Three Nights Before Christmas: A Holiday Romance Collection Read online

  He wouldn’t be able to see the hardening of my nipples through my thick sweater. He wouldn’t be able to see my pussy flooding my panties.

  Oh my god. I’m so turned on.

  My face heats. Beneath the mask, I squeeze my eyes tightly closed, as if to shut out the mental picture of Logan watching me with that icy gaze. But it’s not Logan, it’s his dad. I’m getting hot while my poor unsuspecting boss is standing right there.

  Luckily, Bruce can’t see my arousal. He has no idea what’s going on in my head.

  And I have no idea what he’s bringing in. There’s a strange brushing sound, as if he swept the stiff bristles of a huge broom across the side of the door frame.

  I’m still puzzling over that noise as he takes the first few steps inside, then the strong scent of fresh pine hits me and all at once I know what the sound was.

  Branches. From a Christmas tree.

  A real Christmas tree.

  A burning lump fills my throat. Behind the mask, my eyes squeeze shut again, trying to stop the tears that threaten to burst free, but I can’t stop the soft sobbing breath that shudders from my chest.

  I don’t think he hears it. His boots are still crossing the room, then he pauses for a moment. Maybe deciding where to put it. Maybe looking for an outlet so that I can plug in the lights.

  I don’t have lights. But it doesn’t matter. Already my apartment smells so good, and this is going to be the best Christmas ever.

  My throat aching with sweet tears, I whisper, “The outlet’s over in that wall nook,” and point a trembling finger in that direction. “Just follow the computer cord.”

  A moment later comes a soft thunk as he sets the tree down. I think he fiddles with its position a couple of times, because I hear the scrape of pine needles against coarse fabric, as if he’s reaching in between the branches to adjust the rotation of the trunk.

  Finally he starts heading back my way. Leaving.

  “Thank you.” My voice is thick. “You must have spent much more than a Secret Santa was supposed to, but—”

  “You’re going to take it anyway.”

  My breath stops. That gravelly voice doesn’t belong to Bruce.

  It belongs to his son.

  And Logan’s not heading for the door. Everything inside me draws up tight and hot as his footsteps come nearer. I can’t see him, but I know he’s right in front of me. I can feel his warmth and his breath, and there’s a soft thump against the wall—as if he’s braced his hands beside my head so that he can lean in, and I think our gazes would be level if a mask wasn’t covering my eyes.

  “You’re going to take it, Emma.” Low and rough, he moves in closer, until his mouth can’t be more than a few inches from mine. “Aren’t you?”

  I am. He’d have to fight me to get that tree out of my apartment again. Even though— “I shouldn’t. It’s too much. We have a ten-dollar limit.”

  His growl deepens. “Didn’t your parents ever teach you not to haggle over the cost of a gift?”

  “No,” I respond breathlessly, my heart racing. “They dumped me on the front steps of a church just after I was born.”

  Utter silence.

  Then he says, “You ever shove your foot so deep into your mouth that you can just about feel your toes tickle your prostate?”

  Giggling, I shake my head.

  “Well, my foot’s that deep right now. I’m sorry, Emma. I didn’t know.”

  “It’s okay.” It really is. I never knew my parents, so I can miss the idea of them, but I don’t miss them. Whereas Logan lost a mother he knew and loved. “Probably better to be raised in foster care the way I was than by someone who couldn’t keep me.”

  “I don’t know about that.” His voice is a low rumble again, but lighter. Teasing. “Because your foster parents didn’t teach you that you’re supposed to accept a gift without questioning the cost.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “Some of my foster families made certain I was aware of exactly how much a gift costs.”

  “So they put them on a balance sheet.” Not so teasing now.

  I shrug. “I can’t complain. They mostly all treated me well.”

  There’s a long pause, filled with his heavy exhalation, as if he’s struggling to control his reaction to that. Maybe it’s a response to the mostly.

  Or maybe he doesn’t like the balance sheet. He didn’t yesterday when I turned him down for that drink. But it helps me make certain I’m not asking too much of anyone—or leeching off anyone. And when it comes to money and friends, I really don’t like it when my columns are in the red.

  I don’t know if Logan is a friend. But I absolutely do not want to start off in the red with him.

  “I just like it equal,” I whisper when his silence continues. “And with the Secret Santa, that dollar limit makes it all equal.”

  Or as much as it can be. Some gifts are more thoughtful, chosen with the specific person in mind. Some people spend more time on theirs, decorating or creating their gift. But in monetary value, at least, they’re fairly even.

  “All right,” he says gruffly. “So you’re fretting over the difference between ten dollars and the cost of that tree. Well, then—you just make up the difference.”

  Familiar anxiety knots my gut. “Okay. But it’ll take me a little while to pay you back.”

  “I didn’t say it’d be with money.”

  That makes no sense. “Logan—”

  “Who the hell is this Logan asshole?” His voice is low and amused. “I’m your Secret Santa. Call me Santa.”

  I can’t stop another giggle. “Santa.”

  “See? You don’t owe Logan anything. But Santa’s wondering how many kisses it will take to make up that difference.”

  My heart stutters. “Kisses?”

  “The long and deep kind.” It’s a guttural confirmation. “As if my mouth’s slowly fucking yours.”

  His mouth fucking mine.

  Slowly.

  Oh god. Everything inside me is shaking, my brain barely functioning. I feel him shift closer, as if he’s no longer leaning over me with his hands braced against the wall, but as if he’s straightened again and the entire length of his body is only inches from mine.

  Big, warm palms cup my jaw and gently tilt my head back, as if he’s looking down at my face. Callused thumbs slide along the bottom edge of the mask. “How many kisses, Emma?”

  My body trembling, I manage to stumble into an answer. “I–It depends on what value you’d assign to a kiss.”

  I’d give mine for free and never make up the difference.

  Voice pure gravel, he replies, “Emma Williams, I’d bring you a thousand trees for just one taste of your lips.”

  A nervous huff of laughter escapes me, though he didn’t say anything funny. It’s just that what he did say has my mind spinning and my synapses misfiring and I can’t control anything coming out of my mouth. “Then I suppose the tree you brought is worth one thousandth of one kiss. So I could make up the difference with a little peck.”

  “A little peck? Fuck that math,” he growls, sounding like every time I thought he was angry with me. Hard and rough and abrupt.

  But it’s not anger.

  Instead it’s sweet and hot. And so soft, when his firm lips settle against mine. Lightly he teases the width of my upper lip with butterfly kisses before catching my bottom lip gently between his teeth. Erotic delight shivers through me. My mouth opens on a shuddering breath and he licks his way inside, his tongue tasting mine in a leisurely, sensual slide.

  And slowly, so slowly, his mouth begins fucking mine.

  There’s no other word for what he’s doing. I’ve never fucked anyone, and I’ve only kissed a few people, but those kisses were nothing like this. With every slow thrust of his tongue, Logan takes complete possession of my lips, his big hands cradling my cheeks as he angles me for a deeper taste, his chin rasping lightly against mine. His jaw is smooth, smoother than my mind pictured when I imagined him coming through
the door, because only yesterday thick stubble shadowed his face.

  As if he shaved just before coming. As if he had every intention of kissing me when he got here and didn’t want to rip up my skin.

  And the thought that this was part of a plan—that he made this effort just to kiss me—makes it all even hotter.

  On a soft moan, I rise up higher on my toes, my arms wreathing his neck. The fingers of my left hand are still wedged between the pages of my book, my stocking cap dangling from my right hand. I drop the cap so I can bury my fingers in his thick hair, which is as soft and silky as his kiss.

  When my fingers tighten, a growl sounds deep in his throat. It’s the hottest noise I’ve ever heard, almost as hot as the way his big hands slide down to grip my ass through the thick sweater and lift me higher against the wall. Without hesitation he pushes into the cradle of my thighs. My inner muscles clench with aching need when the hardness of his cock wedges against the soft melting heat of my pussy.

  Too many clothes separate us. Desperately, I rock my hips against his, needing that thickness to fill me, needing his entire body to fuck me like his mouth is fucking me.

  Except his mouth’s not doing that anymore. Abruptly he breaks the kiss and buries his face in my neck, his chest heaving against mine.

  Oh god no. He can’t stop. In the grip of frenzied arousal, I grind against his heavy erection. “Please.”

  His tortured groan rumbles against my throat. Strong fingers tighten on my hips to halt my frantic motions.

  My next breath is a shuddering plea. “Logan, please.”

  His big body presses closer, trapping me against the wall, forcing me to stop moving by the sheer weight of his length against mine.

  His mouth opens against my throat, leaving a soft hot kiss against my skin before he lifts his head.

  “Not Logan,” is his gruff reminder. “I’m your Secret Santa. And there’s nothing I want more than to finish this, baby. But when I fuck you, it won’t be part of an exchange.”

  My breath catches. “When you do?”

  “Yeah. When.” Slowly he sets me down, my back sliding against the wall and my pussy dragging over the long length of his erection before my feet hit the floor. “So you tell me, Emma—if I show up tomorrow, there’ll be no gifts to put on a balance sheet. I’ll just be coming to fuck you. Are you going to open your door?”

  I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  The swiftness of my reply seems to amuse him. “You don’t want to think about it for a minute?”

  “No.” Though I should. We work together and I desperately need this job. Sleeping with Logan could be the biggest mistake I ever make.

  It doesn’t feel like a mistake, though. It feels…right.

  Or maybe I just want it to feel right.

  “All right, then.” Big hands still gripping my ass through the thick sweater, he gives my butt a squeeze, then lets loose a half laugh, half groan. “You feel so damn good. I better get out of here before my control snaps and I screw you right up against this wall.”

  “You should anyway,” I tempt him with a saucy grin.

  This time his response is pure groan. “You’re so fucking beautiful. You smile at me and I might do anything. But right now”—his grip tightens on my bottom—“I’ve got another quick exchange in mind. You figure that mask costs about as much as your panties?”

  A naughty little thrill ripples through me. “Maybe about the same.”

  “You wearing some under this sweater?”

  “Yes.” It’s a breathless reply. “And my pajama shorts.”

  “I don’t want you freezing under there, so I’ll just be taking your panties. Are they your favorites?”

  I shake my head.

  “Good thing. Because after all the unholy things I’ll be doing to them tonight, you probably won’t want them back.”

  I’d rather he did those unholy things to me.

  Though this might be close enough. With the mask covering my eyes, I can’t see him sink in front of me. I don’t know if he’s crouching or on his knees. I just know that his shoulders are somewhere on level with my waist, because my arms looped around his neck are much lower now.

  Then I lose even that contact, when he grips my wrists and brings my arms back to my sides. Pausing for a moment, he angles the book I’m still holding, as if to read the cover, then says softly, “Is this what you were doing in here before I showed up—you were curled up under that blanket on your couch, reading?”

  “My exciting Saturday night,” I say wryly. “Me and a stack of library books.”

  “Smart is exciting. And it’s sexy as hell.” Long fingers skim up the back of my calves. “So are these striped stockings. Fuck. I’ll spend the rest of my life picturing you wearing these while I’ve got your feet up on my shoulders and I’m burying my cock inside your sweet pussy as deep as I can get.”

  Need crashes through me at the onslaught of images those words paint, my inner muscles clenching painfully hard. Softly I whimper, my thighs tensing under his fingers.

  A deep chuckle reaches my ears. “You like me saying I’m going to fill up your pussy with my thick cock? You like that dirty talk?”

  I guess I do. Cheeks suddenly hot, I nod in response—unable to speak, because my entire body is trembling with tension as his fingers reach the hem of my shorts.

  “These first.” His voice is rougher now, his big hands reaching beneath my long sweater to grip the elasticized waistband. “Go ahead and step out of them.”

  The flannel is a soft whisper down my legs. Obediently I lift my right foot, followed by my left.

  “Hold onto these.” He curls the fingers of my left hand around flannel. “I’m going in again for my prize.”

  And he’s taking the long way up, his palms sliding up the sides of my calves, long fingers brushing the backs of my knees, smoothing over the bare skin of my thighs. Then higher, curving up over my hips, and the cool air inside the room slips beneath the sweater, like an icy breath against the wetness slicking my inner thighs.

  “You’re shaking, Emma.” Callused fingers trace the lacy edge of my waistband. “You all right?”

  Dying. But better than I’ve ever been.

  I nod, then clench my teeth against a tortured moan as he begins dragging my panties down my legs. My sweater’s too long for him to see anything, but I feel so bare, so exposed.

  And so aroused.

  His breathing is harsh and slow. “Now step out—”

  Abruptly his hands stop, my panties just above my knees.

  “They’re soaked.” His voice is thick and guttural. “Your panties are just fucking soaked.”

  I knew they were wet but that sounds as if they’re far wetter than they should be. My face burning, I awkwardly try to press my thighs together, to trap and hide the offending garment—and freeze when he growls.

  “Don’t you fucking dare.” Roughly he shoves my long sweater up to my waist, then a deep groan rips from his chest. “Your pretty little cunt’s dripping with your sweet juices, baby. God help me. I tried. I was going to leave without taking more. But I can’t leave you like this.”

  Scorching heat suddenly engulfs my pussy. My breath explodes from my lungs, my body stiffening with shock.

  Logan’s mouth.

  That’s Logan’s mouth.

  And his tongue, roughly stroking my clit. I cry out, my book dropping from nerveless fingers, my knees almost folding—but Logan’s strong hands pin my hips against the wall. His ravenous growl reverberates over my sensitive flesh, and this is what I thought his kiss would be, but that was tender and sweet and slow, and this is ravaging, devouring. His hard fingers drag my panties the rest of the way down my legs, then he grips my left thigh and hooks my knee over his shoulder, opening me wider to the fierce hunger of his mouth.

  Breath coming in sobbing little pants, I fist my fingers in his hair, and I can’t stop the mindless rocking of my pussy against his face. The ruthless assault of his lips and tongue
has completely shattered my control—if I ever had any.

  With Logan, I don’t think I do. There’s just need and pleasure like I never imagined.

  He lifts away from me just long enough to murmur harshly, “You taste so fucking good, Emma. So sweet and hot. I’ll never get enough of this pussy.”

  My pussy won’t ever get enough of him. My hips buck uncontrollably against his grip, desire spiraling tighter and tighter with every devastating lick, each one hotter, wetter.

  Back arching, I cry out again when his firm lips close around my clit and he begins sucking on that sensitive bud, tongue flicking relentlessly. An orgasm approaches, but it’s nothing like the ones I’ve given myself with my fingers before, that sweet shaking release that ends with a soft pulse through my inner flesh and a contented sigh. This bears down on me like a freight train, hard and fast and unstoppable. A ragged scream rips from my throat when it hits, my entire body clenching as convulsions rhythmically squeeze my inner muscles.

  “Fuck, yes.” Logan backs off my painfully sensitive clit, groaning hungrily as his broad tongue glides up the length of my slit. “Give me all your sweet cum, baby.”

  My body still shaking with aftershocks, I collapse back against the wall, moaning softly as Logan slowly licks through the saturated folds of my pussy, his tongue dipping past my untouched entrance as if he won’t be satisfied until he’s lapped up every creamy drop.

  Except his mouth only makes me wet again. And if he intends to continue licking, then I have no intention of stopping him.

  Though maybe I should have. Because he works me right up to the edge before suddenly slipping my knee off his shoulder and rising to his feet.

  A deep chuckle against my mouth is followed by a light kiss. “That’ll keep you going until tomorrow.”

  Oh my god. He’s going to leave me like this? “You’re an evil Santa.”

  “An evil Santa with a big dick.” He kisses me again, then lifts his head with a soft reluctant groan. “A dick that’ll be aching all damn night. I’m going now while I can. You keep that mask on until I shut that door behind me. You all right?”

  Never better. “Yes.”

  “Tomorrow, then.” His mouth covers mine again, hard and possessive, and while I’m reeling from the erotic taste of my arousal on his tongue, he pulls away.