Hunted For the Holidays

by Amber Bardan

  “Ouch,” she says with the evilest twist to her lips I’ve ever seen.

  Nasty, little, fucking tease.

  Yeah, I got carried away. Shouldn’t have hit her that hard. Now I’m going to have to fuck her constantly until it fades when it’s the holidays, and her parents are staying here.

  She smirks, knowing me more than well enough to read my mind, then slips into the master bathroom. The sound of water emanates from the other room. Making me picture her soapy and dripping wet.

  It’s only the precious treasure on my chest that can keep me from joining her. But not to worry, she can go ahead and get herself clean. I’m just going to get her dirty again later.

  Then we can shower together.

  A little snort sounds under my chin. I look down at Oliver, who’s sound asleep. Let myself have a few moments more cuddling, and brush my lips on his baby skin, before taking him back to his room.

  I’d keep him in our bed all night but don’t want to get him off his routine. Libby’s mad for routine. Not to mention, I’m not even slightly done with Mummy tonight.

  I get him all settled in his crib with one last kiss on his fluffy baby hair, then leave his room. Another door creaks down the hall.

  My father-in-law stands in the guestroom doorway in striped blue pajamas.

  He raises a hand but doesn’t come out. “Glad to see you home, son.”

  “Thanks.” I wave back, chest tighter for the reminder that it hasn’t only been Libby praying for my safe return. I’m a lucky man with so much to come home to. “See you in the morning.”

  He inclines his head and closes the door.

  I return to my room and wait to give my wife her real holiday surprise. The one she really won’t see coming.

  Four

  I find the small red box I asked Mom to have ready before I even landed and shove it under my pillow.

  My pulse trembles like the night I proposed. The way I love her continues to shock me every single day. We were kids that night. Eighteen. But our parents didn’t try to tell us to slow things down.

  I’d warned Libby we’d get married, back when we were in pre-school. I held out only until she was legal. She’s three months younger than me, and at eighteen, those few months waiting for her to catch up felt like forever. I’m the only man she’s ever known, and she’s the only woman I’ve ever wanted to touch.

  The bathroom door opens.

  She walks into the room wrapped in a big, fluffy cream towel.

  “Don’t bother putting on a nightgown unless you especially want me to ruin another.” I grin and pat the space beside me. “C’mere, I’ve got your present waiting for you.”

  “Oh, yeah. Is it your belt again?” Her lips quirk, and she saunters closer with all her secret sauciness that only I am privilege to.

  My heart back-flips. Fuck me. This woman. “Better.”

  She lets out a husky laugh and shucks off the towel, before climbing in beside me. “Your belt’s going to be hard to top.”

  This will.

  With all her clean, naked softness so close it’s hard to remember that this really is important.

  I take the box out from under the pillow and hand it to her. “Merry Christmas, baby girl.”

  Her lashes beat. Don’t think she expected an actual physical present.

  She gifts me a smile and tugs at the bow, opening the box. Then she squints. “What’s this?”

  She lifts out the silver key.

  I can’t speak. My throat’s so thick with six months of things I’ve wanted to say. Wish I was good with words or a pen, like she is.

  The best I usually manage is, “Miss you, baby girl.”

  Except this time, I don’t plan on ever having to miss her again.

  “It’s the key to Dad’s store.”

  Her mouth opens wordlessly. She stares at the key, and I can see the conclusions forming, but she can’t quite believe it yet.

  There’s a reason I had her move back to our hometown before I got here.

  No more moving house. This one is it for us.

  “I’ll start in the New Year, once we’ve had some time to ourselves.”

  Her face changes color, pink first then red with rising emotion. “Is this real?”

  Libby’s a proud military wife. She reminds me in every letter she writes that she’s honored to be mine.

  But this year has been different for us.

  “Are you sure?” She stares at me with eyes half filled with tears.

  She knows what my job means to me. Enough to bring me to actually leave every time. But not anymore.

  And I’m all good with this. I gave my best to my country, but now I can’t serve the way I used to, it’s time I give my best to my family.

  To my perfect, patient, loyal, gorgeous wife.

  She knew my injury would have repercussions, but we haven’t discussed how.

  “Two-fucking-hundred percent.”

  She slams the box and the key down on the side table and throws herself at me. I hug her, but the moment her curves hit me, hugging isn’t enough. I want to drown in her.

  Need to shower her with all the affection she’s been missing and deserves.

  I roll us over. “Honey, I hope you’re not sleepy, because I need to eat you for at least the next hour.”

  She laughs, and I’m pretty sure her parents are going to hear more than Santa’s bells ringing out before Christmas morning.

  But let her scream if she needs to. I don’t care anymore.

  Tonight is all about her.

  Her thighs spread underneath me, and her eyes get her lusty, dreamy look. I slide down her body between her legs.

  Damn. She shaved while she was in the shower. Not the whole thing, just the underside, leaving me the sexy triangle I love above her pussy. Now her hairless lips shine with her arousal, and I’m going to eat it all.

  “I love you so much, Matty.” Her soft words reach me before I can touch her.

  I look up at her. “I love you, baby girl, with everything I am.”

  She honors me with her love-struck smile. The one that’s a little lazy and completely fucking adorable.

  “You’re never going to have a moment without me again.” I shove two fingers in her cunt, and she’s soaked.

  Knew that would get her off.

  Knowing that I’m here for good. She’s stuck with me for eternity and more. That’s what soul-mates do.

  “Going to eat you and fuck you senseless every day until we’re a hundred and eighty.”

  She moans, her tight pussy already clamping around my fingers. But she freaking better not dare come before I taste her.

  I run my tongue between her folds. Her sweetness has my cock ready to tear through the mattress. But my cock will wait out the next hour just like I will.

  I rub my tongue on her clit, under the hood where she can never take it very long. Her hips buck. She clamps around my fingers with a soft cry.

  Her juices flood my face. I devour her, sucking as much of her pussy as I can into my mouth, but let her have this one easy. The next few orgasms she gets, will be much more punishing.

  With that in mind, I slip a finger, all lubed up from her arousal, to the tight pucker of her ass.

  She gasps and grabs a fist full of my hair as I shove it inside. There’s many, many naughty things she wrote me. Put all kinds of nasty ideas in my head. I’m not taking her ass tonight, but I’m going to spend the next couple weeks getting her ready for when I do.

  I go back to tonguing her now oversensitive clit.

  Her breaths shriek. I know from experience she gets more worked up each time she comes. I don’t rush this one. We have all the time in the world.

  My finger moves in her ass.

  She goes wild, squeezing my face to her pussy and grinding on me. I work her over until she begs, and her next orgasm has her shaking from her head to her cute little toes.

  I’m not only indulging her fantasies for Christmas. I’m fulfilling t
hem forever.

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  Dirty Daddy

  Now that’s all he can think about—being her very dirty Daddy

  Dog walking was supposed to be Katie’s easy third job.

  She had no idea when she answered the ad, that she’d be working for Clay “The Grinch” Colson—recently retired baseball superstar. He’s every bit as mean and intimidating as the scowl he’s famous for, except for one thing…he’s putty for his overgrown crazy Boxer Kiki.

  And lucky Katie gets completely unexpected front row seats to a side of him tabloids never captured. Every. Single. Morning. And the more she’s exposed to his gruff affection, the more she can’t help thinking there’s so much hiding behind that scowl. The more she wonders what she’d have to do to have him call her his good girl.

  Every morning, the sexiest woman he’s ever seen, comes to his house and call’s him Daddy. Sure, she’s his dog walker, but that doesn’t mean she has the right to sashay into his world every morning, plant that saucy little gaze on him and say, “Good morning, Daddy.”

  Now that’s all he can think about—being her very dirty Daddy.

  I sprint up the bluestone steps winding up the side of the enormous x property to the gate, and twist the handle. The lock sticks. I rattle harder and shove my shoulder into the wood.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I’m so late. So damn late. So late, I don’t have the nerve to use the front door.

  I pant for breath. It’ll be fine. I’ll make it fine. He won’t even have to know. I’ve snuck in and out the side gate before he’s realized three times this week already. I stare up at the tall picket gate that separates the open front of the property from the secluded backyard.

  He must’ve locked it. Gah, why today? He never locks anything. He’s hopeless like that. As though he thinks no one would have the nerve to trespass on his watch.

  I swipe my wrist over my sweaty nose, then toss my backpack over the gate. My pulse kicks up speed. It’s possible his confidence isn’t unfounded. I mean, I’m half shitting myself and I’m meant to be here.

  I climb up on a large rock, wedge my sneaker into a gap in the fence beside the gate, and hop twice before jumping. I grab hold of the top of the gate and haul my body up. The flat wooden pickets press into my ribs, knocking air out of my chest.

  I tilt forward, unbalanced, and let out a squeal. Something clamps around my hips, halting my face dive. A bark snaps behind me. My heart somersaults.

  Oh, no…

  Someone draws me back, steadily lifting me down as though I weigh no more than a rascally inept-at-fence-climbing kitten. For a moment, I hover in the air, secure in a strong grip—the kind of grip you can count on. The kind of grip that doesn’t let you down.

  Then I’m up against someone else. Heat engulfs me. Heat from a body so much bigger than mine. My back slides down a hard chest, hard body, then my feet touch the ground.

  I close my eyes. I’d rather have taken the face plunge. I can’t move forward or backward, or closer or farther away. All I can do is stand here, every sense fixed on how close we are, how neatly he lifted me, how firm his hands are at my hips, how warm he is behind me. How the raw scent of him, so masculine that it feels like some strange primeval déjà vu, makes my knees feel non-existent.

  And how angry he must be.

  There’s a very mean, very fucking sexy man standing right behind me, and he just found me ass-up, bent over a fence, trying to sneak in an hour late.

  My face burns. My whole-self burns.

  A warm furry weight presses up against my calves. I breath out, open my eyes, then sink down to pat Kiki. She leans her big burly dog body against me. Her leash dangles from her collar.

  My shoulders clench. Dammit. I’m in real trouble. My gaze goes to the sneakers beside me, and up over long thick legs in running shorts, over a mountain of a man, to a fierce scowling face.

  I clear my throat, and grasp Kiki’s leash. “Looks like Daddy already walked you did he, Kiki?”

  If it’s possible for total-scowl to increase by fifty percent, his dose. Increases from total-scowl to the wrinkled nose, top lip curled, super-scowl he’s literally famous for.

  Clay Colson.

  Baseball legend, construction tycoon, all round scowling asshole.

  He squints. He always squints. Shame since he his buttery hazel eyes would be nice to see occasionally.

  “I have a meeting this morning.” His voice is as rough and surly as his expression and makes my insides jolt.

  Oh, god, and by that he means I’ve held him up? I lick my lips. I’m going to get fired. I should be fired. There’s one essential job requirement to dog walking, and it’s walking the dog.

  And I did not walk the dog.

  He did.

  I press a palm to the gravel path to keep myself up. The exhaustion of the morning hits me all at once. I meet his gaze though. He can fire me to my face. That’d be the cherry on top of this clusterfuck of a morning.

  He can be mean as he likes about it too. Use that trademark barking shout on me. Jab at me with that pointing finger that’s always on the front cover of the papers. Clay ‘The Grinch’ Colson. At this point, there’s not much that’s going to upset me.

  Upset was something I dabbled in four hours ago when I was elbow deep in a toddler shit explosion.

  A twin toddler shit explosion.

  For a novice, which I’m not, that’s two toddlers shitting explosions together at the same time. Twin toddler shit explosion. Story of my life. And this morning, because my life is epic, twin toddler shit explosions happened while fielding calls from my crying mother because the roofs leaking in my brother’s room, on his bed, and can I fix it?

  Sure. Just add plumbing to my resume. Why the heck not.

  It’s only 9.25am and I’m done. So, I stare at Clay “The Grinch” Colson. Let’s get this abomination of a day over with.

  I wait but he doesn’t remark on my lateness, or the fact he just lifted me off his gate mid-fall. His gaze just does its daily flicker over me. That stern once over I endure every morning that always makes me think that he maybe expects me to wear a skirt-suit dog walking.

  “Kiki can’t come with me. You can stay and give her a bath.”

  I fall back onto my backside. What is happening? Is it April first?

  How the heck am I not ass-over-heals out on the pavement?

  I clear my throat. “Okay.”

  He nods, gives me another swipe of his gaze, and makes a sound—half snort, half hiss, then marches toward the house.

  I glance down at myself, and close my awkwardly sprawled legs. Maybe these shorts are a little short, but Kiki likes to run so I need to dress for that if I don’t want to sweat myself into a puddle every day.

  Kiki flops down by my hip, tongue hanging out of her mouth. I don’t blame her. If Clay “walked” her she’s probably had a much more vigorous morning than she’s used to. I inspect myself again. I don’t look that bad, do I? I lift the edge of my t-shirt and sniff it. Nope, no unexpected toddler puke. And it’s pink. I thought the shirt was cute when I put it on. Especially cute with the white shorts, white sneakers, and pink laces.

  If there’s one thing I love, it’s coordinating accessories. There’s a shoebox under my bed full of colored laces I swap out every morning. Makes me feel like I have twenty pairs of sneakers instead of the one.

  “Katie.”

  I drop my t-shirt, and glance at the curve in the path where he’s still standing. Ah, crap. Was today designed specifically to mortify me?

  “For Christ’s sake, use the goddamn front door next time.” He shakes his head and stalks toward the entrance.

  I press my face into Kiki’s fur and can’t help laughing.

  * * *

  What the fuck did I do to deserve this?

  I slam two cups on the bench, then shove two slices of bread into the toaster. I go to church every Sunday
. Pay my taxes fairly—and what a fuck-tone of taxes they are. I sign shit for kids at hospitals. Yesterday, I helped an old lady with her groceries. I don’t even punch people who clearly need punching.

  I’m a decent fucking guy.

  The toaster pops. I flip the lid off the butter and scrape the knife through it. The only thing, the one thing, I won’t do is smile for the camera. Is that so bad?

  Is that so bad that I should be cursed and saddled with the silliest, most unpunctual, ridiculous little dogwalker?

  The sound of the hairdryer ceases. I glance out the window. Fuck. I smear peanut butter over the two toasts, and toss one plate onto the counter, and slide one of the cups beside it.

  The door opens, and when it does I’m sure to have my back to it. I pick up my coffee and drink it black and bitter and all in one go. Kiki charges into my legs. I cut the other toast, and slip her one half.

  The door shuts with a soft glide.

  Is she still loitering in the doorway? I swear, the only time that girl isn’t going a mile a minute is when she’s loitering at my kitchen door.

  A throat clears softly behind me.

  I feed Kiki the other half of the toast. I don’t response to throat noises.

  “Sorry I was late. The twins weren’t well this morning.”

  Twins? I shake my head. That’s right, she does some Nanny job at night, and this in the morning.

  That’s not my problem.

  My problem is that she’s late, and now I’m now late, and I can’t fire her.

  I glance behind me. She not at the counter eating like she’s meant to be. “Well sit down.”

  She jumps. I notice that, her little jump, out of the corner of my eye. Even if I do know better than to look at her too much directly. I’m still recovering from finding her with her ass in the air flipping over my side gate.

  Her sweet little peachy ass in those inappropriate cut off shorts.

  I’m going to hell.

  She makes her way over to the counter with these tentative steps as though she’s surprised. Why would she be surprised, I’ve been making her toast every morning for the last three months. I grab the striped tie from beside my briefcase. Someone needs to make the girl toast. In the year she’s worked for me she’s lost at least ten pounds. Every ounce gone has cut sharpness into her frame that wasn’t there before. It’s a nasty sharpness. The kind that’s caved from fatigue, and stress, and no one caring.