Santa's Pet Read Online Free PDF Page A

of candy canes and treats. Others are busily capturing the fiasco on video, no doubt to post on social media, hoping it goes viral.
    “Wait, wait, don’t go away,” Sean Rodgers, the photographer, who also happens to work for me at ScrapCloud, waves at the departing crowd. “We still have Santa’s dog. It’ll make a great Christmas card.”
    That does it. The athletic man odor and Santa’s basset hound’s doggy breath finishes the last of the holdouts still waiting.
    Damn, I’m going to have to speak to Sean about deodorant. I hate hurting his feelings, but has he ever wondered why a tall, good-looking former college basketball player can’t get a date?
    Oh, right, Sean’s still standing in front of me expecting a response, except I’m holding my breath, too. He glances at Ben, as if for reinforcement—not that I scented anything from Santa Ben other than a woodsy cologne and sporty aftershave.
    “Britt, I’ve an idea,” Sean says, thankfully lowering his gangly wingspan. “Why don’t you sit on Santa’s lap and hold the dog? We might as well pretend you’re a happy customer. I need to post some sample pictures on my website, and Ben needs some Santa creds to show his grandpa.”
    Oh, no. The last place I want to be is back on Ben Powers’ strong, hard, and very woody lap. He’s never thought about me all these years. Why should I care to save his job?
    One look at poor Ben sitting on the throne all lonely and dejected, and my heart twinges, echoed by a second throb between my legs. Those broad shoulders, solid chest, and hulky thighs bulge from the Santa suit while the waist area is too loose and hangs over the rest of his well-endowed body.
    Besides, the guy’s trying to help his grandfather. A star football player like him could be vacationing in the tropics instead of hanging out at a tree farm for charity.
    Sean’s not waiting for an answer. He pushes me, along with the floppy fat basset hound, at Ben. “Sit across both his legs like this.”
    I’m still holding the panting dog when Ben picks me up as if I weigh nothing and arranges me sideways across his legs, closer to his knees than crotch.
    He’s silent and so am I. My heart’s beating way too fast, and even though this is only publicity for Sean Rodgers and Ragamuffin’s Rescue, the air sizzles between us, at least for me.
    “Closer. Look like you like each other,” Sean says.
    It’s not easy balancing the dog. How heavy is this sausage? He squirms and whines, not wanting Sean to touch his Santa hat, and I barely hang onto his front paws.
    “Hold still,” Sean says, stepping back. He clicks the remote on his camera.
    Uh oh, the dog wiggles lower and now his suit doesn’t cover his belly side. Sean clicks again grabbing a perfect shot of the male dog with his legs open.
    Meanwhile, Ben sneaks his arm around me and moves me closer. “You’re slipping off my knees.”
    Great. My ass hits his crotch and his Bamm-Bamm club twitches.
    “Sorry,” he mutters. “He has a mind of his own.”
    I ignore him, but the dog’s not holding still.
    Sean marches toward us and grabs the dog, lifting him, and before I can protest, he drapes the slug over my shoulder. The dog pants all over my face. Ewwee.
    I back away, but Ben’s hot breath is on my neck. A hot, slurping tongue bathes my cheeks right when Sean clicks the remote.
    “Yuck,” I scream, pushing the hound’s saggy muzzle which is dripping with drool. “This isn’t working. No more pictures.”
    “One more, let me get his attention.” Sean raises his arms and waves. “Here puppy, puppy.”
    The odor grabs the basset hound’s attention all right. His ears flopping, he scrambles with his paws and back legs, trying to climb over me toward Ben.
    Click. Click. Click.
    Yikes, his hind leg is caught in my cleavage. No! Lacy’s too small elf tube slides off, and my bubble-boobs pop from the fur-trimmed suit.
    I grab frantically for the dog, his skin, my tube dress, Santa’s jacket,