Their Christmas Miracle: A collection of spicy xxx-mas tales

by Fox, Logan

  “It was sunny this morning,” Blake said, as if in explanation, voice pitched loud over the drumming above their heads. “Didn’t think the weather would take a turn for the worse.”

  Yeah. Just what she’d thought of her marriage, a few months ago. Elle snorted, but quietly, and tightened her grip around her shoulders. She was freezing, what with her earlier jaunt through the snow. Even this brief walk had dropped her core temperature by what felt like ten degrees.

  Blake lived in a run-down duplex that looked out of place beside a crumbling book store and the blank wall of what could have been either a factory or a warehouse. And to think, two blocks up sat the Golden Goose and a bunch of corporate skyscrapers.

  He opened the narrow door on the side of the building and waved her up.

  The stairwell was dark and claustrophobic. About half-way up, Elle’s stomach began to tighten.

  What the hell was she doing?

  The footsteps behind her made it clear she couldn’t turn around. She could hear Blake breathing — a soft, unobtrusive sound — but it was too close, too personal. Why wasn’t she back at the hotel? Sam had at least had the decency to pay for that upfront for another day. She only had to check out tomorrow morning. The hotel had a shower. A bath, even, if she felt like a soak. All she had to do was turn around, call a taxi—

  And admit defeat.

  Being chivalrous didn’t work on a narrow stairwell. Blake had to maneuver around Elle to reach the door and unlock it. For a moment, they were squeezed tight against each other, Elle’s shoulders digging into the wall and Blake’s body hard and warm against her. He gave her an apologetic smile, unlocked the door, and held it open with his arm over her head. She sidled out from under him and stepped inside.

  That slowly-building panic began to fade. The loft was clean, neat, bare. Most of one wall consisted of French-paned window panels that stretched from floor to ceiling.

  No curtains.

  Elle stepped closer, lifting her chin to peer past the glass and outside. There was no need for covering up the windows — they looked out on a vast expanse of empty roof, a narrow alley, and the brick wall of a shopping mall.

  “More coffee? It’s better than the kind I have at work. Everyone’s forever helping themselves to it — was costing me a fortune.”

  Strange, how downright chatty the man had become. Elle turned to him, managing a small smile and a nod of her head. There was only a strip of granite counter separating the kitchen from the bedroom. Blake’s bed — nothing but a mattress and a headboard — stood on a small, raised platform. But it was neatly made, the pillows plumped and perfectly positioned against that padded wood.

  Elle’s eyes did another quick scan, taking in the single couch facing a disused-looking television set, two bookshelves almost overflowing with well-read paperbacks and a few sedentary hard covers, the frosted-cube enclosure which, she realized in sudden panic, was probably where the bathroom was.

  Blake gave her a quizzical frown when he returned with two steaming cups of coffee. Elle tried, unsuccessfully, to hide the fact that she was scratching an itch on her stomach.

  “Bathroom’s over there,” Blake said, waving to the aforementioned partition.

  He looked at it then, perhaps as if seeing it for the first time. A flash of uncertainty crossed his face.

  “Uh…”

  “It’s fine. Thank you.” She set her coffee down on the table, paused, and then straightened.

  Showering: not a problem. He probably wouldn’t be able to see anything except a blurry silhouette behind that frosted glass. But what… then she’d have to put her wet clothes back on again?

  None of this made sense. She was being idiotic, impulsive, and downright childish. The hotel Sam had booked her into had to have warm, fluffy towels, interior heating, at least a damn robe for her to get into—

  “Here.”

  She jumped — when had he moved away? Had she seriously been staring so hard at that barely-concealed shower that she hadn’t noticed? She blushed, taking the surprisingly thick robe from Blake.

  “Towels are inside, you can’t miss them.” He shrugged at her then, as if wondering if there was another reason she was just standing there, blushing at him.

  Pushing back her shoulders, Elle gave him a nod. Then she soldiered her way into the enclosure, trying not to pause like a deer in new territory, wary for unexpected wolves, traps, or hunters.

  She found more clean, minimalistic utilities behind the glass. No door — who needed a door in a loft where it was obvious only a single people could live — but a pristine toilet, a clean shower and a stack of towels piled on a small crate that doubled as a toilet-paper holder.

  Lifting her head, Elle stared through the glass. Nothing but dark, smudgy shapes beyond.

  Taking a deep breath that felt entirely too much like some kind of preparation, Elle began peeling off her wet clothes.

  Blake

  Blake realized he had a smile on his face and hurriedly smoothed it away. It was fascinating, watching the woman move around his house. Weird, but fascinating. She looked so cautious, so unsure of what she’d find lurking around the corner.

  He glanced around, saw the corner of a Playboy jutting out from under the couch, and hurried over to shove it under the furniture with his the toe of his boot.

  That would have been embarrassing.

  Hopefully, she wouldn’t snoop around. Wouldn’t notice the stack of similarly uncouth magazines packed behind his crate.

  Blake forced a long, hard breath into his lungs and made himself to turn to the window. Elle probably couldn’t see him through the frosted glass, but he didn’t want to take the chance either. Besides, it seemed that, if he played his cards right, she’d be naked on his bed.

  His fingers tightened around his coffee cup.

  What the hell kind of a thought was that? He wasn’t a fucking horny teenager. He had no right to expect anything of the woman. He’d invited her here to dry off. Maybe eat something.

  Food!

  The thought turned him to the kitchen. He plucked open the fridge and stared gloomily inside. Food. Or, complete lack thereof.

  So he’d never intended to feed her. So what? Surely she could have seen it for the ruse it was. But what if she didn’t? She’d seemed genuinely surprised by the question. And her answer had seemed sincere. What if she was starving? It sounded like she’d been thrown out on her ass by her ex — maybe her last meal had been more than a few hours ago.

  “Uh… do you like Chinese?”

  For a moment, he thought Elle hadn’t heard him. So he crept closer to the bathroom. A warm fog escaped over the top of the frosted glass enclosure, the smell of his soap.

  “Elle?”

  “What?” There was a note of panic in her voice. The water snapped off, and he could see her pale shape twisting as she face him through the glass.

  “Uh, sorry, I just… do you like Chinese?”

  “Food?”

  “Yeah.” As opposed to? “Yeah, food. To eat.” He rolled his eyes at himself, and slapped a hand over his eyes. Smooth Blake… real smooth.

  “Uh… sure. Anything except pork. And no seafood.”

  He waited, almost sure she was about to rattle off a string of other requirements, but there was silence for a second or two, and then the water turned back on.

  So chicken or beef.

  Blake went into the kitchen and dialed the closest Chinese takeout in the area. They did an excellent chow mein, and a half-decent spring roll at least. The sad part was they knew him just from the sound of his voice by now. He’d just wrapped up the order when the water turned off. He heard Elle moving around the bathroom — bare feet slapping on the tiles — and blurred movement as if she was fluffing out her hair with a towel.

  He glanced down at himself, and grimaced at the stained clothes he still wore. He usually changed the moment he got home, but… Blake went over to his cupboard and tugged out a clean t-shirt and pair of jeans. All his
clothes were worn in, but at least this pair of jeans didn’t have any holes in them. And the shirt, although probably not as white as it used to be, didn’t have any grease on it.

  Blake turned, wanting to ask something inane like her thoughts on Peking duck, but stopped. She stood at the threshold of his bedroom, head tipped to the side, towel fluffing at her wet hair.

  His robe was too big. It gaped open at the front, showing a long sliver of pale flesh almost to her bellybutton along with the inner slopes of her breasts. A few beads of water clung to the underside of them like dew. He blinked, forced his eyes up, and gave her a crooked smile.

  “Should be here in a few minutes.”

  “Take it you don’t cook?” Elle said as she padded out of the bathroom.

  Blake passed her on his way in. She turned to watch him, hand pausing on her hair. He grabbed up her clothes — she’d hung them over the shower rail — and gave her a small smile as he passed again. “Not often. Plus, haven’t bought groceries in a while. Been a bit busy, what with work and stuff.”

  Her eyes narrowed at the sight of her clothes in his hands.

  “Dryer.” Blake pointed to the far corner of the loft.

  Then Elle was glancing around again, eyes wide and curious as she toweled her hair.

  Blake threw her clothes inside, selected an hour long program, and slammed the door shut. When he turned back to Elle, more of her stomach was visible as she twisted to peek into the kitchen. She seemed oblivious to her gaping robe and the effect it was having on his lower body. Blake licked his lips, grabbed up his cup, and sank down onto the couch in self defense. A few seconds later, Elle joined him.

  Reaching for her coffee, she finally seemed to realize how revealing the robe was. Her eyebrows shot up almost an inch, and she hastily grabbed the two halves of the robe in a fist, casting him a furtive glance from under her lashes.

  He made as if staring at the blank television was the most interesting thing he’d done all day, and took another long swallow of coffee.

  “Thanks. For the shower. Coffee.” Elle murmured into her cup.

  “Pleasure.” Blake shifted on the couch. It was surprisingly uncomfortable — if he didn’t feel like re-reading one of his books, he usually turned the TV so he could watch it from bed… on the rare nights he didn’t fall asleep the instant his head touched the pillow, of course. “So, he really cut you off? Just like that?”

  She stiffened, and he cursed himself. Of course she wouldn’t want to talk about her jerk off of a—

  “Yup. Just like that.” She sighed, took a slurp of coffee, and rested the rim of the cup against her lips. “Well, I guess I can’t really say, ‘Just like that.’ I mean, I knew it was coming. I just didn’t know what a bastard he’d turn into.” She set her cup down, turning to him in a flash of movement that he almost leaned away from before he could stop himself. “You know, I didn’t even get to tell him I knew? About her? About the—” her voice caught “—the other woman? I invited him to the restaurant. I was suppose to break up with him. But no!” Elle waved a hand, shaking her head and letting out a small, rough laugh. “Oh no. That’s not how Sam operates. He always has to be in control. Always has to have the last fucking say. Couldn’t even let me break up with him.”

  Perhaps realizing she’d gone off on a tangent, Elle dipped her head and blinked rapidly.

  Dear God, not tears. Please. He could handle entitled rants and vehement explosions and just about anything in between — but not crying. What the hell did you do with a sobbing woman? Hold her? Sure — like he’d known her long enough for that to not seem weird. Hand her a tissue? Shit, he was all out of those. Had been for years. At least since Sally—

  But then she straightened her back, took a long breath, and grabbed up her coffee again.

  “Doesn’t matter. Done’s done. Guess it just means I’ll have no excuse to go back to him.”

  “Go back to him?” Blake sat forward, sloshing coffee over the side of his cup as he slammed it down. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

  Elle glanced at him, eyes wide and skittish. “I didn’t say I was—”

  “He fucking cheats on you, doesn’t even have the decency to let you break it off, leaves you penniless on the street, and you want to go back to him?”

  Elle’s eyes had grown wider with each subsequent insult he tacked onto his harangue until those blue orbs sat like polished sapphires in their sockets.

  “I wasn’t going to—”

  “Fuck that.” Blake stood, walking to the window in an effort to flush out the sudden surge of energy bursting through him. “Fuck him.”

  There was a long silence, broken only by the sound of a small, ladylike slurp.

  “Who was she?”

  Blake stiffened at the question, but he didn’t take his hand from the glass or turn to face Elle. Instead he stared through the glass, like he had so many days and nights in the past — stared at the nest of pigeons roosting against one of the vents in the warehouse’s roof.

  “Sally. My ex.”

  “How long?”

  “What, married or cheated on?”

  “Both.”

  “Five years and four.”

  “Shit.”

  “Yeah. Shit.” Blake straightened, ran a hand down his face, and turned to face Elle. She had twisted around on the couch, arms over the back of it, chin resting on top of her hands as she stared at him. “Sucks, doesn’t it?”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” Blake sighed and sank back onto the couch. He stared at his cup for a moment, but no longer felt the urge to drink it. “I found them in bed together.”

  Elle drew air through her teeth. When he looked at her, she dipped her head like a bashful kitten, giving him a small, bleak smile.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He shrugged. “Don’t be. Happened years ago.”

  “How long?”

  “Seven years, three months.”

  “You remember to the day?”

  Blake shrugged again. When he turned to Elle, he could feel a sad smile pulling at his mouth.

  “Trust me, you will too.”

  IV

  Watersports

  Elle

  A doorbell chimed. Well, it didn’t exactly chime — it clanged and clonked like a drunk bellfounder’s idea of a practical joke. Elle jerked, almost spilling coffee on herself, and lifted her eyebrows at Blake.

  The pensive, depressed expression on his face lifted in an instant. He looked on the verge of outright laughter, but waved a hand at her and rose instead.

  “Takeout’s here.”

  “How on earth do you live with that thing?”

  “Don’t get much company, so it doesn’t really bug me.” Blake moved away, opening a kitchen drawer and rifling through it. “And hey, can we pretend I didn’t just say that? Hell, let’s just forget the last ten minutes happened, okay?”

  He gave her a quick glance, but turned away before she could nod.

  She heard his boots thudding down the stairs. Sinking back into the couch, Elle stretched out her legs and studied her bare feet for a moment.

  Gah, her nail polish needed serious maintenance. She curled her legs under her, flinched when they touched something buried between the arm and cushion of the couch, and hurriedly leaned closer to see what it was.

  Elle’s eyebrows twitched as she tugged at the corner of the magazine. There was less than an inch of it sticking out. She glanced at the empty, gaping doorway, and hurriedly yanked it free.

  A Penthouse. She cocked her head to the side and gently lay it down on the cushion beside her.

  She was on page fifteen, staring at a particularly vivid photo of a couple who were taking watersports to a whole new level, when she heard the door bang open. With a barely-suppressed squeal, Elle shoved the magazine under the couch.

  Blake didn’t seem to notice. He had his hands full of bags with enough food to feed a small third-world country. Elle shot up, hurrying over to him and takin
g one of the more precariously-held bags from his fingers.

  Again, their fingertips brushed.

  Her mind flickered, serving her a brief vignette of those few seconds when Blake hands had been around her neck, thumbs stroking her throat. A bolt of electricity coursed through her, and she almost fell over her own feet as she stepped back from him.

  Admittedly, it wasn’t like she’d seen any action for over a month. Sam had been busy…well, busy banging his secretary, and she’d been trying to summon up the courage to leave him because of it. There wasn’t a whole lot of friskiness going on during pity parties, now was there?

  “Got it?” Blake asked.

  “Sure,” she managed.

  Turning, Elle’s back stiffened.

  There, in the middle of the floor, lay a Penthouse. She ran forward, kicked it under the couch with surprising accuracy, and spun around to face Blake.

  And then realised it wasn’t the one she’d been paging through.

  His eyes were wide. He stood, stiff shouldered and slack-jawed, in the doorway.

  “I’m sorry.” Elle swallowed, licked her lips, and carefully put the takeout on the coffee table. “It was just… I didn’t know it was—I just wanted—”

  “Well,” Blake said, voice tight, “I guess it’s all downhill from here. You still want something to eat? ‘Cos I’d totally understand if you want—”

  “No, please, you didn’t do anything—” Elle cut off again. “I’m starving, really. That—” she waved a hand in the direction of the couch, “—is perfectly natural.” She grimaced at Blake’s sudden cringe. “I mean, we all do it.”

  Heat flashed onto her cheeks.

  “I mean, sometimes. Not all the times. Not like, every—”

  Shit. What the hell was wrong with her tongue? No, her brain. It was misfiring.

  “Blake, I’m sorry—”

  He cleared his throat, loud enough that it cut her off. Seeming unable to make eye contact with her, he went into the kitchen and set everything down. He dragged out a bar stool and slid onto it, calling her over with a flick of his head.