A Sprite's Tale (novella)

by Lexxie Couper

  A Sprite’s Tale

  www.escapepublishing.com.au

  A Sprite’s Tale

  Lexxie Couper

  When an Aussie bushland sprite collides with Santa’s nephew on a sunny, isolated Australian beach, the sand won’t be the only thing that scorches!

  Having decided his uncle is due for a break, Santa’s nephew, Nick, takes on the job of delivering presents and heads straight for the sun-drenched beaches of Australia. After a cataclysmic sleigh disaster with a low-flying Qantas airbus, Nick finds himself rounding up reindeer on an isolated coastal stretch. When all seems lost — including Rudolph — Nick stumbles upon Chrissie, a woman just as mysterious as he.

  Chrissie is an Australian bushland sprite, sent after Nick by his uncle. Santa has made his own decision — it’s time for his nephew to settle down, and Chrissie’s just the sprite to fill his empty heart.

  Christmas is always hot in Australia, but this year, things are really heating up!

  For all the adults who love being cheeky and mischievous at Christmas. Welcome to Santa’s Naughty List.

  Contents

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  Nick Saint Nicholas

  Chrissie

  Nick Saint Nicholas

  Chrissie

  Nick Saint Nicholas

  Bestselling Titles by Escape Publishing…

  About the author

  Lexxie Couper started writing when she was six and hasn’t stopped since. She’s not a deviant, but she does have a deviant’s imagination and a desire to entertain readers with her words. Add the two together and you get erotic romances that can make you laugh, cry, shake with fear or tremble with desire. Sometimes all at once.

  When she’s not submerged in the worlds she creates, Lexxie’s life revolves around her family: a husband who thinks she’s insane, an indoor cat who likes to stalk shadows, and her daughters, who both utterly captured her heart and changed her life forever.

  Contact Lexxie at lexxie@lexxiecouper.com, follow her on Twitter at http://twitter.com/lexxie_couper or visit her at www.lexxiecouper.com where she occasionally makes a fool of herself on her blog.

  Acknowledgements

  The author would like to acknowledge Chrissie Henderson, who taught her when to use semi-colons and when not to.

  Nick Saint Nicholas

  The rumbling in my gut hit me before the jet did. Well, before the jet’s turbulence did. One second I was skimming through the sky, the cool wind on my face, the next my gut feels like the San Andreas Fault having a bad day. I toss a look over my shoulder, see the Qantas Airbus and think, oh shit.

  Ten seconds later, I’m in a wild spin, heading straight down; sleigh, sack of presents, eight reindeer — plus that red-nosed ninth wheel, Rudolph — and all. Not the perfect situation, I have to say. No wonder my uncle is a jumpy mess come Christmas Eve.

  Ever plummeted through a high-altitude cloudbank while trying to regain control of a sleigh chock-full of presents? It ain’t easy, especially when said cloudbank makes you blink like mad and you’ve left your sunglasses back in your uncle’s workshop at the North Pole, damn it.

  Especially when Rudolph’s nose is flashing like an insane traffic signal, Blitzen is trying to pull right, Donner is trying to pull left and Comet looks like he’s two seconds away from throwing up. Trust me, reindeer vomit is not easy to get out of denim.

  Scrambling for both the wildly flailing reins and the gyro leveler on the sleigh’s control panel, I flicked a quick — and I have to admit, worried — look at the rapidly approaching terrain coming up to meet me. Or rather, the wide stretch of completely isolated beach I was rapidly approaching. If I didn’t get some semblance of control back, my uncle was going to be down one nephew, his only nephew, and a lot of kids were going to wake up Christmas Day sans presents under the tree.

  This wasn’t good. So much for a dream run to warmer skies to give the old man a break.

  Snatching the lashing reins — just — I yanked on the strip of leather. It always cracks me up that my uncle’s sleigh is decked out in technology way beyond human comprehension but he insists on retaining reins to steer the thing. Come to think of it, he probably doesn’t need the four-legged fur-covered propulsion units either, but Santa’s always been a fan of tradition so…

  All right, all right, I hear you. Enough of the back story, Nick. Get back to the situation, already.

  So, I’m heading for a deserted beach somewhere — I think on the far north coast of Australia — wrestling madly with a set of reins that feel more like a live snake. The beach is getting closer, the night air is getting hotter, I’m sweating and it has nothing to do with the tropical summer’s heat.

  The reindeer are frantically pawing at the sky desperate for traction, that bloody nose of Rudolph’s is flashing like crazy (who knew it acted as a hazard signal as well?), Dasher’s throwing me surly looks, the moonbeam-bathed beach is about to turn us all into flapjacks, I’m close to popping my shoulder-joints yanking on the reins…and we pull out of the spin. Not entirely, but enough. Thank the Christmas Spirit for that.

  We hit the beach. Hard.

  Reindeer tumble and roll everywhere, antlers clack, clatter and crack, reins snap, the sleigh smashes into the surf-compacted sand, bounces once, twice, smashes down again, and I’m flying through the air in a wild arc, flung from the carriage like one of my uncle’s expertly made rag dolls.

  Guess I should have been wearing my seat belt, huh?

  * * *

  Maybe I should introduce myself before I go on. Nick Saint Nicholas. The one and only Saint Nicholas’s one and only nephew. I do the odd Christmas miracle for my uncle when he’s pressed for time. It’s been a mad year this year and I wanted to give the old man a vacation — he’s never taken one, not even during the mid-2020s when the UN declared him a potential terrorist target and banned Christmas for three years. ‘Christmas without Santa may as well herald the end of humanity’ I heard him grumble moments before shooting into the skies on a covert present drop.

  No, the old man needed some time out, and what’s family for if not to help when the going gets tough? So I hijacked the sleigh and took off from the Pole before he finished buckling that thick black belt of his around his waist. And then — about four hours into the delivery process — the Qantas airbus happened to cross my flight plan. So much for good intentions.

  What the hell was I to do now?

  Chrissie

  The first thing I noticed — apart from limping reindeer scattering into the rainforest edging the sand — was how cute my mission was. Actually ‘cute’ is not the right word. ‘Cute’ is an understatement. My mission, my target, was gorgeous. With a capital G and an exclamation mark.

  Hovering behind an ancient eucalypt, I watched him push himself up from the sand, unfurling from the crumpled mess of his sleigh to stand upright and cast a look around.

  I licked my lips, the warm core between my thighs clenching in anticipation. Old Man Claus had mentioned his nephew was easy on the eyes, but not how easy. By the Elf Lord, he was divine.

  Tall and lean, with shoulders broad enough to make Atlas envious, a back that rippled with muscle tapering down to low, narrow hips, an arse tight and sculptured and entirely biteable, and long, hard legs. Nick Saint Nicholas looked nothing like his famous uncle.

  Thank the Elf Lord for that.

  My wings fluttered a little, rustling the long, slim leaves of the gum tree. They’re like that, my wings. When I get excited they seem to develop a mind of their own. The faster my heart starts to beat, the quicker my wings flutter. It’s kinda endearing, but can be a bit frustrating. There are times when I don’t want to defy gravity, and sucking in lungfu
l after lungful of air in an attempt to slow my heart and return my feet to the ground can be a real mood killer. Thankfully at that very moment I was gripping the eucalyptus’s trunk, its soft warm life acting as an anchor. Studying Nick Saint Nicholas was making my heart beat like mad.

  I watched him walk to the overturned sleigh, stepping over scattered presents as he did so. He stared at it, dragging long-fingered hands through dark blond hair that belonged more on a surfer than the nephew of the world’s most loveable present-giver. I licked my lips. ‘Distract him,’ Old Man Claus had instructed. ‘I know he’s acting out of love, but I haven’t the time for a family intervention.’

  Distract him.

  I’m still not sure what type of distraction the old man had in mind. He’d contacted me the second his nephew and the airbus crossed paths. I think Claus wanted me to tell the vegetation on the beach’s rim — the Yellow Lawyer Cane, the Wait-A-While, the Lantana… plants of similar ilk — to detain him, tie him up as such. Why else call in a bushland sprite for assistance? But then, who knows the mind of a man centuries old with the sole purpose in life of bringing happiness to adults and children alike?

  I flicked an appreciative glance over Nick Saint Nicholas, this time admiring the sculptured perfection of his chest, shoulders and biceps bulging under a form-fitting red T-shirt. A T-shirt Nick suddenly pulled up over his head, bunched into a wad and wiped at the tiny beads of perspiration popping out on his forehead. I stared at his now exposed torso, at the small nipples on a chest both hard and smooth and utterly lickable.

  Oh my… My wings quickened their beat. Tying up Old Man Claus’s nephew was sounding quite…appealing.

  A squirming tickle of anticipation fluttered between my thighs, in perfect harmony with my fluttering wings. I grinned, letting my gaze caress the delectable form of Nick once more… and shimmered into nothing.

  It was time for the ‘distraction’ to begin.

  Nick Saint Nicholas

  The first thing I needed to do was round up the four-legged propulsion units. Ignoring the raucous laugh of a kookaburra perched, I assumed, in one of the many eucalypts edging the beach, I turned from the sleigh and stared up into the dense rainforest.

  And felt soft fingers skim down my jaw line.

  What the?

  I snapped my head to the left. No one. Nothing. Just miles and miles of pristine white sand strewn with brightly wrapped parcels. I frowned. And the fingers brushed my right cheekbone.

  Okay, I’m going to have to admit, I jumped. Not much, but enough for the balls of my booted feet to make new divots in the sand. Someone was playing with me and I wanted to know who.

  Pulling a deep breath, I centred my spirit and let my senses float, ‘feeling’ for my unseen companion…

  There. A faint whisper of wings, a delicate scent of rich soil, nectar and…something I wasn’t familiar with but made the blood in my veins tingle.

  ‘Fae?’

  The humid air about me displaced a little, as if something lithe and nimble moved close to my body. I heard the faintest sound — a giggle? — and those fingers traced a line down my nose and feathered my top lip.

  My heartbeat leapt away with me. That mysterious scent filled my nose and I felt soft fingertips on my bottom lip. I moved my tongue — a little — and tasted the sweet taste of dew.

  Ah-ha. ‘Sprite.’ But what kind?

  The fingertips traced the fleshy line of my bottom lip in a languid path before dipping deeper into my mouth, touching my teeth and the tip of my tongue again. More sweet dew, with an undercurrent of…what? I didn’t know.

  The faint giggle sounded in my left ear and I felt, rather than heard, that lithe body dance around me again, closer this time. Close enough to make the fine hairs on my chest and arms move.

  I bit back a curse. Sprites are notorious mischief-makers, hell-bent on causing mayhem through their unique connection with the supernatural world. I sensed a deep affinity with nature in the ‘taste’ of my unseen guest, but what could she — and I was assuming she was a she — do?

  The answer, well, an answer, came mere seconds after the thought formed in my head. Hands I visualised being long-fingered and delicate skimmed down the length of my torso, over the plane of my stomach, which tightened with reflex interest, down past my navel to the waist of my jeans (a pair of button-fly Levis my uncle had surprised me with last December 25th). Before I could react, the first button popped open. Followed by the second. And the third.

  A soft breath tickled my ear, filled with mist and cool breezes and a promise beyond words. My body responded. Immediately.

  Hot blood flooded into my cock. I should have been looking for the four-legged propulsion units, I should have been repacking the sleigh — shit, I know what havoc sprites can create, I should have been running for the hills — but instead I stood there, growing hornier with each second, as that earthy, mysterious scent consumed me and invisible hands slid past the waistline of my jeans to close around my rapidly growing shaft.

  Oh yeah...

  The very dirty thought filtered through my mind — seconds before I felt even but still sharp teeth nip at my right earlobe. Soft pleasure-pain shot a rapid and direct path through my body — straight to my cock.

  I jolted. For two reasons. One, every fibre of my being felt charged with carnal electricity at the sprite’s teasing touch, and two, I knew I was in trouble. I had to get away from her. I had a job to do. My uncle’s job to do. And the clock was ticking.

  It’s actually not easy to get away from a determined sprite. I’ve had a few…shall I call them entanglements?…with the winged creatures. When they want something, they get it. This sprite it seemed, wanted me.

  Before I could take a step, those fingers that had been caressing my cock in gentle pulses squeezed harder. More pleasure-pain. Like an explosion of hot, wet tension in both my cock and balls. Oh, by the gods, she was good.

  I bit back a groan. Either I was as easy as they came, or this sprite had a power beyond the normal control of nature. Forcing my muscles into action, I pulled away from her and ran. Up the beach. Away from the sleigh. I knew I couldn’t fight the sprite while she was invisible, but if I could provoke her enough to take corporeal form I had a chance. Besides, some sprites are pretty damn ugly. Maybe this one…

  The humid air folded around me as I ran, the midnight heat sucking the sweat from my skin before it could cool me. Sand flicked up and peppered my back in a fine spray. To my right, obviously highly entertained by the show, the kookaburra laughed again. Long. Hard. Wild. What is it with Australians and their sense of humour? Even their wildlife find the oddest things funny.

  Anyways, I’m sprinting up the beach, hoping to infuriate the sprite enough she’ll show herself (not sure what my plan was after that) when, with a soft rustle, a vine whips out from the rainforest’s dense undergrowth and wraps around my ankle. Just like that.

  Shit.

  I pitched forward and hit the soft sand in an entirely unmanly and undignified face-first thud, with the sound of the kookaburra laughing its feathered head off ringing in my ears.

  It didn’t take a mouthful of sand to discover there and then what type of sprite I was dealing with. The vine said it all. My gut clenched and my blood grew hot. Bushland sprite. The worst — and sexiest — of them all.

  Had I said I was in trouble earlier?

  I was flung through the air for the second time today, although this time my trajectory was governed by a paranormally controlled species of vegetation wrapped around my right ankle. The world spun around me in a crazy whirl: surf, sand, rainforest, sand, surf, sand and rainforest again. I lost my grip on my shirt, the sweat-soaked garment floating to the ground as I was yanked — with growing speed — toward the dense tree line.

  Another vine lashed out and snared my left wrist. Another my right. With an ignominious jolt, my arcing flight snapped to an abrupt left and suddenly I found myself slammed up against the thick smooth trunk of a eucalypt, my wrists
bound in soft but steely vines keeping my arms extended above my head, my feet just touching the moss-covered ground beneath me. A prisoner.

  As I said earlier. Trouble. Capital T trouble.

  Trouble that doubled as, with hands still invisible, the sprite released the last button on my fly and rolled my jeans down my thighs and over my boots, throwing them into the dark rainforest behind me.

  I hung there. Exposed. Detained. And, I’m ashamed to admit, horny. Furious and indignant, but horny all the same. ‘I haven’t got time for this.’ I growled, glaring at the empty bush before me. ‘Give me 24 hours and I’ll be back. You have my word, but I have an important job to complete before sunrise.’

  A soft giggle danced on the air.

  I squinted, hoping to see a shimmer of movement. Iridescent wings, bare limbs…something, anything to focus my indignation on.

  Nothing. Just the lush, shadow-shrouded vegetation.

  A feather-light touch caressed my chest, sending a zing of cool tension through my body. My nipples responded, tightening into rock-hard points of flesh that ached for attention.

  And attention they received. Those invisible fingers found them. Traced them. Circled each one with languid care, flicked at each one with mischievous pressure. I moaned, enjoying the warm shards of pleasure darting through my body, down to my cock, even as anger and impatience gnawed at my gut. ‘Please,’ I ground out through teeth clenched tight. ‘You have to let me go. I have to…’

  Warm lips closed around one nipple and I lost my train of thought. I have to…what?

  I stared out at the pounding surf framed by dense, deep green foliage. Foliage keeping me bound to the tree. It was as if I wore an invisible blindfold — I could see everything but the creature teasing me. The creature currently laving my nipple with a tongue warm and wet and too talented to ignore.