Three Nights Before Christmas: A Holiday Romance Collection

by Kati Wilde

  I’m still panting against the wall when the door snaps shut. Heart racing, I push the mask up and stare at the tree across the room. There’s a cardboard box on the floor beside it—I didn’t realize he carried that in, too. Colorful, unwrapped packages are piled inside.

  Christmas lights, I realize. Ornaments.

  Logan knew I didn’t have a tree. So he must have guessed I wouldn’t have decorations, either. Tears burn my eyes, and I stand there for a long minute with a thick knot in my throat, wondering how my life changed so suddenly and so completely with one knock at my door. I don’t know what to expect now.

  Except I can expect a fucking tomorrow. I’m all in for that. Which might be stupid and reckless, but it feels so right and I want it so much—and I rarely treat myself to anything I want.

  And maybe a fucking is all that I’m in for. Something unexpected and hot and wonderful.

  Then done.

  I ignore the pain that thought brings as I step back into my flannel shorts. My tree needs decorating. And maybe I won’t have Logan forever. But I apparently have him wanting me for a little while—and that’s one gift I won’t haggle over. Until this ends, I’ll take each day as it comes.

  Even if the only day I get is tomorrow.

  4

  Logan

  “One more stop,” my dad says, crossing an address off our list and tossing the clipboard onto the dash of my truck. “Then you can go take care of whatever’s been eating at you.”

  It’s Emma. She’s been eating at me.

  Emma and her freezing apartment.

  Driving around today with my dad, delivering meals and gifts to low income families, we’ve been to plenty of places where the thermostat is kept low, where parents and kids are bundled up inside their own homes. So I know what Emma’s doing, and I’d love to take care of that electric bill for her. I’d love to take care of anything she needs.

  But taking care of her is the problem. I’ve got a real bad feeling that throwing my money at her troubles will push her away. Just as she started pulling away on Friday, when I said I’d treat her to a drink. I want to be there for her in a way that she won’t put on a goddamn balance sheet.

  I just don’t know what that is yet.

  So frustration’s been tearing at me since I left her last night. It’s ripping at me now as I start up the truck, because her freezing apartment isn’t my only worry.

  I think I fucked up.

  Last night I left her with the impression that the only reason I was coming back was for sex—thinking I’d keep it simple, so I could ease her into a deeper relationship over time.

  But I don’t think I can settle for just fucking, even for a short time. I want more now.

  And I want to take care of her, give her everything I can. It killed me to drive away last night, leaving her in that cold apartment. Even knowing she was bundled up and safe—and that it probably wasn’t her first night spent huddled under a blanket.

  But it will be her last, damn it. “Who’s next?”

  “Millie Atwater.”

  He doesn’t need to give me her address. Millie Atwater’s been our last stop the past twelve years, ever since her granddaughter and her granddaughter’s boyfriend got put away for selling meth, and Millie took in two young great-grandchildren.

  Not so young anymore. Teenagers now, both of them. Probably at an age when receiving gifts and a holiday meal through a families-in-need program is more embarrassing than exciting, but when we arrived the weekend before Thanksgiving, I didn’t see anything other than welcome on their faces. And as Millie’s getting on in years, now they take care of their great-grandmother as much as she took care of them.

  “You worried about that job in Florida this week?” my dad asks.

  For a custom installation. Some bigwig ordered a bed too big to fit through any entrance, so I’ll be flying across the country and assembling the parts we’ve already shipped to the site. Which I’ve done before, plenty of times—I figure if they’re paying us six figures for a bed, then the least I can do is put it together at the location of their choice.

  I won’t like being away for three days while I’m starting up this relationship with Emma, but the installation itself isn’t a problem. “No. That’s all set,” I tell him.

  “You worried about Lucy being alone?”

  Lucy, the stray dog that’s adopted my house as her own. “No. Patrick will be stopping by to check in on her.”

  “Is it Emma?”

  I shoot a surprised glance at my dad, trying to read his face. Beneath the Santa hat he’s wearing, his expression’s as neutral as it’s ever been, which tells me he deliberately looks that way. My dad’s not neutral about anything.

  But there’s no point in denying it. If he’s got a problem with me chasing after his new office manager, it’s better to hash it out now.

  “Yeah, it’s Emma,” I tell him.

  Slowly he nods, and I see the glimmer of worry I expected to see before. But I don’t expect his reply.

  “You be careful with her, son,” he says solemnly.

  My back goes up. “What the hell does that mean?”

  My dad knows me. He knows I’m not going to fuck around with an employee, not unless I’m dead serious about her.

  And I am.

  “It just means that she hasn’t always had it easy.”

  I know that. I’m surprised he does. “Are you talking about her foster homes—did she tell you something about them?”

  “She didn’t have to. I saw it for myself.”

  I frown at him. “When?”

  “Six, maybe seven years back, when we were out delivering boxes. It was a house over on south Washington. One of the Christmas runs, it must have been, because you were right behind me with a box of wrapped gifts.”

  “I met her before?”

  And don’t remember? That can’t be right. Seeing her for the first time a few weeks ago was like a kick in the balls and like coming home to a warm holiday meal, all at once. Six or seven years ago, she’d have been fifteen or sixteen, so she probably looked about the same as she does now. I can’t imagine my reaction to her being much different when I was twenty.

  “You didn’t meet her. Probably didn’t even see her. Because I was ahead of you when she opened the door. A little skinnier than she is now, and I’ll never forget those big eyes, or the way she lit up when she saw my Santa hat. Or the way she really lit up when she saw the box I was carrying.”

  Which would have been a frozen turkey and all the dinner fixings, if I’d been carrying the wrapped gifts.

  And I’m starting to remember this. “That was the time you called up Linda.”

  A friend of his who works in Child Services. It was one of the few times in my life I’ve seen him pissed. He’d been terrifyingly quiet as we headed back to the truck, and we sat there for a full ten minutes, while he watched that house as if debating whether to storm back in. Finally he used his cell to call his friend, and didn’t tell me to drive away until after she reassured him that the girl would be taken care of that same day.

  What had his conversation with Linda been about? Some bruises that he’d seen?

  Dread settles in my gut like lead. “What happened?”

  “She was wearing a long sleeved shirt, but the sleeves were rolled up—doing dishes, I think. And there were marks all over her wrists and just above. I didn’t know what to make of them until her foster mother shows up at the door smelling like a whiskey factory. She grabs the girl by arm—hard enough you could tell it was hurting her—and the woman yanks her back into the house, hissing at me that they didn’t need any charity. Then she slammed the door in my face.”

  Not the first door we’ve had slammed in our faces. Probably won’t be the last. But it was the first time my dad ever called up Child Services after.

  Rage has a burning lock on my throat, but I manage to ask, “Did Linda follow up with you?”

  “I didn’t give her a chance. I called her
up the next day. She had one of their social workers visit that afternoon and had the girl in another house by that evening.” His gaze slides over to meet mine. “It was the girl’s sixth placement that year, Linda told me. Said some kids are difficult to place, they’ve got issues or special needs, but this was nothing the girl had done. Just shitty luck and a string of crappy homes that had slipped through the cracks. But when I followed up again a few weeks later, the girl seemed to have settled in all right to her new home. ‘The girl,’” he suddenly says again, then chuckles. “Didn’t know her name was Emma until she showed up for that interview.”

  “Did she recognize you?”

  He shakes his head. “Back then, I don’t think she really saw anything except the Santa hat and the box I was carrying. And don’t you ever tell her.”

  “I won’t.” Emma might not care that my dad witnessed what had happened, or she might feel embarrassed and ashamed—or worry that it had something to do with being hired. She wouldn’t have any reason to worry, but pride isn’t always a rational thing. I wouldn’t risk hurting her. “Does Marianne know?”

  “No.” And apparently my dad’s thinking the same thing because he adds, “It was her references and interview that got her hired. Not pity.”

  I never questioned that. So I just nod, waiting for him to continue.

  “Anyway,” my dad says. “That girl has stayed with me all these years. Because I’ll never forget how she looked at that box—like I was bringing her everything she ever hoped for. And I’ll never forget the way she looked when that door was closing, and she realized she wasn’t going to get it.” His throat works for a second. “Sometimes she looks at you that way—like she looked at that box. And that’s why I’m telling you to be careful with her. Don’t give her something, then take it away. And before you start anything, you need to be sure.”

  “I’m sure,” I tell him gruffly. “I’m more certain than I’ve ever been of anything.”

  A misty smile touches his eyes, his mouth. “Just like your mother. Always knowing when something’s right.”

  Yeah. And when it’s not right.

  I fucked up last night. Instead of coming to Emma with everything I had to give, I only offered part of it.

  That’s not what’ll happen tonight.

  This time I don’t leave a gift box. Just a note.

  Put on your mask.

  Unlock your door and wait.

  Signed,

  YOUR SECRET SANTA

  I could do this without the mask—but it’s sexy as hell on her. I think it excites Emma, too. When we fuck for the first time, though, she won’t be wearing it. I’ll be looking into her warm brown eyes as I sink my thick cock deep inside the lush heaven of her body.

  But a blindfold is just right for an abduction.

  When I open her door, Emma’s up against the wall where she was standing the night before—and my reaction’s about the same seeing her, except this time I know how she tastes. I know the heat of her mouth and the sweetness of her pussy. It’s all I can do to stop myself from lifting her against that wall and plunging deep.

  I hear the breath she draws as I step inside her living room. I see the lift of her small breasts beneath her pale blue top.

  She was expecting me tonight. I think she’s done her hair, though I can’t really tell, because it always looks so soft and wavy, like I spent all night fucking her, my fingers buried in those thick golden strands. Makeup, too. Though her eyes are covered, her lips are a deep, glossy cherry that makes the color of the red satin mask look cheap in comparison.

  Gone are the gloves and the thick sweater that she was swimming in yesterday. Instead she’s wearing one of those little button-up sweaters that give thousands of horny teenagers wet dreams about their school librarian. She’s paired it with that swingy little skirt I remember from her first day at work, though this time she isn’t wearing tights. She’s got striped socks on again. Red and white this time.

  There’s not a single doubt that I’ll be going down on my knees again tonight.

  But not yet.

  I stride across the room toward the tree. She’s decorated the branches and it looks damn pretty, but I’m not leaving the lights on to burn her place down. I yank the cord from the outlet and my gaze sweeps into the tiny kitchen. Nothing on the stove. Her keys are hanging from a peg by the front door.

  That’s all I need to know.

  I head back to Emma, who’s pressed up tight against the wall, and her toes are curling nervously against the threadbare carpet while I walk around her living room. Then as soon as I come near, she stops that nervous fidgeting and rises up on those toes, as if seeking a kiss.

  Hell. I’m not disappointing her.

  I bend my head and claim those cherry lips, loving the hitch of her breath when my tongue sweeps into the hot cavern of her mouth, loving her soft moan as she leans in against my chest and her tension immediately seems to melt. As if she’s been waiting for this all day.

  So have I. Which is why it’s so damn hard to tear my mouth from hers, to stop this cold.

  Need roughens my voice as I tell her, “You ready for me to take you, baby?”

  A breath shudders through her parted lips, the glossy red smeared a little now and looking sexy as hell. “Yes.”

  All right, then. In a swift movement, I grip her waist and hoist her up onto my shoulder, her cute ass pointing up and her beautiful head hanging down.

  A surprised scream is followed by a roll of her throaty laughter. “Logan!”

  “Santa.” To punctuate the reminder, I give her butt a little swat. “And like any good Santa, I’m hauling my gift sack around over my shoulder.”

  “This gift sack can walk into the bedroom, Santa.”

  If that was where we were going, I’d still carry her in. I stop by the couch long enough to grab the blanket she has folded neatly over one arm, and drape it over Emma’s back. That ought to keep her warm until I get her into the truck and get the heaters going again.

  Being covered up clues her in to the fact that I might not be taking her to the bed. “Logan?” she asks again, this time with a real question in her voice.

  I snatch the keys off the hook and open her door. “Like I said,” I tell her as I lock the handle and swing it closed, “I’m taking you.”

  “Where?”

  “My place.”

  “Why?”

  I’ll tell her. But not while she’s hanging upside down over my shoulder. “So I can show you my Christmas tree.”

  “Your Christmas tree?” Her giggles shake her against me. “Does your ‘Christmas tree’ have shiny balls hanging from it?”

  Naughty girl. With a laugh, I swat her butt again, then can’t stop myself from caressing those sweet curves through the blanket. She’s got the sexiest ass.

  “There are balls involved,” I tell her. “But they’re not too shiny.”

  “Is it a big tree?”

  “The biggest you’ve ever seen, baby.”

  “That’s probably true,” is her dry response.

  I don’t want to think about any others she’s seen. Jealousy’s not something I’m accustomed to—and it’s not as if I’ve been celibate all my life.

  Because I didn’t know Emma Williams was going to come crashing into it.

  I open the truck and gently set her on the passenger seat. Her face is flushed, her mask still on—though it’s slipped up above her eyebrows. Her soft brown eyes meet mine for a long moment, and her gaze searches my face, as if she’s trying to figure out what I really intend.

  Then deliberately, she pulls the mask down to cover her eyes. A smile curves her lips.

  That’s an invitation to continue if I ever saw one. Quickly I buckle her in and head around the front of the truck.

  “Do I smell pizza?” she says the moment I get into the driver’s seat.

  “Yup.” Because eating at someone’s house is different from going out to dinner or drinks. No bill arrives at the end of a visit,
and she won’t feel any obligation to repay me, except maybe to invite me into her place sometime for coffee. “You like pepperoni?”

  “Who doesn’t?”

  Good question. “I figure you’ll need your strength after you climb my Christmas tree,” I tell her, and her husky laugh goes straight to my cock.

  And I can’t fucking help myself. With a groan, I reach across the seat and capture her face in my hands, drawing her in for a long taste of her mouth. When I finally let her go, she’s breathing hard and her pussy’s most likely soaking, which means I don’t waste another second before putting the truck in gear and swinging toward home.

  “How long until we’re there?”

  Her voice is strained, her fingers fisted in her lap. She’s squirming in her seat like she was during the drive to the bank on Friday. Was she that hot and wet then? Hot and wet and I didn’t touch her, didn’t taste her?

  I won’t make the same mistake tonight.

  “Ten minutes.” Which might end up being the longest of my life. “You gonna make it?”

  Her head falls back against the headrest and she gives a tortured laugh. “With or without shoving my fingers beneath my skirt?”

  Already stiff and aching, my cock hardens to steel in a sudden, painful rush. “Do it, baby. Let me see you get those fingers all wet. Let me see you make yourself come.”

  Although then it’ll become a real question whether we’ll make it to my place without me pulling over and fucking her in my truck.

  Biting her lip, she shakes her head. “It’s not as good. I want your fingers.”

  “You’ll get them.” The promise is low and harsh. “As soon as we get there. My fingers, my tongue. I’ll eat you all up, make sure your pussy’s all soft and wet before I fuck you deep and hard.”

  “Oh god.” A soft moan escapes her and her back arches, her hips pressing against the taut seatbelt. “Hurry,” she pleads, and another frustrated moan is accompanied by a roll of her hips. “Or distract me. Tell me what you did today.”