A Perfect Man for Christmas Revisited day three

A Perfect Man for Christmas

An erotic serial in 12 parts

Blog HOP

 7th Day of Christmas

by Isobelle Cate

Wynter stirred in her sleep, her eyelids moving as she surfaced into consciousness. A low roar. Why was there a low roar in her room? She opened her eyes, slowly blinking, and saw that rain was falling steadily outside her window. The next thing she noticed was the heavy band around her waist, the warm hand that cupped her breast, and the wall of muscle heating her back. Her stomach concaved when she gasped. In all the times she and Michael had fucked, he had never stayed… she looked at her bedroom window … until … the … morning.

She eased around slowly to look at him. The harsh planes of his face were not as dangerous looking when he was asleep. The light stubble that shadowed his jaw made him incredibly sexy. She raised her finger to trace the contours of his mouth that gave her so much pleasure for hours until she asked him to stop. He didn’t. He gave her wave upon tidal wave of orgasmic bliss that left her boneless and sated. Just the thought made her body needy once more, desperately seeking Michael inside her again.

“You finished watching me sleep?” His deep rumble vibrated through her body all the way to her core.

Wynter didn’t stop the smile that curved her lips. “You’ve never stayed before. Couldn’t pass the chance to see the one who marked me with his sigil, in sleep, could I? I might not get the chance again.”

His mouth tilted upwards showing his even, white teeth. “Keep your end of the agreement and you’ll get to see more of me in the morning.”

“Ugh!” She whirled out of his embrace, tossed the quilt that covered them and jumped out of bed, naked. “Talk about a fuck me mood killer.”

Michael’s soft laughter only infuriated her more.

Grabbing a set of clean jogging pants and T-shirt, she left the room, slamming the door in satisfaction. Perhaps making coffee from scratch would allow her irritation to bleed out from her. She loved this part of the morning; grinding the coffee beans and allowing the fresh burst of flavour to lend its smell to the kitchen she hardly used for cooking.

She looked out of the window that overlooked her garden and the Jacuzzi which was now overflowing with water.

“Damn.” A crease marred her forehead. She hadn’t thought of covering the liquid massager last night despite the fact that the skies had already been overcast the day before, threatening to unload its burden. But it never did. Now with the rain pelting the roof, the house felt isolated from the outside world. If Michael hadn’t annoyed her so much, they would have continued where they left off and the kitchen would have seen more action than it had in the last few months.

Wynter sighed. Not being able to find a man for Christmas was making her miserable. Add the stormy weather and she could have a psychotic breakdown. She sipped her coffee as she stared out into the pouring rain, lost in thought.

Conjure a man.

Wynter blinked.

That was it! Surely her family’s Five Golden Rings tome would have something about conjuring a man for a brief span of time. There should be some harmless spell in that tome that had all sorts of writings, it was practically a grimoire.

“Got any left?” Michael leaned against the doorway. His jeans rode low on his hips, the waist unbuttoned. The taut muscles of his arms pushed and slid underneath his bronze skin when he lifted his arms to rake his fingers through his already tousled hair. Wynter’s own hands itched to run through those dark tresses as she lay on the table with his face between her thighs….

No, first things first.

“Here.” She handed him her mug as she passed, the coffee nearly sloshing over the rim.

“Where are you going?” he called as she rushed up the stairs.

“Be right back!”

Michael turned from the window when Wynter returned carrying the tome. She flipped through the pages. Her face, a mask of concentration. As soon as Michael saw what it was, he scowled.

“Wynter,” he warned.

“You didn’t say I couldn’t use magick.” She shot him a glare.

Michael glared back before looking away. “Go right ahead. I doubt you’d be able to do it.”

“Still worth a shot.” Her finger ran down the pages looking for that elusive spell.

May her ancestors forgive her if she made a mistake. Wynter couldn’t remember the last time she dabbled in the arcane arts, but time was running out for her. She ran out of the house and into the driving rain. She didn’t want to destroy the only abode she had, and if fire came out of her fingers, the water would quickly douse it. Michael followed her at a more leisurely pace, sipping from their shared mug.

Evaporation and condensation must have been pretty busy because her backyard was now waterlogged and resembled a lake. With her eyes closed, the water raining on her like a benediction, Wynter chanted the spell. A roar filled her ears and she felt the water lap at her feet.

“What the fuck? More avians?” Michael shouted in disbelief.

Wynter opened one eye in trepidation, then the other in stupefaction. Her mouth agape, she stared at the seven swans swimming in her waterlogged garden. Black and white, they moved like the squares of a chessboard that could have come from Hogwarts.

“I told you, you wouldn’t be able to do it.” Michael shook his head. “You’re supposed to create a man, Wynter, not more animals who peck their food.”

“Well, men can be animals when they fuck and peck isn’t too far away from pecker which all of you have.”

“Don’t test me.” Michael’s face darkened. “It’s not funny.”

Wynter stifled her laughter at the same time she wiped the water from her face. She shivered in the cold but Michael’s face was priceless. “What? They’re just a bunch of birds. What do you have against them?”

“Nothing,” he muttered. “You’ve got five days left.”

That slowly wiped the smile from her face. Huffing and shaking her head, she said, “The bars didn’t prove successful.” She worried her lower lip before she brightened, stepping to enter the house. “I know. I’ll case hotel lobbies.”

“And the birds?” Michael looked at them warily, stepping to the side of the doorway to allow Wynter to enter.

She pirouetted to face him, tracking wet prints on the floor. “In the spirit of Christmas, I’ll give one each to the hotels I visit. I’ll need a ride though.” She winked, laughing at Michael’s scowl.

Check out Isobelle's books at https://isobellecate.wordpress.com/

 

 

 8th Day of Christmas

by Kay Manis

“Thanks for the ride.” Wynter flashed Michael a mischievous smirk and slammed his car door, rattling the leather console.

She was going to pay for that. No one fucked with his baby…and by baby, he meant the Porsche 918 Spyder that purred underneath him.

Wynter tucked one of those fucking swans under her arm as she sauntered into the hotel lobby. She said you could attract more men with a swan than honey. “Don’t wait up!” She blew him an obnoxious kiss and waved good-bye as her luscious hips swayed from side to side. She was on a mission and as Michael wanted to stop her, he couldn’t.

Michael growled. Damn foolish woman is going to banish all to Hades.

“May I park your car, sir?” The valet saddled up to his Porsche, licking his lips in anticipation.

Yeah, right, you little pimply-faced kid. Like I’m gonna let you spin out the tires of my million dollar sports car.

Michael gazed out the passenger side window and watched helplessly as Wynter disappeared into the mass of half-naked men inside. What the fuck? Was there a stripper convention at this hotel? The men parted like melted butter and stared at her backside as she waltzed through the crowd. She was good. Too good. Fuck.

“Fine,” he growled through gritted teeth at the valet.

He stumbled back as if Michael had struck him.

Michael shoved the car door and held it open for the twerp but stepped in front of him before allowing him inside his precious baby. His massive body towered over the boy’s small frame. “If there is one scratch on this motherfucker, one teensy, tiny scratch when I get it back, I’ll rip your head off, shit down your neck and feed you to the fucking swans at my girlfriend’s house. Got it?”

Wait, what? Girlfriend? What the fuck? Did he just call Wynter his girlfriend? He hadn’t had a partner, a girlfriend, hell, a wife for that matter, in over two hundred years. If Wynter fucked this assignment up, that would all change though.

“Y-yes, sir,” the boy stuttered. “N-not a scratch.”

The poor kid sounded like a bumbling fool. Maybe Michael should put him on his payroll. He laughed at the lunacy.

Michael watched as the valet slid into the driver’s seat and drove away at a snail’s pace. Good boy. At least he wouldn’t have to cast a spell that kept the kid’s pecker limp for the rest of his life.

With a heavy sigh, Michael waltzed through the hotel doors, not surprised to see a flock of men around Wynter. They looked like the squawking birds in her back yard.

Girlfriend. Michael laughed to himself. Wynter was nothing more than a piece of ass, a mission. She could have all the men she wanted as long as she found the perfect one before Christmas.

As if sensing his presence, Wynter’s gaze caught his. One side of her plump lips curled into a delicious smirk.

Mission. Mission. He reminded himself. She’s just a mission. A means to an end…your end if you fuck this up.

Suddenly the shrill sound of women screaming came from behind him.

Michael turned on his heels.

Not one, not two but…wait…Was that eight fucking chicks flooding out of the elevator? Their screams echoed through the hotel as if their hair extensions were on fire. They were dressed the same, in hotel uniforms marking them as maids.

“A Dios, mio!” one shouted.

“Help! Help!” A pixie minx with red hair slammed into him. “Get it out of here!” She pointed back toward the elevator.

“What’s going on?” One of the strippers who’d been enthralled by Wynter saddled up to him.

He eyeballed the guy up and down, his menacing gaze obviously speaking volumes as the stripper stepped away.

He pushed the maid away and gazed down into her blue eyes. “What’s going on?”

“It’s a…”

“Yes?” he asked.

“Mierda es un reno!” a Hispanic woman screamed, jumping up and down, her hands slapping against her hips.

“Did you say moose?” His Spanish was rusty, but he was pretty sure that was the translation.

“No! Es un reno! Salga de aquí!”

“Holy, hell,” Wynter whispered next to him. “Is that a fucking reindeer?”

“Yes.” The redhead nodded, her body trembling. “And the man in the ivory suit asked if we wanted to ‘milk his reindeer.’” She used air quotes. “He made it sound--” Her eyes darted between Wynter and him as she leaned in closer. “--sexual,” she whispered.

“Kris Kringle,” he and Wynter said in unison.

Eight maids a’ milking.

That motherfucker was the biggest practical jokester Michael had ever met. “Enough with the symbolism, Kris,” he moaned.

“Ho, ho, ho!” Kris’s robust voice echoed through the lobby as he led the reindeer through the posh hotel like it was an everyday occurrence. “I didn’t mean you’re a whore, Wynter.” Kris laughed as he nudged my arm. “Although you have been on my naughty list for quite some time.” His white eyebrows waggled as he ogled Wynter.

Michael wanted to punch him in the nuts. Kids may adore him, but Kris Kringle was the biggest man whore on the face of the earth.

The reindeer picked that moment to lay a massive Christmas “gift” on the imported Italian tile floor.

“Ewww!” everyone groaned.

“Word in the Underworld is that you’re looking for the perfect man, Wynter.” Kris smirked and held out his arms. “Here I am.”

  

Check out Kay's books at http://kaymanis.com/

 

 

 9th Day of Christmas

by Bella Juarez

I need a fucking drink…

Michael made a hasty exit from the swank hotel with Wynter in-tow. He’d be damned if he was leaving her with all those naked men and Kris, so he’d sent her on her way. He tried to recall an end of solstice ritual that had gone worse.

Actually those few years during the Black Death were worse…

Comforted by the fact that nothing could be worse than the Black Death, he leaned forward to fire up the purring engine of his favorite girl.

At least this one doesn’t talk back…

The feel of Wynter’s talons tearing his back to shreds during one of their more rambunctious fucks made his cock twitch and a shiver run down his spine. He couldn’t shake the feeling or lose the lovely taste of her. He sat back for a moment and wondered what would happen if she didn’t bring the perfect man home for the holiday. Who started this ritual and why, when the stars and planets aligned just so, did they need it? Would their world, as they knew it really go to hell in a handbasket?

Wait. I’m from hell; it’s not that bad.

He glanced wistfully at the gilded doors of the hotel and placed his hand on the gearshift. Before he could shift gears and let out the clutch, a thud shook his vehicle and him down to his ancient bones.  

Bloody hell! What now? He threw open the door ready to do battle with whatever it was that had harmed his vehicle.

“Honk!”

One of Wynter’s damn geese had decided to hitchhike. He stretched out his arms and looked to the heavens, pushed back his sleeves and started to unleash a spell that would level an entire modern city block. But when he caught the eye of the already scared valet, he opted to grab the gangly goose by its fat legs and toss it toward the hotel staff now gathered at the curb. An angry flying goose sent his gawkers scurrying. He slipped back into the driver’s seat and took off, spinning the tires as he floored the gas.

The hotel and goose disappeared in his rear window in a haze of white smoke. A drink at his favorite high-end gentlemen’s club would be just the thing to take his mind off of this whole ordeal—and Wynter, who seemed to be getting under his skin more than usual. He was at the club before he knew it. This valet knew how to handle his baby. Michael handed him the keys and an extra hundred dollar bill.

“You know what to do.”

“Thank you, sir. And yes, sir, I’ll take good care of her.”

Michael sauntered up to the front entrance, and the man who stood sentry outside with a clip board, unhooked the rope and stepped aside.

“Sir, should I call ahead for your suite?”

“Yes.”

Michael entered the noisy club and noticed not all of the stages were busy. He found that odd. A soft brush at his elbow made him flinch and turn suddenly.

Who the hell dares to touch me?

As tall as he was, he found his gaze level with sea-green eyes, and for a moment, he found himself breathless.

“Morgan? What are you doing here?”

The tall woman with the bewitching, sea-green eyes and long, midnight-black hair smiled a slow, evil smile. A perfectly arched eyebrow rose at his question.

“It’s my place; why wouldn’t I be here?”

Her soft Irish brogue was as smooth as the leather she wore. She could charm the life from a man if he wasn’t careful. Thankfully, Michael’s humanity had almost been fully stripped from him but the Morgan still had an effect on him.

“Why aren’t you preparing for the gathering? Your due will be paid. In full.”

Her soft laughter rose above the crowd and sent a chill down his spine him like almost no one else could.

“Oh, my sweet pet. My dues will never be paid in full. However, if your little hound from hell comes through, then I’ll be sated… for a while. Now let me show you to your suite.”

“When did you buy this place?”

As she opened the door, she laughed. “I took it in trade. The beast who owned it before me didn’t know how to negotiate, nor did he know how to take care of his property. The staff, especially the girls, were miserable.” She walked to the bar and took out a highball glass and filled it with two fingers of dark amber liquid. “Now that they’re being paid a proper wage and someone actually takes care of them, I’ve attracted some of the finest talent around.”

Michael took the glass of scotch and glanced out the mirrored window toward the floor.

“It looks empty. By now, all of the stages are usually full.” He took a sip. “That’s good scotch.”

“Life is too short for bad liquor. It’s early, darlin’. Don’t worry, it’ll pickup and when it does, enjoy the show.”

Michael flopped down into the soft leather chair and watched the night progress. Morgan had sent a bartender to keep the drinks flowing. No matter how much he drank he couldn’t quit thinking about Wynter. His exclusive bartender, a voluptuous redhead with the bluest eyes he’d ever seen, left no doubt that she was his, all of her, for the night. He wondered what the hell had gone wrong with him; he’d never pass up an invitation like that. Back a few months ago, he’d have fucked her until she screamed for mercy. Wynter never screams for mercy… He shook his head; what had his little hound from hell done to him? What transpired between him and her family was business, and he needed to stay focused. She had to find a man, and his homage to Morgan had to be fulfilled.

Focusing, he glanced out over the floor. He sensed the excitement rising around a lone stage that was still empty. The rest of the stages were full and busy. The girls were making money hand over fist, and the drinks were clearly flowing if the large number of topless waitstaff he saw weaving through the crowd was any indication. Along with the throngs of people out on the floor, he leaned forward in his chair in anticipation as the lone stage light and the spotlight moved over the crowd.

“What’s going on out there?” he asked the bartender.

“A new girl. I hear she’s out of this world.”

The music blared above the crowd and was so loud he could hear it clearly in his private suite. There were now nine ladies dancing on each of the stages, but one had now taken previously empty center stage.

The sweet Jezebel had come on stage in a traditional harem outfit. The entire crowd was mesmerized as she moved like a tigress. As the first scarf floated to the stage floor, he came to his feet. His eyes traced the dancer’s lithe body, and his dick instantly went to a full, painful, rock-hard erection. As the remaining scarves she wore fell one by one to the stage, the men at her feet fought over them.

Michael raced out onto the club floor, compelled to get a closer look at this new, bewitching beauty. Something about her held him like no one else could. Her lower face was covered by a veil, and when he got closer, their eyes locked. She made him feel as if she was dancing for him and him alone. He tore his gaze away from her hypnotic eyes and watched her delicate hand pluck a scarf from her hip. The unique tattoo on her hip was unusual and he took a closer look.

My sigil…

“Wynter! What the hell are you doing here?” he shouted as he leaped onto the stage.

Check of Bella's great books at http://www.bellajuarez.com/