”

I followed her as she maneuvered past the manned buffet and toward an empty table. She turned around and reached for a chair.

Her eyes slowly widened. “Holy shit.” She gulped her wine. “That Santa is hot as fuck.”

The room was peppered with obnoxious bearded youth and equally obnoxious men dressed in overpriced short-legged suits. None were dressed as Santa, and not one of them qualified as being hot.

“Where?” I asked.

She shifted her eyes to the side. “Behind you.”

I pulled a chair away from the table and glanced over my shoulder.

Dear God.

He was tall, had an athletic build, and wore a light scruff on his angular jaw. With one boot propped against the wall behind him, he watched as a group of women walked past. Although we stood fifty feet away, I could see that his hands – and fingers – were covered in tattoos. His worn jeans seemed to fit his persona well, but clashed with the felt coat that was draped over his shoulders like a red cloak.

A drink dangled loosely from between his thumb and forefinger. An elderly woman clad in an ugly Christmas sweater gave him a side-eyed look.

He raised his glass and forced a crooked smile.

“He looks thrilled,” I said.

Kaci snorted a laugh. “I want to climb him like a tree.”

“He’s not even wearing the coat,” I said. “Look. His arms aren’t through the sleeves. It’s like a Santa cape.”

“Maybe he’s a holiday superhero.”

“Christmas Dick.” I chuckled. I turned to face her. “He flies around and fucks all the overworked and undersexed women in the city.

She batted her eyes. “He can start with me.”

I sat down and then stole another glance. He hadn’t left his day job at the mall to come to the Christmas party, that much I was sure of. Amidst the tech-savvy dot-commers dressed in fitted suits, and the hoodie-wearing hipster employees of an earth-friendly welcome mat company, he seemed out of place. Sickeningly handsome, but out of place.

His eyes scanned the room. Upon meeting my gaze, he pushed himself away from the wall and finished his drink. Then, he began to saunter toward our table.

I spun around. “Crap.”

“What?”

“He caught me,” I said.

Her face washed with confusion. “Huh?”

I leaned closer. “I was looking at him, and he saw me,” I whispered. “Now, he’s coming this way.”

She peered over my shoulder. “Holy shit. Santa’s got some serious swagger.”

I slumped in my seat and watched Kaci’s facial expressions intently. Being chastised for ogling the tattooed biker wasn’t high on my evening’s activity list. As her expression changed from curiosity to worry, I prepared for the wrath of Mister Claus.

The blur of a tattooed hand made its way into my peripheral vision as he grabbed the chair to my immediate left.

I sank a little further into my seat.

He turned the chair around and sat with his forearms clutching the back. His dark hair was draped behind his ears and was cut to a length that almost touched the faux fur of his red cloak. After nodding at Kaci, he turned toward me. His broad chest peeked through the opening of his coat. Seeing it only added to the tension I was already feeling.

He looked me up and down. “Evening, ladies.”

His voice was low and commanded the full attention of whoever was within earshot, even though he didn’t inflict much emotion in his tone.

“Hi,” Kaci squeaked from across the table.

I felt myself blush. I set my wine aside, swallowed heavily, and managed a finger-wave.

He undressed me with his eyes. After taking every inch of me in, his eyebrows raised. “You don’t talk?”

Paralyzed by the tone of his voice and his handsome looks – and feeling like a fool for being caught eyeing him – I simply nodded.

He coughed out a dry laugh. “Can you read lips?”

I gave a shrug of uncertainty.

He pressed the tips of his index and middle finger against his lower lip, and then rolled it downward. Much to my surprise, two words were indelibly marked on the flesh of his inner lip.

As I read the tattooed script, my lady bits began to tingle.