Sexy Holiday Delights

by Shara Azod

  “Yeah, but notice how you didn’t get struck by lightning? However, you will get tranqed in ten more seconds if you don’t settle down. Use your brain. Where would I get twenty-three industrial-sized bags of cats, and when would I have time to kill them?”

  “Where the crap did you get a seven foot Russian?”

  “From Russia.”

  “They’re pussies, Revelry. According to the website, it’s the most realistic-looking and feeling pussy and ass combination. It’s waterproof, hypoallergenic, and comes with fake pubic hair.”

  “There’s a market for fake pubic hair?” Tessa asked.

  “Yeah, and real pubic hair, too, but the good stuff apparently comes from somewhere in Scandinavia.”

  “It scares the shit out of me that you know that.”

  “I’m sure that’s common knowledge.”

  “No. No, it’s not common knowledge to anyone except you, and a bunch of serial killers. Anyway, exactly how many pussy-ass things do you have on hand?” Tessa asked.

  “One hundred and forty of them, which should be just enough to send a message. You put twenty dicks in my dishwasher. I put one hundred forty pussies on your front lawn.”

  “It’s a good thing Drago’s house is set so far back off of the road, in a private area, because I’m sure this would be a violation of any HOA.”

  “I’ve never seen a ‘no-pussies-on-the-lawn’ clause, and I’ve helped a lot of my clients with real estate matters.”

  “Give it time. There will be one after this. And also, I love you and Revelry. You make every kind of crazy I’ve encountered seem so normal.”

  “I bought you a cake. Grab a bag and some pussies and start laying them on the lawn. We don’t have all day. Drago said he’ll return by noon. I don’t want to be caught with only half the pussies planted.”

  **JandJ**

  Tessa had heard it all, but ‘don’t want to be caught with only half the pussies planted’ was not a phrase she imagined she’d ever hear. Of course, she could say the same thing about a good fifty-six percent of any conversation that had Cayenne and Revelry as participants.

  After placing her last pussy, Tessa knew two things. First, she was definitely, one-hundred percent ‘strictly-dickly.’ Second, Cayenne and Revelry were the kinds of chicks that probably had more than one manifesto in a dead language tucked away somewhere.

  Stepping back, she looked at their handiwork and smiled. Working on her doctorate in engineering, it was a given that she was good at math. However, perusing Cayenne’s design, Tessa deduced that she and Revelry were geniuses in the purest sense of the word. It probably would’ve taken the math departments at all eight Ivy League schools a week to come up with a design that was only half as awesome.

  It sent a message, all right.

  Tessa was glad that Cayenne and Revelry were basically decent people. If they were evil, militaries everywhere would be hunting them. Most of them would lose, though, because those chicks were wily.

  Her appreciation was interrupted by Cayenne. “Come on, Tessa. We need to line his steps with the pocket pussies I got. And then we can go in and shower and head to Red Headed Step Child for some much needed steak.”

  Cayenne had her at steak. She could’ve texted Merc and Rennes, who could’ve warned the Russian, but yeah, where was the fun in that, she wondered as she jumped in her truck bed and started snapping photos and video. This was definitely being entered into the WTF Hall of Fame.

  **JandJ**

  Working in security, Rennes had heard it all. Except every word that came out of Drago’s mouth.

  “There is pussy on grass.”

  Was this dude seriously calling about a cat on his lawn?

  “There is pussy on grass. All over grass. Pussy everywhere. All color pussy. Different pussy on stairs. Enough pussy for small nation. Come get pussy, Rennes.”

  “I don’t want any pussy, but thanks.”

  This call was about to be a Merc problem, he thought, as he transferred the call. After all, he spoke Russian. Maybe he could figure out what the hell Drago was going on about.

  He didn’t have the time or the energy. He’d spent all morning putting up Christmas decorations, and all evening showing Cayenne what happened to bad girls who hung wreaths on the front grill of his truck. He’d spanked her ass, and then fucked her to sleep. He was sure she’d learned her lesson, just as he was sure she’d do it again.

  His Cayenne-laced fantasies were interrupted by Mack storming into his office. “We have a situation.”

  Those four words out of Mack’s mouth sent a shiver down his back. Grabbing his keys, he followed Mack out of the door.

  “Do we need tactical?”

  “No, but we probably need a whole bunch of priests.”

  **JandJ**

  Rennes had seen a lot of fuckery in his day, but this…this exceeded pretty much all fuckery ever.

  There was definitely pussy on Drago’s lawn. In all colors. It looked like the United Nations of rubber pussies. He could’ve been a stand-up dude and helped clean up, but he wasn’t about to spend all morning picking up pussy. From the looks of things, neither was Merc, who was already making calls.

  Since he wasn’t about to put his hand on one pussy, Rennes did the next best thing. He tried to show Drago the glass half-full scenario.

  “At least it has a Christmas theme,” Rennes said even as he wondered how long it took his wife to sketch out that many pussies in the shape of a Christmas tree. If you squinted, it was easy to pretend that the darker color pussies were the ornaments.

  The Russian was clearly not amused.

  “I want new lawn. I give Cayenne new dishwasher no dicks. She give me new lawn that never touched pussy.”

  Rennes sighed. For better or worse this big Russian was part of Cayenne’s family, which meant he was part of his family. It didn’t matter that they hadn’t yet exchanged vows in front of a priest. He was hers; she was his; and the Russian was theirs.

  Jeanie and Jayha

  Copyrights and Trademarks Acknowledgment Page

  Colonel Trautman: Rambo’s former commanding officer in the Rambo series.

  Darth Vader: A character in the fictional Star Wars universe, created by George Lucas. Darth Vader was originally a Jedi who was prophesied to bring balance to the Force. However, he went to the dark side and serves the Galactic Empire.

  Destructicons: A vaguely-defined group of Decepticons from the Transformers franchise.

  Humpty Dumpty: A character from an English nursery rhyme.

  Imperial March: Also known as Darth Vader’s Theme, was composed by John Williams for the movie Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back.

  Ivan Drago: Russian boxer who was the antagonist in Rocky IV.

  Kryptonite: is a fictional material native to Superman’s home planet, Krypton. The radioactive element weakens Superman, as well as most Kryptonians.

  Lynyrd Skynyrd: An American rock band who performed southern hard rock, in addition to blues and country rock.

  National Basketball League®: The preeminent professional men’s basketball league in New Zealand.

  Ozella Crown: A fictional character created by Shara Azod. A wealthy woman from a wealthy, wine-making family. She is known as a bit of an outlaw and created wines called Alibi and Deny for her sorority (Rho Beta Omicron Tau) sisters who are a collection of renegades with a lot of moxie and intelligence, but not much in the way of tact.

  “Q”: A fictional character in James Bond films, who is head of the fictional R&D division of the British Secret Service.

  Q Branch/Q Division: The fictional research and development division of the British Secret Service.

  Rambo: A series based on David Morrell’s novel, First Blood. It stars Sylvester Stallone as Vietnam war veteran, John Rambo, who was a former Army Special Forces soldier.

  Rocky: An anthology of boxing films that include: Rocky I (1976); Rocky II (1979), Rocky III (1982); Rocky IV (1985); Rocky V (1990); and, Rocky Balboa (2006). Th
e films are about a fictional character named Rocky Balboa, starring Sylvester Stallone. The films were written by Stallone, produced by Robert Chartoff and Irwin Winkler. United Artists produced and distributed Rocky I-V. Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Columbia Pictures, and Revolution Studios produced Rocky Balboa, and Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer and Columbia Pictures distributed Rocky Balboa.

  Spanish Basketball League System: A series of interconnected competitions for professional basketball clubs in Spain. There are five tiers, with the first tier being the highest level of competition.

  Specialist degree in Russia: Before moving to the Bologna process, higher education in Russia was not divided into undergraduate and graduate levels. Tertiary education consisted of a single state, which was five or six years in duration, and resulted in a specialist degree, which is the equivalent of a MSc/MA degree.

  Sweet Home Alabama: Southern rock song written by Ed King, Gary Rossington, and Ronnie Van Zant, and produced by Al Kooper. The song was released by the band Lynyrd Skynyrd in 1974 on the album Second Helping on the MCA label.

  A Little Christmas Sugar

  By

  Marteeka Karland & Shara Azod

  Connect with Marteeka Karland here:

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/marteeka.karland

  Group: https://www.facebook.com/groups/1507931352862279/

  Website: www.marteekakrland.com

  BUY LINKS:

  Gladiator Wolf

  http://www.amazon.com/Gladiator-Wolf-Gladiators-Book-1

  Loving the Bastard:

  http://www.amazon.com/Loving-Bastard-Marteeka-Karland

  Connect with Shara Azod here:

  https://www.facebook.com/sharaazod

  http://www.sharaazod.com/

  http://twitter.com/sharaazod

  Chapter One

  There was something about the holidays that made people just plain stupid. Watching them running around spending money they didn’t have was amusing to a point. What was baffling, though, was the things they bought. Toys for children who would only play with them for a year at most; clothes destined to be returned or stuffed in the back of a closet somewhere; trinkets that would be lost, broken, or put into a jewelry box and forgotten.

  Carson Taiki Campbell wasn’t one to partake in the silliness of the “season.” Never had been. As a child, his father had the good sense to sit him down and explain the whole thing was stuff and nonsense. Of course, Calum Campbell was a bastard at best.

  There was one altruistic thing Argyll Corporation did this time of year; they granted one struggling charity patronage. Not just a lump sum of money, but a commitment to shoulder all their financial burdens provided they didn’t grow beyond the point where it was feasible for the multinational company to bankroll them. As the CEO of the Americas division, it fell on Carson to choose which companies would receive the largest grant in all of the Americas. One grant per country. Thus far, it had been relatively easy to choose. Applicants were sparse in South and Central America. Actually they were sparse just about everywhere.

  So Carson decided to make it a little more challenging. Anyone hoping to win patronage had to show up at his office today and wait. Throughout the day, when he could squeeze them in between legitimate appointments, he had been seeing the fifteen that made it on two days’ notice. People who asked for handouts like this just annoyed him. And in his opinion, people who ran charities either couldn’t cut it in the private sector, were naive and couldn’t deal with the real world, or were a bunch of lazy grifters. So far he had been impressed with a grand total of one of the organizations begging for money. A kids’ program located in Los Angeles that provided before and after school activities, a safe house to those who needed it, and even experienced non-kooky home schooling for runaways. The other groups sounded more like hobbies for the bored and restless. Two of the applicants didn’t even need the money—just a couple of rich brats trying to outdo any and everyone to prove they were genetically superior. Too bad they were severely lacking in wits, motivation, and class and were of no use to the world in general. Carson just had to let them in on those facts before they went off and tried to do something unforgivable, like reproduce.

  Now he was down to one, long past the time most people had left the building. A women’s shelter here in Chicago. How…quaint. Sure, shelters were necessary, but he had a hard time feeling sympathy for women who had to hide themselves away. Okay, he had a hard time feeling sympathy for just about everyone. Most people just didn’t know how to put their heads down and charge through. Shake off everything that distracted you and go for it. If it were up to him there’d be no handout, certainly not one with no strings attached, no accountability.

  “Send in Ms. Delaney,” Carson demanded, holding down the intercom button for his personal assistant. “Then you may go.”

  “Yes, sir. Umm, Mr. Campbell? Are you sure you don’t want me to stay until she’s gone?” Usually a timid, biddable woman, Irene Donahue, his long-serving assistant, never questioned his word. How odd.

  “I’m quite sure.” He would have to have a talk with her later. “Goodnight, Ms. Donahue.” That should at least give a hint at his unhappiness. Despite being more than ten years her junior, generally Carson called the woman by her given name unless he was displeased.

  There was some sputtering, indication that she indeed understood she had overstepped herself, before a hastily muttered, “Goodnight.” Nice to know some things were in his complete control.

  Opening the folder in front of him, he did another once-over of this Delaney woman. Quinn Delaney. Probably Irish. Chicago was rich with neighborhoods segregated by countries of origin. The place was rife with Italian neighborhoods that didn’t mix with the Russian neighborhoods, which didn’t mix with blah, blah, blah. Being of mixed Japanese and Scots heritage, it was all odd to him.

  If he had to guess, he’d say Miss Delaney was the product of hippie or hippie-adjacent parents. As she was a graduate of St. Xavier, he would guess she was spiritual rather than religious. Never married, no children, no long-term relationships. The shelter seemed legit. A Victorian three-story house located in Old Town inherited from a grandmother who ran the shelter before Miss Delaney had come of age. Both parents died in a freak accident; they were never married but had been together since they were undergrads at Chicago State.

  Yeah, hippie. The investigation hadn’t said whether the shelter was for abused women or homeless women—just women. “Women’s refuge” was how she referred to it. Sounded like a commune. This should be interesting. Carson was smirking openly by the time he heard a timid knock on the door.

  “Enter.” If she was told to come in, why the hell was she knocking? Not looking up, he flipped through a few more pages as the click of her heels sounded on his floor, stopping right in front of his desk. “Have a seat.” He waved in the general direction of the chair situated for those he summoned. Not looking up, Carson took his time, continuing to flip through the file even, ignoring her. There were no pictures of her in the file. He hadn’t taken note of that before. He liked to be prepared. If this woman was half as hideous as he strongly suspected…

  Holy fuck!

  The woman hadn’t sat as ordered. Instead, she stood in front of his desk looking… Well, she looked pissed. The look of pure venom glaring at him from almond-shaped, molten-chocolate eyes sort of made him hard. She couldn’t have stood more than five feet, maybe five-one, but there was no doubt she was all woman. Her curves made his mouth water, all full in all the right places. How the hell was this woman single? There was no way she should be. Not with a body built like a man’s fantasy playground. Not to mention she was fucking gorgeous. None of this was in the report he’d instructed investigators to compile on the charity applicants.

  One thing was for sure, she damn well better not be a lesbian, because as of this moment, she was his.

  Chapter Two

  Of all the overbearirng, rude jackasses, Carson Campbell had to be the worst! She’d been here all
fucking day. And for what? A moment of his precious time? If the shelter hadn’t needed the sponsorship he offered, she’d have slapped his too handsome face. And there was no denying the man was a work of art. From his sculpted face to those impossibly wide shoulders to the tapered torso, Carson Campbell was one fine looking man. Too bad he was an asshole.

  As she stood there, Quinn was unimpressed by the kingly heir aura he gave off as he waved at her to sit. Yeah, she might end up slapping him before the day was over.

  When she didn’t sit, and he finally looked at her. Quinn couldn’t keep the smirk from her lips. Shock was written all over that pretty face of his. Men always underestimated her because of her devotion to Harmony House. They usually expected her to be butt ugly, or a mousy hippie. What they never understood was, just because she made it her responsibility to take care of others, didn’t mean she didn’t take care of herself. Without conceit, she knew she looked good. While some people considered her plus-sized figure overweight, Quinn dressed to emphasize her curves. Did she want to catch the attention of every man in the vicinity? Hell, no! She did it to feel sexy, just for herself. Judging by the look on his face right now, she’d have to conclude she’d pulled it off in spades.

  “Yeah, hi. I’m a woman. Shocked?”

  It seemed to take him a second, but the infuriating man blinked a couple times then pulled himself together. “Not at the woman part,” he muttered before waving at the chair in front of his desk. Again.

  “I’m really not in the mood, Mr. Campbell. You’ve had all day to decide if Harmony House is worth your patronage. Yes or no, then I’ll be on my way. Unlike other people”—she raised an eyebrow to indicate his immaculate desk—“I really do have work to do.”