by Piper Rayne
Two pillows and two sleeping bags that have been unzipped to make one larger bag are set up with the pillows almost under the tree. Moving closer I see that there are clothes neatly folded on each pillow.
“Freya, even after everything we’ve done tonight, I think you win best Christmas cliche’ if those are matching pajamas.” I laugh as she raises both arms in a ‘goal’ motion.
“Nailed it! Please tell me you’ll put them on for one picture under the tree?” She pleads, gasping happily when I drop my shirt on the floor and my hands head for the button on my jeans. “I was thinking tomorrow morning, but now is good...really good,” she whispers, her eyes on my hands. She walks over to me, dropping her vest on the floor and swiftly pulling her sweater over her head, her blonde hair mussed and her eyes dark.
“Maybe we still put them on later,” I suggest, reaching for the button on her jeans instead. My hands busy with her jeans, I lean in and kiss her hard, feeling her hands slide up my chest and into my hair. Suddenly I can’t get her jeans off her hips fast enough, I want her skin under my fingers, I want her moaning under my touch. Shoving her jeans to the floor, I feel her kick them off. I reach down, grabbing her thighs and lifting, her legs wrapping around my waist. Turning, I set her back against the wall, loving the little gasp she makes as she rolls her hips, grinding against me.
I feel her set her teeth in my shoulder and my hips jerk, aching to drive into her, but I want to take it slow this time, build her up and send her over the brink screaming. I kiss her neck, working my way back to her lips, kissing her deeply, nipping at her jaw, giving her tiny licks that bring moans of pleasure from her lips.
Finally I turn, carrying her to the sleeping bag and lowering her to the floor, her blonde hair fanning out over the pillow and her lips plump and red from kissing. As I lean in to kiss her again, she puts her hands on my chest and pushes me over onto my back. Her fingers make quick work of the button of my jeans and I raise my hips, shoving them off and kicking them off my feet. Freya’s hair tickles my stomach as she presses kisses to my chest and her fingers trace the lines of my muscles.
I feel her breath and then her lips, hot and wet and I’m lost in the sensations. She teases me with the lightest flicks of her tongue until my hips are twitching, wanting to thrust into her and then she crawls up my body and straddles my thighs. Reaching under one of the pillows, clever girl, she pulls a condom out of the packet and my eyes roll back in my head as I feel her hands rolling it on. Teasing me with her rolling hips, she rears up and brings our bodies together, moaning as I plunge deep.
“Oh, yes,” she whispers, holding still for just a moment before her eyes open and find mine and her hips start rolling in rhythm.
“Baby, you’re perfect,” I grit out, gripping her hips in my hands as she picks up speed. I can feel the heavy weight building in my gut and I let her ride, holding out as long as I can until I feel her legs stiffen around me. Her head falls back as she screams her pleasure and I let go.
We talk and cuddle all night, watching the fire and staring up at the tree lights above our heads. At some point we fall asleep, Freya’s head on my shoulder, her legs tangled with mine.
13
Freya
Christmas day dawns bright and cold, a fresh layer of snow on the ground and everything sparkling white. When I wake up, Ricky is gone, but I can hear him out in the kitchen trying to quietly get a pot of coffee started. I smile when I turn to the pajamas, because only mine are sitting on the floor by our bed. He’s wearing Christmas pj’s!!
Slipping mine on, I pad quietly out to the kitchen on bare feet. He sees me and smiles, quickly striking a pose so that I can see the full effect. Green and red plaid flannel bottoms and a white t-shirt that says ‘naughty but nice’ in red. So deliciously naughty. My insides clench as I think of his body covering mine.
“Merry Christmas, you look fantastic,” I giggle, doing a little spin so that he can see mine. It’s a short nightgown in red with green polka dots that says ‘nice but naughty’. He reads the nightgown and laughs.
“Just the right kind of naughty,” he murmurs, echoing my thoughts as he walks around the counter and pulls me to him for a thorough kiss, “and Merry Christmas to you, too.”
“I have a present for you,” I’m nervous now, I hope he remembers the conversation we had, otherwise this is going to be a bust.
“I have a present for you too,” he kisses me quickly, “I left it on your porch to keep cool, I’ll be right back.” I pour us each a cup of coffee and head for the living room, settling on the couch with a flat, square package on my lap.
“I’m out here,” I call, when I hear him back in the kitchen. I hear the clink of something glass being set on the counter and other movement before he returns to the living room, a broad smile on his face. He’s holding a plate and when he gets closer, he sets it on the coffee table in front of me and I give an embarrassing little squeal of surprise and happiness.
“Oh, you remembered!”
“Of course I did,” Ricky nods, laughing. “I thought it was probably important that we establish exactly how nutty a fruitcake truly is, you know, just to set the standard.” He sits on the couch, smiling broadly as I stare at the most perfect fruitcake I’ve ever seen.
“I’m going to be honest, that looks amazing. I think fruitcakes get such an awful rap, but that’s just those brick-like confections you get in a tin every year. This is a masterpiece.” I stare at it a moment longer, horrified to feel tears pricking at my eyelashes. He baked me a fruitcake, that is the sweetest damn thing anyone has ever done for me.
“I have to be honest that Maggie did some of the heavy lifting on this one,” Ricky admits, grinning, “I’m not much of a baker, but she put me through my paces. Also, this is my grandma’s recipe, even though I’ve renamed it, ‘Freya Will You Be My Girl? Fruitcake’,” his eyes search mine.
“With a dowry like this, I’d be a fool not to accept that offer,” I giggle, reaching for him and tangling my fingers in his hair. “Yes, I’ll be yours,” I whisper, kissing him until we’re both panting.
“Here, open yours,” I hand him the package, practically vibrating with excitement. He carefully tears off the paper and stares at the black frame inside. His lips move as he silently reads the words I carefully wrote in sweeping calligraphy on heavy white paper. The first letter of each line is fancifully illuminated like an old text and the varying colors of the ink shimmer in the light.
“I figured out how to ask,” I bump my shoulder into his and he looks up at me, questioning. I read the words aloud.
Quiero todos tus besos.
Ég vil fá alla kossana þína.
“The translation is, ‘I want all of your kisses’,” I point at the lines. “The first one is clearly Spanish, the second one is Icelandic...the closest thing I could find to Viking.”
“Muchas smoochas,” he breathes, smiling broadly as he reaches for me. Cupping my face in his hands, he peppers me with kisses and I squeal with laughter.
* * *
THE END
Also by Halo Roberts
The Finding series
they stand alone but are best enjoyed in order:
* * *
Finding My Night
Finding My One
Finding My Safe
Finding My Sun
Finding My Cards - coming soon
The Storybook Pub : A Contemporary Romance Collection
Featuring my short rom-com Lonely Hearts
About Halo Roberts
Halo Roberts is a writer of steamy rom-coms, lover of coffee and dark beer, and spoiler of two fat cats affectionately known as the Bitchy Betas. She's living happily ever after in Iowa with her very own hunky farm boy, and a small herd of stubborn mules that look a lot like children.
Nog or Never
Melissa Williams
Synopsis - Nog or Never
I work in security. But I couldn’t protect her feelings.
Last Christma
s, she gave me her heart. And the very next day, I left the country.
Now I’m home for the holidays…and for good. I know it will take more than an apology and a couple holiday puns to win her back over, but if there’s any time of year to wish for a miracle – this is it. She may be my best friend’s little sister, but I’m ready to put it all on the line for her. It's time to make her see she's always been mine. It's now or never.
copyright @ 2020 by Melissa Williams
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission except in the case of brief quotations included in critical articles and reviews.
For information, please contact the author.
This a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
This is Fine
Belinda
Whoever invented the phrase “third time’s the charm” can go suck a major dick. It’s a bloody lie.
I’m standing in the middle of our teaching kitchen, hands on hips, wondering how I got myself into a situation like this. I’m working with grown adults. People who have important jobs, families and mortgages. Yet they always, always, without any kind of prompting, play with the icing bags like they are dicks.
Wait. That didn’t sound right. The adults are the dicks. The icing bags were pretend penises—stroked and made to squirt white icing like they were…you know.
When Lexi, the assistant shop manager of Bake, Rattle & Roll, pitched the idea of the bakery offering evening baking classes, I had been excited. I saw it as my chance to really prove myself to the bakery owners that I could step up and take more responsibility. I had been wanting to take on more for a while but hadn’t built up the nerve. It was also my opportunity to show them that I was a skilled baker—my specialty being cookies.
In less than a month, the idea had been approved, planned out, advertised and executed. It all happened before my eyes, but I still couldn’t believe how fast we got up and running. The response from our customers-turned-students was amazing. And it didn’t hurt that when we launched our first series of classes, it was around the holidays.
So, here I stand, wrapping up the final stage of my Christmas cookie class and wondering how to politely tell the woman to the left of me that her icing stroking technique is too aggressive and not long enough. There is no way she’s going to get enough out with her small strokes to line the edges of the cookie. The things I do for my love of baking.
Before I’m able to say anything, however, a large glob of icing flies through the air, crossing the aisle in a beautiful arc before landing on another baker’s cooling cookies. There’s a dramatic gasp as the icing makes a splat sound, then the room goes quiet. My eyes flare as I watch the other woman, whose tray of decorated Christmas trees and stars, screams in outrage at her ruined cookies.
Everyone freezes.
“My cookies!”
I knew this would happen. I saw it in my mind’s eye. It’s happened in both the classes I taught, but this time, no one is laughing. Not even the icing pumper.
“I am so—”
“You’ve ruined Christmas!”
“Ma’am,” I begin, hoping to settle her down, but she doesn’t let me finish. Her hand flicks up, palm facing me. I shut up immediately, stunned by the rude gesture.
“These cookies were for my grandson. I can’t give him a Christmas tree cookie that looks like someone threw up on it.”
Throw up isn’t anywhere near what the icing looks like.
“It could be snow,” I try to placate her. “Super Christmas-y.” She shoots me a death glare. Okay. Next tactic. “How about you take some of mine? The ones I demonstrated on? He’ll get double the goodies that way.”
She purses her lips, studying me. Her eyes dart from me to the cookies that are resting on the kitchen island that I was teaching from. An eyebrow goes up. This woman is truly impressive with her stern and unflinching looks. With her arms still crossed, she walks over to my cookies, inspects them, then with a shake of her head she replies, “Fine.”
Fine. Like taking the teacher’s cookies is a burden to bear. It’s taking everything in me not to roll my eyes. I understand why she’s upset but come on. At the end of the day, no matter the icing placement or what the cookie design is, they all got eaten and turned into crumbs.
And with that thought…
“Okay! That’s it for tonight’s Christmas cookie class. I want to thank you all for coming. There are festive boxes at the back that you can use if you want and there are also coupons for a free coffee and donut at Bake, Rattle & Roll. Again, thank you so much for coming. Happy holidays!”
There’s a chorus of thank yous, happy holidays and Merry Christmases said back to me. A couple people hang back to ask questions about other classes and ingredient substitutions for allergies as everyone else grabs their coats. It takes a while for the class to clear out. When the last person leaves, waving as they make their way down the stairs, I let out a long breath.
I am exhausted.
Taking my hair out of the tight bun that I’d had it in to teach, I let the long blond strands free. Massaging my scalp, I walk to the far window wanting to see what the weather’s like. I groan when all I see is white flurries. Damn it, the storm started early.
I shouldn’t be surprised. Winter in Toronto is no joke. We were lucky we even got fall-like weather this year at all. Yet, as I watch sheet after white sheet of snow fall past the window, I grow more concerned over how I’m getting home. The walk to the subway isn’t far, but there’s no way the sidewalks are going to be shoveled. Meaning I’ll have to trudge through multiple inches of snow, through the almost-dead streets. That doesn’t sound fun after a long day of working and teaching. My feet were starting to ache.
It takes me close to an hour to clean up the kitchen and load the dishwasher. Doing one last spot check, I make my way over to the closet that holds all my winter gear and my backpack. Reaching inside, I search one of the large pockets for my phone. I don’t like to have it out while I’m teaching. My Babcia’s constantly texting me. While I love my grandmother to the moon and back, it’s a huge distraction.
My fingers hit a hard surface. As I yank my phone out, the screen lights up and I see nine messages waiting for me from Babcia and my older brother. The small chuckle dies in my throat. Why in the world would he be…oh no.
I quickly scroll through my notifications, my heart thumping frantically as I read.
BABCIA: When does your class end?
BRENDAN: How are you getting home after your class?
BABCIA: The snow has started to come down. I’ve called the neighbor boys to shovel.
BABCIA: The weatherman says the snow won’t stop and we’re getting 4 feet!
BRENDAN: You know what? I’m sending Luke. I know your stubborn ass will try to walk.
BABCIA: Luke will come get you.
BRENDAN: Luke is on his way.
HE WHO SHALL NOT BE CONTACTED: Hey Bee. I’m at the bakery.
HE WHO SHALL NOT BE CONTACTED: You there?
I’m still reeling over what they’ve done when a pounding knock at the door startles me. I jump back, phone clasped in both hands, pressing into my chest. No, this can’t be happening. This can’t be real.
“Belinda?” A voice, his voice, calls through the door. “You in there?”
I’m frozen in place. My heart is in my throat as I stare at the door in horror. Why is he here? When did he get back to Toronto? What the hell is he thinking picking me up? Question after question zooms through my mind, but there’s no time to process any of them. Because the handle is turning, and I’m seconds away from coming face-to-face with the man who broke my heart. My older brother’s best
friend.
The Shit Storm
Belinda
Luke Flynn-Fletcher was the boy next door. The unobtainable always are.
They’re always just within arm’s reach but never actually in your arms. We’d been close as children. Mostly because he and my brother, Brendan, were best friends and hung out all the time. They had a tree fort, a secret language and matching bikes that they raced around the neighborhood. I was the tagalong. The annoying little sister that they included only after my mom said Brendan’s name in that way.
Luke had been a major part of my childhood. I thought he would be a major part of my future too. That childish fantasy crashed down around me last year when, after a few too many spiked egg nogs, I confessed my feelings…and he walked away without a word.
I can recall every second of that moment. The way my heartbeat thumped through my entire body, the way his eyes flared in realization for just a second before they took on a pitying shine. The sounds of the bar around us had ceased to exist the moment I decided to go for it. To finally tell him my feelings, hoping against hope he felt the same. I had just graduated from my two-year college program, and Luke was happily working as a cop with the Toronto Police Department. We were both adults. There was no way he could look at me as his friend’s dorky little sister anymore.
