by K. Bromberg
The very off chance that now doesn’t seem so very off.
Christ.
“Yes. I think. Sure.”
He takes a step inside and closes the door behind him without asking me if I want him to come in.
Of course, I do.
And now that the door is closed, this space suddenly feels so much smaller. The air feels electric. The attraction is undeniable. What will happen next was predestined from the minute he shut the door.
“I wanted to know if you needed any more help.”
“With?”
I stand still as he takes a step closer.
“How to plot the rest of your story.”
“Meaning?”
“In some stories, there is a natural progression of things. In others . . .” He shrugs.
“In others?”
“In others.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw, the chafe of his stubble against his hand filling the room. He looks to the floor, emits a chuckle, and then meets my eyes again. “In others, progression doesn’t matter. Chemistry. Lust. Necessity is all that matters.”
“Necessity?”
“Mm-hmm.” The simple sound rumbles through the room.
“I’m not sure what you mean.” Did I just play the helpless female and act like I had no inkling of what he meant?
Damn straight, I did.
And by the way he takes another step closer and reaches out to tuck an errant strand of hair behind my ear, I think he heard it too.
“Maybe it’s best if I show you,” he murmurs.
“I think it is.”
From one moment to the next, we crash into each other. Demanding lips and possessive hands as we shrug out of and slip overhead any barrier preventing us from touching.
There is a frenzied desperation to touch skin as our lips move and tongues tangle and bodies find each other.
We leave a trail of clothes along the floor—shirts, socks, pants, underwear—as my every thought is Saint.
More.
Now.
God, yes.
There is no first-time awkwardness as we move through the bedroom door into the darkened room.
There is no fumbling like idiots in the dark as his mouth closes over the peak of my nipple, and I reach out to find him hard and ready as we lower ourselves to the bed.
His beard has a sensual abrasiveness to it as it teases me everywhere it touches before his mouth tempts. His hands are strong and firm and grip and grab in the most deliciously dominant of ways. And his body—its feel, its strength, its power—has everything in me craving for the next touch, the next kiss, the need for him to take me right now.
I groan when his mouth leaves my neck and then hold my breath as I watch him roll a condom over the impressive length of his cock.
He teases me with its head first, sliding up and down the length of my slit, while the thumb of his other hand adds friction to my clit.
“Please,” I all but beg as he pushes in a little farther, and my hips buck up for him to give me more.
He chuckles, but it turns into a guttural groan when he presses all the way into me and my warm, wet heat coats him.
Everything that follows next feels like it’s in snapshots of time.
My back arching as his hands grab hold of my hips.
My body singing as he works that glorious cock of his in and out of me.
My fingers gripping the sheets at my sides as he towers over me, thrust after thrust, until the need for my release builds.
One brick upon another.
One moan right after another.
My body begins to tense. My heart begins to race. My breath becomes labored.
I moan out as the orgasm slams into me like a tsunami I knew was coming but forgot how devastating it could be.
It crashes into me.
It pulls me under its bliss.
Wave after wave of pleasure pulses through me until I feel like I’m drowning in it—the feel of him as I tighten around him, the ecstasy vibrating through my every muscle, and the muttered swear he gives when he realizes it’s his turn.
And he chases it.
He sets a punishing pace that has every part of me reacting and wanting it never to stop because he—this—feels incredible.
Within seconds, Saint’s head is thrown back, his groan rumbles around the room, and his body tenses as he comes.
10
Harley
I awake with a start, my pulse thundering in my ears, and immediately look to my right.
The bed is empty. The pillow or blankets on that side aren’t disturbed.
There’s no one there.
No Saint.
No nothing.
Just the sun streaming through the closed slats of the blinds and a clock on the wall letting me know it’s half past eight in the morning.
I sit up and hang my feet over the edge of the bed as I look out the bedroom door and see the rest of the cabin is perfectly empty.
“What the hell?”
Did last night happen?
Did Saint come here and was that toe-curling sex real?
I go to stand and feel a soreness between my thighs that says, yes, it was real.
Then why did he . . .
But I get it.
I do.
Saint made things easier on me by making sure to be gone when I woke up. To help avoid that awkwardness that comes with regretting a decision you made the night before. To, in a sense, avoid the walk of shame.
One-night stands aren’t my typical MO, but in this situation, what did I expect? It’s not like I’m going to move to this merry wonderland of a town.
It’s not like I have any intention of ever coming back.
I sit back down on the edge of the bed and laugh. It’s long and loud and slightly hysterical, but who knew a little detour could give me this? A clear plotline and the good sex I so desperately needed.
“Who knew?” I mutter and then laugh again.
11
Saint
I watch her from the window and every part of me wants to go out there and carry that suitcase for her.
Last night comes back to me and I groan. Fucking perfection in every sense of the word. Except for now when I’d prefer to ask her to stay and . . .
“And what, Saint? Live here? Get to know her better? It was one fucking night. Get over yourself.”
I take a sip of my coffee and shake my head as she turns the corner so I can’t see her anymore.
My sigh is heavy.
Why do I live in this town?
Why am I burdened with being a Nick, born and tasked to keep Saint Nick’s Hollow running?
But I know why.
I love my life. I love this town.
And maybe one day . . . she’ll come back again.
12
Harley
I still did the walk of shame.
I crept past Saint’s door even though every part of me wanted to knock and say goodbye. But that would have been awkward. That would have made things messy.
So instead, I snuck off after leaving some cash for the room in the kitchenette and a business card with my contact info should I owe any more.
But that’s a lie.
I know I don’t owe any more money as I left more than enough for the food and place to stay.
I simply wanted him to have my number in case . . . I don’t know why.
And here I sit in my car as the engine warms and the defroster clears the windshield, telling myself to put the car in reverse and leave this unexpected little venture.
My tires crunch over the white snow as I head down the main drag back out toward the highway. It’s as beautiful as I thought it would be in the daylight—and still as festive.
“Good morning, Christmas crooners. It’s Bob back with you this morning. What is it you want to hear today? What are your plans? We’re one day closer to the best day of the year, so tell me, what can we do for you today?”
I laugh. “Bob? Are you my fairy go
dfather because I kind of think you are.”
“Yes. You are right. All the above. I wish that for you.”
I shake my head, lost in my thoughts about a torrid night between the sheets and the man I left behind. Then shift over to Sophie and Luke and how I want to finish their story . . . but then they return to Saint.
Dreamy, sexy Saint Nick.
It’s only when I turn onto the highway and my notebook falls open that I see the note he left me.
* * *
Harley-
Thank you for a night I’ll not soon forget. Maybe I can return the favor someday.
I told you everyone needs a little magic. Who knew I needed some too?
Thank you for being that magic.
-Saint
* * *
It takes everything I have not to turn around and go back, but I don’t.
Because isn’t this perfect? Isn’t this something Luke would write to Sophie?
But I’m going to have her turn around.
I’m going to have her go back and tell the man she loves that he’s her everything.
And the thoughts keep rolling through my mind as I drive home.
Epilogue
Harley
One month later
“I think we'll order take out,” I say to Rex, my furry rescue mutt. His tail thumps as I pull open my laptop to figure out what to order.
The sleet is wreaking havoc outside my windows on the city below.
But we still have power, and I have a new book to get started on. A new world to create. A new story to get lost in.
My phone alerts a text, and I dismiss the unknown number . . . that is until I see the text: I’m here. In your city. Do you think we could meet up, or I could come over? I’m missing your magic. I’m missing you.
About the Author
New York Times Bestselling author K. Bromberg writes contemporary romance novels that contain a mixture of sweet, emotional, a whole lot of sexy, and a little bit of real. She likes to write strong heroines and damaged heroes who we love to hate but can’t help to love.
A mom of three, she plots her novels in between school runs and soccer practices, more often than not with her laptop in tow and her mind scattered in too many different directions.
Since publishing her first book on a whim in 2013, Kristy has sold over two million copies of her books across twenty different countries and has landed on the New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal Bestsellers lists over thirty times. Her Driven trilogy (Driven, Fueled, and Crashed) is currently being adapted for film by the streaming platform, Passionflix.
With her imagination always in overdrive, she is currently scheming, plotting, and swooning over her latest hero. You can find out more about him or chat with Kristy on any of her social media accounts.