MY FORBIDDEN LETTER

                           ~HOLLY~

A soft chill dance through the air as Ella and I stroll down the street. It's the season of Christmas and so, the street is filled with Christmas decorations.

Jingle bells chime from every corner—shop doors jingles open, children shake them playfully, and a distant choir let theirs ring like tiny stars. 

Christmas trees line the streets and windows, their twinkling lights blinking in warm, colorful rhythms. 

Snowflakes drift lazily from the sky, settling on rooftops and garlands, wrapping everything in a gentle, magical hush. 

It feels like the world itself is breathing in joy, except me. I feel no joy at all.

“Christmas season is the best,” Ella says, squeezing my arm.

 “Look, Holly.” She points to a massive inflatable snowman in front of a mall. “That's amazing. And look at the little boy over there. Awww, oh my God…he is so cute.”

I don't want to look at the bloody snowman and I really don't want to look at the sweet boy grinning up at it with his parents crouched at his side.

Yeah, it's amazing, and cute. But it's painful because I'm reminded that I won't be spending Christmas with my family because I don't have one.

My parents died a long time ago, leaving me in the hands of my aunt who I so much detest living with and was really glad when I gained admission to a far away university and moved out.

I look around me. People are all dressed up when it's not Christmas yet.

I am in my most comfy black baggy jeans, and my huge bad girl hoodie while Ella looks fresh out of a vogue. 

The clothes she's putting on show all her curves while mine hides mine.

Nobody will know that behind my baggy clothes that hides all my curves is a girl with a very curvy shape, perfect round big ass, full breasts with big pointing nipples, very leggy and thick thighs.

Damien really doesn't know what he's missing out on.

I shake my head to remove the thoughts of my best friend's father from my head and look up when Ella points to a big Christmas tree with a lot of people around it in an opened mall.

“Holly, come on, let's see what's happening over there,’’ she says cheerfully, and without waiting for my reply, drags me along with her.

I like Ella because she likes me too, and gives me respect as her brother's best friend. I like her positive energy, and enthusiasm. She's carefree, jovial and fun. And I see her as my younger sister.

We finally get to the Christmas tree.

Everyone around us is laughing, taking pictures, drinking hot chocolate, living inside the kind of warmth I’ve never really belonged to. I’m about to tell Ella I’m getting cold when she suddenly gasps.

“Oh! They’re doing Santa Letters this year!” She bounces on her toes, pointing at a booth decorated with red velvet and candy canes.

 A huge sign reads:

WRITE YOUR CHRISTMAS WISH FOR SANTA – BE HONEST OR IT DOESN’T COUNT!

Before I can protest, Ella grabs my wrist.

“Oh come on, Holly. It’s fun! And you seriously need a wish this year.”

I try to pull back. “Ella, no. I don’t do that Santa stuff.”

She just smirks. “Exactly why you should. Besides…” She nudges me with her elbow. “Maybe you can finally confess what you really want.”

My stomach drops.

If she knew what I really wanted—who I really wanted—she’d never drag me anywhere again.

But Ella is already shoving a thick, red envelope into my hands.

“It’s a rule,” she says, grinning mischievously. “You write something, seal it, and hang it on the tree. No lying. No hiding. Just honesty.”

I snort. “Hang it on the tree?? Who made that rule?”

“I did,” she says proudly. “Now sit.”

Before I know it, I’m pushed into a small wooden chair inside the booth. A pen. A blank sheet with Dear Santa printed at the top. A little lantern flickering beside me, casting soft golden shadows.

“Even though I write this, I'm never hanging it up on the tree. I'd rather put it in the mailbox beside the tree” I protest.

Ella stands outside the booth with her arms crossed, watching me like a guard.

“Just write first. I’m not leaving until you write something real,” she says. “Not a joke. Not something safe. Something you actually want.”

Something real.

Something I actually want.

My pulse trips. My fingers tremble around the pen.

Because the only thing I’ve ever wanted….the only thing I dream about….is the one thing I should never write.

But the silence, the lights, the flickering lantern…

and the pressure of Ella’s insistence…all push me toward it.

I inhale shakily.

He’s everywhere in my mind. His voice. His hands. His forbidden presence.

And before I can stop myself, the pen touches the page. The words spill from me, slow and sinful.

And for the first time, I write the truth I’ve never said out loud, the truth that tastes like danger and desire, the truth that no one, especially Gabriel and Ella, can ever know.

Dear Santa…

I can’t believe I’m actually doing this. They said I had to write a wish list—be honest, be specific, ask for what my heart truly wants.

So here I am, cheeks burning, thighs pressed together under the soft glow of Christmas lights… writing the one thing I shouldn’t even be thinking about.

I want him.

Not gifts. Not jewelry. Not a new purse.

Just… him.

The man I shouldn’t touch. The man I shouldn’t crave. The man who makes my pulse trip every time he walks into a room.

My best friend’s father, Damien Blackwood.

Tall, older, confident, devastatingly off-limits.

And yet… when he looks at me, I swear he sees every wicked thing I try to hide.

He’s the one I think about when I can’t sleep.

The one whose voice curls low in my mind, stroking places his hands haven’t touched—yet.

The one whose eyes make me feel seen, desired, undone… even though he has no idea how badly I want him.

Santa, I want him this Christmas. 

God, Santa, I want him in ways I can barely admit on paper.

I want his hands—those big, warm, powerful hands—to finally touch me the way I imagine late at night when I can’t sleep.

I want his voice in my ear, low and deep, telling me I’ve been a very good girl… or a very bad one.

I want to feel the weight of him against me, the heat of him behind me, the possessive way I know he’d pin my wrists to the mattress like he’s waited years to claim me.

I want his mouth on my neck, tracing every inch of me like he’s unwrapping something precious and sinful. I want him to touch my skin like he owns it. I want to feel him everywhere.

I want him to lift my chin, look at me with that hungry intensity he tries to hide…and kiss me like he’s tired of pretending we’re not thinking the same obscene thoughts.

Santa, I want the forbidden. I want the fantasy I’ve been denying. I want the man who should be off-limits to be the one who ruins me—slowly, deeply, completely.

They say Christmas wishes are supposed to be innocent. But mine isn’t.

Mine is needy.

Mine is sinful.

Mine is the kind of wish I whisper only in the dark.

So Santa…if you’re listening…if Christmas magic is real… All I want for Christmas is him.

His touch.

His mouth.

His body tangled with mine.

His desire unleashed on me.

Give me him, just for one night…or forever, as a Christmas present, if you’re feeling generous.

This is my secret wish. My confession. My forbidden fantasy. My Christmas sin.

Signed,

Holly

(Your desperately longing girl, who’s been very… very good this year)

I come out from the booth. My hand is still trembling as I try to slip the letter into Santa’s mailbox. 

But Ella stops me before it falls inside.

“Not in the mailbox, Holly. Hang it on the tree” she tells me.

“Why??” I ask her.

“For good luck. You need to hang it on the tree for your wish to be granted faster” she says out loud, smiling, teasing.

She has no idea the envelope in my hand contains the most dangerous, obscene confession I have ever written.

After some hesitation, I finally slip it onto a low branch, the red wax seal shining under the lights, and hoping no human gets to read it.

Ella goes into the booth to write her own wish, comes out and hang it too.

She is still distracted, taking pictures of the tree, so I wander a few steps away, needing air—needing space from the truth I just spilled onto paper like a sin.

The snow muffles everything, making the world feel distant, quiet…until a deep, familiar voice breaks through the silence behind me.

“Holly?”

I freeze.

I would recognize that voice anywhere.

Slow. Warm. Male.

Dangerously calm.

I turn.

And there he is.

Alpha Damien.

My best friend's father. Ella's father. My forbidden obsession.

The man I should not want—standing in front of me like a living answer to the letter I never meant for anyone to read.