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.
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