by Dylann Crush
I close my eyes. “How the hell did that even happen? Of all the people in the world, how did the two of us end up finding each other in an internet chat room?”
Jackson threads his fingers through mine. “If I say it’s because we were always meant to be together, will you laugh at me?”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t think I will.” I’m quiet for a moment, trying to figure out how to put my feelings into words. “I was crushed when you left me, Jackson. I thought you’d been playing with me all that time. I was afraid to forgive you, because as long as I was angry and bitter, I could push away the pain.”
He tightens his hold on my hand but doesn’t say a word.
“When I started chatting with this guy on the fan site, it was like I finally found someone who understood me. Who cared about me—someone whose sense of humor was like mine. Someone who made me feel brave enough to risk my heart again.” My lips tremble just a little. “I was prepared to fall in love tonight, Jackson, but I never for a moment thought it would be with the same man I’ve loved since I was a kid.”
He slides to his knees before me. “Can we start over tonight, babe? Can you look at me and see CapGuard90 and not the idiot who walked away from the most incredible woman he’s ever met?”
It doesn’t take much thought for me to nod. Everything in my world that was mixed-up and painful suddenly clicks into place, and I know that I’m where I was meant to be, with the man I’m destined to love for the rest of my days.
Jackson smiles then, and his eyes shine so brilliantly that I want to cry with the joy of it. He frames my face with his hands.
“Then would it be okay if we put the so-called funny business back on the table? Because I’m dying to kiss you right now.”
This time, I don’t nod. I tilt my head and lean toward him, touching my lips to his.
It’s as if a spark leaps to life between us. The kiss is simple and sweet, full of both history and promise. Within seconds, though, I moan and arch my body into Jackson, needing more of him. Our connection goes from hesitant to hot just like that.
He wraps his arms around me and stands, lifting me with him, his hands cupping my ass. My legs circle his hips, and I grind my core into the promising ridge beneath his tux pants. He moves almost blindly across the floor. I think he’s moving toward the bed, but then my back bumps into a wall.
“Fuck it,” Jackson growls. “We’ll get to the bed later. But for now . . . this is where I’m going to remind you how perfect we are for each other.”
And then he’s all over me. His mouth is on mine, urging me to open to him—and I do. His hands roam up my back to my breasts, seeking me through the layers of thin silk. I bow my back, needing more and needing it now.
“Is there a zipper?” Jackson murmurs against my ear.
“In the back, but—just pull the front down. I can’t wait for any damn zipper.”
He doesn’t stop to argue the point with me. His fingers curl around the neckline of the dress and tug it down until one boob pops free. Jackson groans and bends his head, his hand lifting my nipple to his lips. When he licks me and then begins to suck, everything narrows to that one point of contact and the sizzle it sends directly to a spot between my legs.
I’m writhing now, basically dry humping Jackson through our clothes. He reaches down and gathers the skirt of my dress, bunching it around my waist as his fingers seek my sex. When he manages to get his hand over me, a strangled noise issues from his deep in his chest.
“God, baby, you’re so wet.”
I can’t even deal with his words right now. I wriggle to try to get him to touch me where I need it most. He seems to get the message because he moves my panties out of the way. His fingers slip over my center, two of them sliding into me while his thumb presses my clit.
It’s almost as if no time has passed, and we’re exactly where we were seven years ago. He knows unerringly where to stroke me, when to go hard and when to be soft. And when he fumbles with his pants, freeing his long, hard cock, my body seems to remember him as well. My legs part wider for him, and he plunges into me, pausing for a moment to savor and appreciate the pleasure.
“Darcy. I love you, babe. I always have. And I always will.”
I press a kiss to his jaw. “I love you, Jackson. My CapGuard90. My yesterday, my today, and my tomorrow.”
I can’t wait another second, though. I’m riding him, finding the perfect rhythm, reveling in the feel of his stiff, unyielding flesh stroking my innermost channel. It doesn’t take long before my body tightens around him as I find my peak, crying out his name. His fingers dig deep into my hips, and he roars out his own pinnacle of pleasure.
It takes us both more than a few minutes to recover. Jackson helps me straighten up my dress and then lifts me in his arms to carry me to his bed.
“Do you think Mrs. Lockhart will be upset that the two of us have disappeared from the ball?” I ask, kicking off my shoes and watching as Jackson shrugs out of his shirt.
“She probably won’t notice, and if she does . . . what do we care? We did our job on her committee. The Jingle Balls Gala is an undeniable success, judging by the happy people who were rocking out to Christmas tunes when we left. Also, I plan to make a sizable donation to the testicular cancer awareness fund.” He smirks at me as he reaches back to grip the collar of his Cap T-shirt and take it off. “I’m all about happy balls, you know. I’m even willing to do a PSA touting the importance of scrotum serenity.”
I giggle. “You’re making that up.”
“Maybe I am, maybe I’m not.” He winks. “But you’re wasting time here. Turn around and let me at that zipper. As sexy as you look in that dress, I’m betting you look fucking incredible when it’s crumpled up on the floor . . . and you’re naked in this bed.”
I turn around promptly and give him my back, shivering when his hands slip under the material of the gown onto my bare skin. Jackson has me completely nude so fast that you’d think he’s hot for my bod.
Which, apparently, he totally is.
“Hey, Jackson.” I lift my chin to give him better access to my neck. “Can I ask you a couple of questions before we . . . get too involved again?”
He hums against my skin. “You can ask . . . three.”
I laugh. “Okay. First of all, you told me you were in security. And your handle is CapGuard90.”
“Yeah.” He chuckles and twists one of my curls around one finger. “I didn’t want to say I’m a football player, because there are crazy fans out there. And the guard—that’s my position with the team, you know. So it’s not a lie, exactly—I provide security to the quarterback.”
“Ahhhh.” I nod. “I see. That’s valid. Next question . . . did you ever ask Granny if she regretted her advice to you?”
Jackson snorts. “I did. She said that you probably wouldn’t be a nurse practitioner now if you’d moved to Seattle with me.”
“Huh. She might be right, I guess.” My lip tips up. “I’m not going to thank her or anything, but . . . it could be she has a point.”
“It’s possible. What’s the last question?” He cups my breast and circles the aching point with his thumb.
“Um.” I’m quickly losing my train of thought. “Did you mean everything you said to me as CapGuard90? What you’d do if you could be with the woman you lost?”
Jackson smooths my hair away from my face and kisses me so tenderly that I want to cry.
“I meant everything . . . and more. I’m never leaving you again, Darcy. I’m going to spend the rest of my life proving to you that I’m worthy to be yours.” He lifts himself up on one elbow and smiles down into my face. “Any more questions?”
I reach up to touch his cheek. “No. No more questions. Only one request.” I arch my neck, bringing my lips close to his again.
“Kiss me, Jackson. It’s been a long, long time.”
Also By Tawdra Kandle
Tawdra has lots of steamy romances in her also-by list! To see them all
and find buy links to all vendors, please visit Tawdra’s website. Below is just a sampling . . .
Diagnosis: Love Medical Romances
Pretend You’re Mine
Informed Consent
Internal Fixation
Intensive Care
Under The Mistletoe
The Anti-Cinderella Chronicles
The Anti-Cinderella
The Anti-Cinderella Takes London
The Anti-Cinderella Conquers the World
The Anti-Cinderella World Romances
Fifty Frogs
Hot Off The Press
The Cuffing Season
A Dozen Dreams (Coming Soon!)
Sort of Sleeping Beauty (Coming Soon!)
Slightly Snow White (Coming Soon!)
Love in a Small Town
Love Me Home (A LIAST Prequel)
The Last One
The First One
The Only One
The Perfect One
The Always One
The Hard One
My One and Always
The Forever One
The Love Song One
The Meant To Be One
Love in a Small Town Volume I
Love in a Small Town Volume II
About Tawdra Kandle
Tawdra Kandle writes romance, in just about all its forms. She loves unlikely pairings, strong women, sexy guys, hot love scenes and just enough conflict to make it interesting. Her books include new adult and adult contemporary romance; under the pen name Tamara Kendall, she writes paranormal romance, and under the pen name Tessa Kent, she writes erotic romance. Tawdra lives in central Florida with her husband, two sweet pups and too many cats. Assorted grown children and a perfect granddaughter live nearby. And yeah, she rocks purple hair.
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Part IX
Decidedly for Christmas
Stina Lindenblatt
About… Decidedly for Christmas
It’s been a year since Kiera Ashdown’s husband died, and she’s ready to move on. What better way to do that than with the mysterious, handsome stranger at the Jingle Balls masquerade ball. Except, Logan Mathews is less of a stranger than she realizes…
1
Kiera
For as long as I could remember, I’d always loved fairy tales. Even before becoming an elementary schoolteacher.
More specifically, I’d always loved Disney’s versions of the classic fairy tales.
Have you ever read Hans Christian Andersen’s original story of The Little Mermaid? There are no singing lobsters, no happy endings. The little mermaid doesn’t sail away into the sunset with her handsome prince.
Nope, not at all.
Spoiler alert!
She sacrifices herself so the prince can live, and the sea witch transforms the little mermaid into sea foam.
Unlike the original fairy tales, Disney leaves you with hope for a happily ever after, hope for a new beginning.
This was all fine and wonderful, but as I stood at the entrance to the hotel ballroom—my glittering silver stilettos feeling as though they were glued to the floor—I questioned if that would be the case for me.
Of course, it will.
Embracing that flicker of hope, I resumed reciting in my head my goal for the evening: Project Kissing Under the Mistletoe. A kiss under the mistletoe from a handsome stranger. A happy-for-now ending to the night—and a baby step toward moving on after my husband’s death a year ago.
I scanned the sea of ball gowns and tuxes and elaborate masks, searching for a particular blonde in a dress of black tulle. That’s right. In addition to the “Jingle Balls” ball being a fundraiser for testicular cancer, it was a masquerade ball.
My sister waved at me from across the ballroom, next to the grand Christmas tree decorated with a flurry of gold and red ornaments.
Brittany and her husband were the reason I was here tonight instead of back home in San Francisco, knitting mittens for foster kids in Boston. They were the reason I was wearing the mask covering the upper portion of my face and the stunning burgundy gown.
Don’t worry. This wasn’t the anniversary of my husband’s death. That had passed a week ago with me spending the day reading the love notes he used to leave all over our apartment.
Love notes I’d saved in a big floral box every time I found one.
On the day of the one-year anniversary, I’d sipped a glass of Enchanted Springs Chardonnay, the same wine we’d served at our wedding, and read the notes aloud.
Roses are red, violets are blue, I want to have hot sex with you.
A poet, he was not.
And then there was the note I had saved for last:
If I die before you, I want to be the star in the sky that grants all your wishes.
I inhaled a long, fortifying breath, channeling my inner Disney princess, and wove my way through the throng of merry partiers.
The conversation I’d had with Stephen after I’d found that note sashayed into my head. The conversation where he told me that if he did die before me—way, way, way down the line—he wanted me to fall in love again.
After this, he proceeded to list all the men he thought were viable options, in case they were available at the time.
“But definitely not Stinky Pete,” he’d said.
“I don’t think you have to worry about me ending up with the villain from Toy Story Two.”
Stephen barked a laugh—the laugh he always made when he thought I was being cute and adorable. “I was talking about my teammate. Pete Mundy. His hockey skates smell like he melted Limburger cheese in them.”
I grinned at him and kissed him sweetly on the cheek. “Okay, no, Pete Mundy. Anyone else?”
“Logan Mathews.”
“Is he a yah or a nah?”
“A definite yah.”
“I’m sure his wife would have something to say about that.” Logan had been Stephen’s best friend and teammate in college. Now, he played in the NHL—with the Chicago Blackhawks, last I’d heard.
“All right, I’ll add him to the list,” I’d said with a grin, even though my heart had been splitting into a billion fragments at the thought of Stephen possibly dying before me.
My sister’s red lips curved into a wide smile under her black-feathered half mask as I approached.
“Kiera.” She beamed at me like I was a baby who’d taken her first wobbly steps. “Let me introduce you to the charity’s biggest supporter and my dear friend.” The way she said it, you would’ve thought she was talking about royalty. “Lucinda, this is my little sister, Kiera. Kiera, this is Lucinda Mathews.” The woman’s surname came out in a hushed whisper.
I bit back the urge to curtsy to the much older woman standing next to Brittany. Lucinda’s gold-and-cream gown, diamond earrings and necklace, and spritz of floral perfume gave her a queenly air.
“Hello, my dear.” Her voice was dry and brittle, like antique parchment paper, yet filled with warmth and a spark of something.
Amusement, perhaps?
Remember the part about me resisting the urge to curtsy?
It would seem my body failed to get that message. Luckily, I’d had spent years perfecting the skill as a kid, back when I believed in fairy godmothers and dreamed of one day marrying my own prince.
Lucinda chuckled, and I felt my face heat as I straightened.
“And this is my grandson, Grayson.” She gestured with a wave of her hand to the tall, dark-haired man next to her. His half mask was simple and black. If the way his tuxedo embraced his body was any indication, the man made keeping in shape a top priority.
I held out my hand for him to shake—because heck if I was curtsying for him. But instead of shaking it, Grayson lifted my hand to his mouth and pressed a soft kiss to it.
At the feel of his mouth against my skin, my body shouldn’t have reacted like hot lava swirled within its depths. My breath shouldn’t have hitched with sudden longing. And my lips shouldn’t have
tingled, craving to taste his mouth on mine.
None of those things should have happened—with a stranger, no less. A stranger who might not even be single.
Desire wasn’t alone under the hotel chandeliers, their lightbulbs twinkling like stars. Hanging out with it was regret. Regret in knowing that Stephen was looking down from heaven and shaking his head at me, disappointed that the stranger I wanted to kiss under the mistletoe wasn’t on the list of approved men he’d jokingly created.
“Brittany mentioned you’re an elementary schoolteacher,” Lucinda said.
I nodded and smiled warmly at the thought of my students. “That’s right. I teach second grade.”
“Oh, such a delightful age. My great-granddaughter is in that grade. Such a precocious little thing, just like her father was at that age.”
My gaze flicked to Grayson, but he gave no indication the child belonged to him. So maybe she was his niece.
He chuckled, drawing my attention to his mouth. Don’t look at his mouth. Look away from his… “I’m sure her father will be thrilled you said that. I know for a fact that he took great pride in keeping you on your toes.”
She flashed him her perfectly straight, angel-white teeth. “I daresay you’re right.”
“And what about you?” I asked Grayson. “What do you do for a living?”
“This and that” was his non-answer.
Truth? I sort of appreciated that he was evading the question like a spy at a royal tea party. I preferred the mystery surrounding him. It made him even sexier—not that he needed help in that department as far as I could tell.
