…today I’ve posted on the hitting the hotspot blog about my favourite Christmas things and included a hot excerpt from the upcoming Festive Handbag. Pop on over there to read today’s excerpt!
And here is my Christmas tree, we go for the eclectic look in our house! I love decorating the tree!
We’re going back, back, back to 2006 and my first ever published story today with an excerpt from Proving Santa Exists.
When Jonathan transferred from the U.S to the Manchester branch of Computers Inc Jenny was the first person to make him feel at home. Finding out about his bleak Christmases as a boy she made up her mind to involve him in all her English Christmas traditions.
Passion sparks between the two as they decorate the Christmas tree, who would have thought such an innocent activity could become so sexually charged? Can Jenny succeed in seducing the hot American and also prove to him that Santa really does exist?
Proving Santa exists is only $2 from Phaze.
The next morning passes slowly as I tidy the house, bake more Christmas cookies—I don’t need to, it just settles my nerves—and attempt to make myself look pretty. I shouldn’t have bothered. It’s so cold out I have to wear my hat, gloves and scarf, which hides almost every last centimetre of my flesh. “Merry Christmas!” I shout, though my efforts are muffled by my scarf.
“Merry Christmas,” Jonathan replies, “whoever you are.” His eyes glisten with mischief.
“Beneath the hat, scarf and big coat, it’s Jenny,” I chuckle. “Honestly, it is.”
“Come in, Jen. I’m just packing my bag.” I scurry through the open door into the not-much-warmer lobby. I follow Jonathan up the echoing stairs and into the sparse front room of a tiny flat. “I’ll just be a minute. Make yourself at home.”
I sit in the only chair in the room and run my hand over its rubbed wooden arms. It’s a very new room—a room that almost feels like no one has moved into it yet—apart from one homey corner.
“I like your tree,” I shout. Jonathan comes back into the living room with a well-used rucksack over his shoulder.
“Thanks. It’s nowhere near as nice as yours, but I was inspired.” The little tree stands on top of his old wooden-framed TV. A few baubles, a thin winding of red tinsel, and a line of plain white bulbs are its only decoration. Although it’s not much, that corner is full of Christmas spirit, which is just what I tell Jonathan, making him blush with childlike pride at my praise.
On the drive home, Jonathan asks me what we’re going to do for the rest of the day. “Well, first of all we need to bake some mince pies, and then I need to put the icing on the Christmas cake.”
“Mince pies?” Jonathan looks a little horrified. My explanation about dried fruit and suet in a pastry case doesn’t seem to alleviate the terror at all.
“You’ll love them.” I reach my from the gear stick to his knee. “Trust me.” Squeezing, then lingering, my fingers only leave the warmth of his jean-clad leg when use of the gear stick becomes imperative. Really, it wanted to slip higher and higher up his thigh…
“Then what?”
“Erm, well, we’ll need something to eat, then we’ll watch The Muppet Christmas Carol. It is a tradition, you know. Then, we’ll go to see the Nativity at Tom’s before going on to midnight mass.”
“Just a few things to do then.”
“Aye!” I laugh heartily. “I’ll keep you busy all night long.” I blush as I realise how that might sound to Jonathan.
“I certainly hope so,” he replies with a wicked teasing light in his eye, sparkling white in the depth of his Guinness-coloured corneas. I giggle nervously then gasp aloud.
“It’s snowing! It’s snowing!” I do a little dance in my car seat, wiggling my hips whilst endeavouring to keep the steering wheel straight.
“Why, so it is. It’s falling fast, too.” We’re just pulling into my drive, so thankfully I don’t have to drive any further through the flurries of excited snowflakes.
“I do so love it when it snows!” I slip off my thick brown coat, and hang it on the end of the stairs. Laying Jonathan’s over the top of it, I linger a moment, appreciating the sweet, musky smell lingering on the material that sparks off images of him on top of me… Oh, stop it girl! Get your hormones in check, there’s mince pies to bake.
Proving Santa exists is only $2 from Phaze.
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Sweet and spicy, and that’s just the cake! The festive season is in full swing but Emily hates it and just wants it over as quickly as possible. Jim finds out why and shares his Christmas with her and she uncovers her Christmas Spirit as she rediscovers her lust and sexuality. Includes a short selection of sexy holiday poetry! Here’s an excerpt! |
I’d always had a zesty appetite for sex. I felt I was lucky to have found an excellent sexual match in Greg, but when he died, so did my libido. It is amazing that after all this time desire seems to have found its way back to me. Jim is a new friend, and someone I’ve opened up to. Maybe because he has none of those pre-conceived images of me being the strong, coping widow. I never let anyone know how I really felt inside. I’ve not got anyone else I talk to about how I feel inside, never did. Greg was the only person who really knew me, and I shared all my hopes, dreams and fears with him. I mustn’t jeopardize this newfound understanding between me and Jim. So keeping my urges deep inside might be a good thing.
I try to ignore the image of Greg in a Santa outfit, his cock out and my lips just kissing its tip. As I shake that memory away I try equally as hard to banish the flash of him naked, his erect cock tied round with a big, red bow.
“Oh, Scrooge is on, you know the musical one.” Jim places the remote control on the coffee table and eases himself down onto the sofa.
“Oh, the one with Albert Finney? That’s my favorite.” He nods and pats the seat next to him on the sofa. I walk over and sit down, a foot or so away from his body. This far away I still have hope of being able to think straight without my hormones getting in the damn way. I try to get into the film I’ve seen a thousand times.
“Ah, it’s really Christmas now.” He grins and I’m sure he moves closer as his body heat seems to suddenly envelop me.
“Oh, yes. Christmas Eve is when Christmas starts, no matter what the retail market will try and have us believe.” I nod, realizing I sound more and more like my mother with every passing day.
“I quite agree. I feel sorry for the mothers and fathers of kids who are wound up about Christmas a month or more in advance these days. In my day we wrote our letter to Santa a week or so before and the tree and trimmings went up on Christmas Eve.”
“Same here,” I smile, “and the beauty of the season was so fresh and exciting. It was unheard of for people to be fed up of Christmas before it’s even begun.” I open my mouth to continue and, listening to how we sound, I laugh instead. “Oh, Jim, we do sound like a pair of old fogies, don’t we?” Our laughter whips together, his deep note highlighted by my tinkling giggle. “When did I get old?”
“You’re not old,” he whispers, his face just in front of mine, his thigh gently pressed against my own. How did he get so close? “I’m not old and you’re younger than me.”
“Oh, you flatter me, Jim, but I sure do feel old.” I sigh, feeling my forty-five years hanging heavily upon me.
Jim’s hand reaches out and caresses my cheek. “You don’t feel old to me,” he smiles.
I can hear his breathing as I wander through the frosty gateway to his soul, his gaze pulling me to him. His large hand barely touching my flesh is setting my cheeks alight and the flames are licking up and down my whole body, eagerly devouring me.
My hand reaches up to cover his, to pull it away or make a point or something quite important, I’m sure, but it just rests there, enjoying the warmth and detail of his warm hand as his lips move in and soon enough (yet seemingly in agonizingly slow motion) press against my own.
It’s so soft, so gentle, so sensual and so poignant at first. It is like a whisper, a gentle hint as we rest together, not moving, just joined and hesitantly enjoying the feel of being so intimate with another person. He makes the first move, his hand slipping down to rest on my shoulder as his mouth palpitates against mine. My lips part and I taste him, heavy with gravy and meat and with a spicy masculinity that is all his own. My mouth responds, my hands fall to my sides as all my energy and attention is focused in on my lips, moving them up and down, forward and back and creating the most delicious friction against his plump, slick lips.
so for some sweet, tasty Christmas cake pop over to Phaze and pick up mine.
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Not all of my stories are obviously Christmassy, take “Reluctant Muse” for instance, my story for the Phaze Fantasies V anthology. Here’s the blurb: Carrie endured years of abuse at her fathers hands and cannot believe it when the hot manager at work tells her she is beautiful. Jamie is the manager of Betta Burger, paying his way through university to get a degree he doesn’t really want. He just wants to draw and paint and he really wants to paint Carrie, the beautiful and shy new girl with the sexy curves that drive him crazy with desire. this story happens around Christmas, here is a sort of festive excerpt: |
“Well, now I remember why I don’t go to pubs.”
“She didn’t mean to throw up on you, I’m sure.” Jamie says, just a hint of a smirk at his lips.
“Well, I know, but if I were at home now I’d not be smelling of sick or standing outside in cold December rain waiting for a taxi with Christmas Karaoke being sung, no, howled in the background.”
“Those are all valid points.” Jamie wraps his arms around her and forces their lips together in a rough kiss.
“Don’t, Jamie, you’ll end up covered in sick.”
“Don’t care.” He whispers in her ear as he nibbles her neck. “I want you.”
Her knees turn to jelly, but Jamie’s arms around her keep her steady.
“Well, you can come back with me if you like.”
“I was planning to.” He grins, slipping his hands down to her buttocks and squeezing.
“Thanks for letting me know.” She tuts and rolls her eyes. Her body may be reacting to his caresses and nibbles but her mind is still firmly scared and pissed off after being in a room full of drunken people, one of whom threw up on her.
“Don’t give me your cheek.” He smiles wickedly. “Or are you angling for a spanking right here in the street?” He slaps her arse and she jumps, her cheeks flashing crimson. A car horn beeps behind them. “The taxi is here.” He grins and she turns into the headlights of the black cab, looking more than a little cowed.
Jamie holds the door open as Carrie climbs in.
“I’m not ‘aving any drunk sicky people in my cab,” the driver snaps as Jamie closes the door.
“Oh, it’s alright mate. She’s not drunk. She’s not even had a drop of alcohol. Someone threw up on her.”
The driver cackles with laughter and winks into the mirror at Carrie, who bites her bottom lip and fights the instinct to flee. Jamie and the cab driver strike up a conversation and Carrie lays her head on Jamie’s shoulder and just breathes, feeling his strong arm over her. His other hand sits on her knee, but as the journey continues, the hand moves higher, crinkling up the skirt on its way. Carrie wriggles and fires a look at Jamie who just smiles and moves his hand quickly up under her skirt and rubs a finger up and down her cotton covered cunt.
Carrie doesn’t breathe as his fingers trace the outline of her lips and then presses down just on top of her clit, all the while talking to the cab driver about the last Manchester United match. The taxi stops all too soon and Jamie removes his hand to pass a note to the driver.
“How much do I owe you?” Carrie asks Jamie as the cab drives away.
“Oh, I think a good hard fucking should do it.”
“I’m not a whore!” Carrie exclaims, the emotions of the night finally making her break.
“I know, I know,” Jamie says, following her into the foyer. “I was just joking.”
“It wasn’t funny.” Tears streak Carrie’s face.
Jamie’s hand lands on her arm and she shrugs it off then walks into the opening lift to the very back corner. He follows her.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his hand skimming down her arm. She looks up and sighs. “It’s really scared you, hasn’t it?”
“Yes.” She sighs and he wraps his arms around her, cradling her body as she sobs.
“Oh, sweetheart, you don’t have to be scared. I’m here, I’ll look after you.”
“I just,” she sniffs,he elevator door opening at her floor. “I just don’t like being in a room filled with people who aren’t in control.” She walks forward, pulling her keys from her bag after wiping her tears on her sleeve.
“They were only a bit tipsy,” Jamie replies.
“I don’t like it,” she snaps, the door relenting and letting them in. “I know tipsy and good-willed soon turns into drunk and disorderly.”
“Carrie, love.” He turns her into his arms and holds her close. “I will never, ever let anything bad happen to you, okay? I’ll always protect you.”
“What?” I’m outraged. I feel my blood boiling with the harsh cruelty of it. “Santa does exist.”
— Proving Santa Exists
“You don’t believe that, do you?” He shakes his head, his eyes wide.
“Yes, yes I do.” I nod my head emphatically. “Maybe not in the way a child does, but I heartily believe in the spirit of Father Christmas. I believe in the meaning behind the make-believe. My faith is in the giving, which is the true centre of the festive season—the heart of it all. It’s all about making life better for other people and, through that, enhancing your own life. Santa definitely exists.”
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