The Santa Suit Bet: CHAPTER 5 – The Morning After (Kind Of)

Snow on the windows, warmth in his chest, and Miles in the kitchen looking like trouble — Eli didn’t expect the morning after to feel this easy. Or this hopeful. Turns out the Santa suit wasn’t cursed after all.

Chapter Five 

Eli 

The Morning After (Kind Of)

I wake up warm.

Warm is… surprising.

Last I remember, I was half-dressed, half-delirious, and pressed against a wall behind Frosty’s while Miles made it very clear I wasn’t going home alone.

Now?

Now I’m in a bed that smells like cedar and laundry detergent and something distinctly… him. There’s a heavy arm draped over my waist, a solid chest at my back, and a steady breath warming the back of my neck.

I don’t dare move.

His grip tightens anyway.

“Morning,” Miles murmurs, voice sleep-rough in a way that hits embarrassingly hard.

I swallow. “Hey.”

His fingers slide along my stomach beneath the hem of a borrowed T-shirt, his, obviously—because mine was used last night as a prop in a series of decisions I am definitely not thinking about right now.

“You’re tense,” he says softly, brushing his thumb over my skin.

“No I’m not.”

“Liar.”

His nose nudges the back of my jaw.

My whole body reacts like he flipped a switch. “Miles…”

“Mm?” He sounds way too pleased with himself.

“Your hand.”

“It’s morning,” he says, as if that explains everything. “I’m allowed to touch you.”

His hand slides a little lower, fingers tracing the line of my hip like he’s testing how far he can push before I break. My breath catches, embarrassingly sharp. He hears it. Of course he does. He shifts closer until his thigh brushes mine, warm and deliberate, and my pulse absolutely loses its mind.

Allowed.

Touch.

My brain fizzles out. Heat pools low in my stomach, the kind that makes thinking feel optional.

I force myself to roll onto my back, which only succeeds in putting us chest-to-chest. His arm stays around me like he’s not even considering letting go.

His curls are a mess. His eyes are warm and unfairly soft. I can feel a hint of beard burn along his jawline that he definitely didn’t have yesterday.

“Oh my God,” I whisper. “We actually—”

“Yeah.” His grin spreads, slow and wicked. “We did.”

Heat floods my face. “Okay. Well. Just making sure it wasn’t a hallucination.”

He nudges my chin up with one finger. “It wasn’t.”

He drags his knuckles lightly down my chest through the thin cotton, slow enough that my stomach tightens on instinct. His eyes flick up, catching mine like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Right. Of course.

Because hallucinations don’t usually lean in and kiss your throat.

Which he does.

Right now.

I gasp, grabbing his shoulder. “You can’t just— it’s too early—”

“It’s ten,” he says against my skin. “And you make that sound when I kiss you here.” His mouth finds the exact spot he hit last night.

I almost levitate off the bed.

He bites gently, just enough pressure to send a bolt of heat straight down my spine. My hips jerk before I can stop them, brushing against him. His answering inhale is low and very aware.

“Yeah,” he murmurs into my skin. “There it is.”

“Stop,” I breathe.

“No.”

He trails kisses up my neck, slow and lazy, like he has nowhere to be. Like this is normal. Like waking up next to me is something he’s wanted.

A terrifying thought.

A good one. Dangerously good.

He lifts his head and looks down at me. “You’re thinking too hard.”

“You’re… very close,” I say weakly.

“I was closer last night.” His grin turns shameless. “When you moaned under that stupid beard? Yeah, good luck pretending I didn’t hear that.”

I want the mattress to swallow me whole. “Please don’t bring that up.”

“Oh, I’m bringing it up,” he says. “Forever.”

I cover my face with both hands. “Miles.”

He shifts over me again, and I feel him — warm, solid, unmistakably interested — against my hip. A sharp little sound tries to escape me. He catches it, grinning like he just won something.

“Still tense?” he asks.

“Miles.”

“Relax,” he whispers, kissing the corner of my mouth. “I like you messy in the morning.”

He gently pulls them away. “Don’t hide. I liked it.”

My breath stumbles. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re cute when you’re flustered.” He shifts, propping himself up on an elbow. “Hungry?”

For food?

Air?

Him?

Who even knows anymore.

“Maybe,” I say.

He brushes a curl off my forehead — a gesture so casual and intimate my brain short-circuits again. “Come on. I make a good breakfast.”

“Define good,” I mutter.

“You’ll see.” He slips out of bed, revealing low-slung sweats and a shirt that I’m ninety percent sure he didn’t wear last night. “Also,” he adds, glancing back at me with a look that should be illegal, “you can keep the shirt.”

My face heats. “I wasn’t asking to.”

“You still can.”

He disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with my racing pulse and the horrifying realization that this doesn’t feel like a one-time thing.

It feels… easy.

Too easy.

I eventually drag myself out of bed and pad into the kitchen, trying not to look like someone who just got thoroughly fucked by a man now flipping pancakes barefoot.

I stop in the kitchen doorway because he looks over his shoulder like he already knows I’m staring at him. And fine, I am.

The way his sweats hang low. The faint red marks on his throat I definitely put there. The fact that he’s standing there like he didn’t press me against a brick wall last night and ruin my ability to form sentences.

My face heats instantly.

His eyes drop to my mouth.

I swear he remembers every sound I made.

He glances up and smiles. “Hey.”

Something tightens in my chest. I pretend it doesn’t.

He gestures toward the counter. On it sits my Santa suit. Sort of. The coat is a tangled red heap, the pants are inside-out, and the beard is hanging off a cabinet knob like it died there.

Miles follows my stare. “You fought bravely.”

“I’m never wearing that thing again.”

He shrugs. “We’ll see.”

“No we won’t.”

He steps closer, leans in a little too casually. “You jingled when you got excited.”

He smirks, stepping in close enough that I can feel the heat of him even through the shirt I’m wearing. “Loudest Santa I’ve ever had my hands on.”

“Miles.”

“What?” He shrugs. “It was cute. And hot.”

I nearly combust on the spot.

“I’m leaving.”

“You’re staying,” he says, tugging gently on the sleeve of his shirt I’m wearing. “Sit.”

I do. Not because he told me to. Mostly because my legs still feel like jelly.

He hands me a mug. “Coffee?”

I take a sip. It’s perfect. Annoyingly perfect.

“Stop being good at things,” I mutter.

He laughs, low and warm. “You didn’t complain last night.”

I choke on the coffee. “Miles.”

He just grins, leaning his hip against the counter, watching me like I’m the only thing interesting in the room.

That look…

It does something to me. Something I’m not ready for.

I clear my throat. “So… last night.”

“Yeah?” His tone shifts, but not to nervousness. To something steadier.

Miles steps in a little, close enough that the warmth from him cuts through the kitchen air. He lifts a hand and traces the edge of my jaw with his thumb, light but intentional.

“You don’t have to stumble through it,” he says softly. “Just ask me.”

“I just—” I wave a hand helplessly. “Was it a bar crawl thing?”

His brow lifts. “Was it for you?”

“No,” I admit quietly.

“Good.” He takes a step closer, crowding into my space the same way he did against the wall last night, taking my mug away. “It wasn’t for me either.”

I swallow. Hard.

He leans in, lips brushing the corner of my mouth. “I’m not done with you.”

Heat blooms under my skin. I hate how easy it is for him to say things like that. I hate that it makes me want to drag him back to the bedroom. I also hate that my pulse does a stupid fluttery thing.

But mostly, I hate how good it feels.

“Breakfast is going to burn,” I whisper.

“I don’t care,” he murmurs, kissing me again. Slow. Lazy. Morning-warm.

When he finally pulls back, he hands me my mug and smirks like he already knows exactly how undone I am.

“Next year, don’t lose the bet.”

I groan into my coffee. “Why not?”

Miles grins over the rim of his mug. “Because I’m keeping you out of that suit. I want you annoyed at everyone else, not at me.”

Something in me melts. I try to hide it.

I fail.

His grin softens a little as he watches me fail, again to pretend I’m unaffected.

Then he sets his mug down. Slowly. Intentionally.

“Finish your coffee,” he says, leaning in to brush his mouth over mine. “Then we’re going back to bed.”

My breath catches.

“Why?”

Miles’s smile turns wicked and warm all at once. “Because I didn’t get nearly enough of you last night. And you’re still wearing my shirt.”

I should protest.

I should say something logical.

Instead I nod, heart pounding like an idiot.

He takes the mug from my hand again, sets it aside, and tugs me toward the bedroom with a lazy confidence that goes straight through me.

And yeah.

I follow.

Happily.

Come back tomorrow for Chapter Four

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: December 2025

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