The 25 Men of Christmas

by Cassie James

  She’s tight, and I have no idea how long I can last with her wrapped around me. I bring her legs up so her ankles are hooked behind my neck, and I pull away from her until just my tip is still inside of her. Our eyes lock, and I thrust all the way back in, pulling groans from both of us as I do. I repeat the action over and over again until neither of us is anything more than a panting mess.

  She finally gives me what I want.

  “Ryan!”

  And that’s all it takes for me to cum, too.

  Twenty-Two

  Hunter

  December 09

  I watch Gemma from the corner of my eye as she debates ice cream flavors at the counter like we both don’t already know she’s going to get the peppermint flavored one. I rock back on my heels and watch as the kid behind the counter rolls his eyes.

  Normally that shit wouldn’t fly with me, but I kind of get it. If she wasn’t my date, I’d probably be pretty fucking annoyed that it’s taken her this long to decide, too. But she’s Gemma, and she’s mine, and that’s pretty much all that fucking matters at this point.

  “Okay, yeah, can I have the peppermint?” she finally asks, and the kid reaches for the scoop with a relieved sigh. Gemma’s shoulders hunch, and I step up behind her, dropping a hand on her shoulder as I glare at the kid.

  He eyes me warily before turning back to Gemma and offering her a forced smile. “Did you want to mix anything in?”

  I want to lean over the counter and shake the shit out of the kid when Gemma whispers a reply. Gemma is confident and strong and never questions what she wants. One twerpy teenager isn’t going to change that about her. The kid looks up at me and has the audacity to shoot me a sympathetic smirk, like he’s sorry I have to be here with Gemma.

  “I didn’t catch that, could you—”

  “Brownies,” I snap, and his eyes go wide when he notices my glare. “She wants brownies for fuck’s sake. And you’ll make me the same fucking thing, and you won’t goddamn complain about it.”

  “Hunter,” she hisses, but I wrap my arm around her and pull her tight against my chest. She turns her head up at me as the kid grimaces and gets to work on our ice cream.

  We were having such a good date up until this point. We had a fantastic fucking dinner, and she’d been more than on board to sneak in and out of the downtown shops, picking out gifts for my sisters and their kids as we went. It’d been a simple, fun evening. And my girl loves ice cream.

  “Apologize to him,” she says as we shuffle down the line of the counter while the kid works on crafting the treats.

  “Nope,” I say, popping the p. She tries to twist out of my arms, but I tighten my grip and pull her tighter against my chest. I prop my chin on the crown of her head as she squirms and try to ignore the fact that I’m starting to go a little hard. “Gotta teach kids lessons, and we can’t let this one go through life being a little shit.”

  The kid grimaces, and I muster up the most intimidating smile I can at him. Kid’s gonna remember his fucking manners next time, that’s for damn sure.

  “You’re such an asshole,” she quips when I let her go in favor of fishing my wallet out of my pocket. I slide the kid a twenty and wave off the change as I snatch up our bowls from the counter. “Apparently with a heart of gold.”

  I smirk at her as I move toward one of the tables at the front of the shop. It’s near a window that’s lined in Christmas lights and has a nice view of the city’s Christmas tree situated in the small square across the street.

  “More like an asshole of gold,” I joke as we sit, and she snorts into the bite of ice cream she was taking. “My asshole is a fucking treasure, Gemma. You’re lucky to be in the same room with it, honestly.”

  “Yeah?” she asks, her eyes dancing with laughter as she shakes her head and shovels another bite of the ice cream into that sweet, sweet mouth of hers. I watch as she licks the spoon clean before digging back into the treat. And holy shit, I’m as hard as a fucking rock. “You got the Midas touch downstairs or something?”

  “Are you asking if my asshole turns shit into gold?” I ask with a quirked eyebrow, and her lips quiver around a giggle as she shrugs her shoulders in a so what sort of way. “It’s a little rude to talk about my asshole on a first date, don’t you think?”

  “Very,” she agrees with a sage nod before bursting into another fit of giggles.

  Her cheeks flush pink with her laughter. I’ll spend every day for the rest of my life trying to drag those laughs out of her if she’ll let me.

  I pop the DVD into her player before settling myself on the massive couch next to Gemma. Her legs are tucked under her as she studies the case to the seasonal porn DVD that I’d pulled out of the box when I’d drawn the ninth day of the advent.

  “Did you read this thing?” she asks, her voice a mix of mirth and awe as she holds it up to me.

  I eye the case warily, eyes roaming over the red and green title Santa’s Cumming to Towne, and grimace. I literally would’ve taken one of the condoms over this disaster.

  I shrug, and she turns the case over in her hands to read the back, her eyes widening as she laughs. “What kind of porn star name is Alexus Towne?” she asks before a bark of laughter tears from her throat. “Watch as Santa cums to Towne! Alexus Towne waxes his North Pole? Holy shit, this is going to be terrible. Push play!”

  I shake my head at her as my own smile tugs at my lips. Okay, maybe the weird Christmas porn isn’t going to be so bad after all…

  I push the play button and settle back on the couch, arms stretched over the back of the sofa as I stretch my legs out to rest on the coffee table. Almost immediately, Gemma tucks her herself against my side, leaning her head on my chest and wrapping her arm around me as she snuggles closer.

  I drop my arm from the back of the couch and let my fingers roam up and down her arm as the DVD starts. Alexus Towne struts out in her naughty Mrs. Claus outfit, sneaking down the stairs to find Santa flipping through a book of her in naughty poses with a candy cane shaped dildo.

  When I glance down at Gemma, I find she’s about as interested in Alexus Towne as I am.

  “Who did you get the little statue figure thing of Mary for?” she blurts out when she sees me looking at her.

  “I didn’t get a statue—” But then I pause because I did get an idol of the Virgin of Guadalupe for my grandma. I get hot around the neck, and… goddammit, am I blushing? “It’s La Virgen da Guadalupe. I get them for my grandma for Christmas. I have every year since I was a kid.”

  My stomach twists when she goes all doe-eyed at me, like she’s amazed there’s any part of me that can manage to be thoughtful and genuine. Which I totally get, by the way. I take very few things in life seriously. And those things I do take seriously are my family, rugby, and Gemma—not necessarily in that order.

  Oh, and tequila. I take my tequila pretty fucking seriously, too.

  “Your grandma’s Catholic?”

  “My entire family is, except my mom. I heard my grandma nearly had a damn heart attack when Dad started dating her. Imagine her horror when they got married in a Protestant church. The Virgin Mary cried that day.”

  “The Virgin Mary cried…” She trails off, eyes going wide at the ridiculous statement.

  “Grandma’s words, not mine.”

  “Your grandma sounds intense.”

  I’m getting ready to agree with her because yeah, my dad’s mom is one of those intense Mexican-Catholic grannies who’ll beat your ass in a second if you step a foot out of line. But out of the corner of my eye, I see Alexus Towne going down on Santa while a full grown man in footie reindeer pajamas peeks around the Christmas tree with wide, horrified eyes.

  What the fuck are we watching?

  “Mom?” Footie Pajamas asks, and the slutty Mrs. Claus jumps to her feet, shielding Santa’s North Pole from her “son’s” view. “What are you doing to Santa? Where’s Dad?”

  I grimace when Santa shoves his hand up her skirt and jams two of his fin
gers in her pussy, pumping them in and out while she moans loudly. Gemma shifts next to me, and I don’t miss her scoff when Mrs. Claus grabs her tits as she looks her “son” in the eye and says, “Go back to your room, baby. Santa’s being very, very naughty, and Mommy needs to teach him a lesson.”

  “Okay, but is Santa leaving presents?”

  Mom moans loudly again as Santa mercilessly finger fucks her from behind. She reaches behind her to grab his wrist, but he pulls his hand out her pussy to slap it away. And yeah, maybe that’s a grown man and not her kid, but I still can’t help but feel a little grossed out when he sneaks back around the Christmas tree and pulls his dick out to start jerking off as Santa shoves his candy cane up Mrs. Claus’ muff.

  I glance back down at Gemma, and her eyes are wide as she stares at the screen. I lean in close, nipping at her ear as I whisper, “This isn’t very sexy, is it?”

  I turn more fully toward her, dropping my lips to her neck as I trail my fingers along the hem of her Storms t-shirt. The way she twitches at my touch has my cock twitching in my joggers, and the way she squirms when I run my fingers along the zipper at the front of her jeans has me shifting in my seat, too.

  Her breath hitches in her throat, and she replies, “No, not a turn on at all.”

  I pop the button on her jeans and take a moment to inappropriately thank the mother Mary that her jeans are made of that stretchy material girls are so fond of. Because I’ve got plenty of room to work my hand down the front of her pants and slip my hand past the band of the lacy panties she’s wearing. I groan at the feeling of her wet heat on my fingers as I trace them along her body. Fucking Christ.

  I sink a finger further down, finding her entrance and pushing into her as she gasps and bucks her hips up to meet my hand. I add another finger as she moans and rub the heel of my palm against her clit as I plunge in and out of her.

  Gemma’s head falls back against my arm, and I curl down to yank a handful of her hair, getting her head in just the right position to kiss the hell out of her while I finger fuck her. I loosen my grip in an instant and hope like hell I remember to apologize to her later for snatching her hair up like that.

  But for now, I get lost in the sensation of her rolling her hips against my hand, of her tangling her tongue with mine, of her responding easily to each and every one of my touches. I jerk when she rests a hand on my thigh and squeezes gently, just south of where my dick is straining against my underwear.

  I’m positive my dick’s going to burst through my pants in an attempt to get to her and I get it. Because I’ve waited years for the chance with her, and every second I’m not buried to my balls inside of her feels like a second of my life wasted.

  I groan into the kiss when she runs her hand up my thigh and grasps my dick through my pants. And the instant her hand’s on my dick is the second I completely lose the ability to string my thoughts together because holy shit.

  Her touch is everything I’ve craved for two fucking years.

  It’s like something switches to life inside of her when she gets her hands on my dick. She clenches around my fingers, hips rocking hard and faster against my hand, and she rips her mouth away from mine in favor of moaning almost as loudly as Mrs. Claus is on the TV.

  I spare the television a quick glance to see Mrs. Claus getting railed by Santa as she shoves Christmas cookies in her mouth, and I have to turn away. Because that’s not hot at all, but my girl’s here in front of me, and she’s pulling away from me to hook her fingers in the waistband of her pants to start working them over her hips. I reach behind me to snag my t-shirt and drag it over my head.

  “How do you like having Santa’s little helper shoved in your pussy?”

  We both pause and spare a glance at the TV. “Least sexy thing ever,” she mutters, but her cheeks are flushed, and she’s tearing her shirt over her head. I reach for the remote, fingers fumbling to turn the TV off but settling for the mute button when Gemma reaches behind her to unhook her bra.

  My dick somehow goes harder at the sight of her sitting on her couch, skin flushed as she watches me lift my hips to shove my pants and underwear down. I kick out of the pants just in time for her to reach for the condom on the table before twisting around and swinging her leg over mine. She settles back on her haunches as she twists the condom package in her fingers. I jostle her forward with my thighs, and my dick twitches as her tits bounce right in my face.

  I tighten my jaw as she tears the condom open and rolls it over my dick, abs clenching as I fight the urge to roll us over and fuck her until she can’t walk. But the thing about Gemma is that she likes to keep some semblance of control—and honestly, I’m not mad at the idea of letting her take me out for a sleigh ride.

  Pretty sure I lose my eyes in the back of my head when she grabs my dick in one hand and digs her nails into my tattooed pec with the other. I have no doubt I’m gonna blow a Christmas load like no other at the end of this. She lines the head of my dick up with her entrance and digs her nails in harder until I peel my eyes open to look at her again.

  “Are you ready for Mrs. Claus to teach you a lesson, Santa?” she teases, and I can’t help the strangled laugh that tears through my throat as she sinks onto my aching dick.

  She rolls her hips experimentally a couple times before settling into a steady rhythm, and I swear I’ve died and gone to heaven. I reach for her hips, digging my fingers into her luscious curves, and I just sort of hold on for the ride. My girl knows what she likes, and she’s going to take it from me.

  I’m fine with that.

  I have to believe that the two of us have plenty of time. Plenty of time for switching it up in our sex life, and plenty of time for the other stuff, too.

  If I’m lucky, one day she’ll meet my granny, and I’ll admit that I thanked the Virgin of Guadalupe idol I bought her for Christmas this year for putting this woman in my life.

  Twenty-Three

  Gemma

  I turn in circles in the middle of the men’s department, hands fisted on my hips as I try to figure out what the fuck to get for each one of my twenty-five boyfriends for Christmas. My eyes pause on a decidedly out-of-place Manchester U jersey that looks like it might fit Edric. And there’s an Arsenal jersey right next to it that will definitely fit Jean-Luc.

  I snatch both of them up—because at this point I don’t have time to question it—and cuss myself the entire way back toward my abandoned shopping basket for waiting so damn long to start seriously Christmas shopping.

  Cara’s standing by the basket, popping chewing gum as she stares at her phone with practiced disinterest.

  “Took you long enough,” she mutters when she glances up.

  I open my mouth to respond, but she holds up a finger when her phone starts to ring. She turns away from me as she answers and I can feel my eyebrows inching toward my hairline at how out-of-character that brush off just was.

  What’s gotten into her?

  I bend down to snatch up my overflowing basket and catch a glimpse at her basket. Her empty basket. I move some of my stuff over to her basket and grab the handles of both.

  Something’s obviously up with Cara as her shoulders tense over whatever’s going on from the other side of that phone. Whatever’s up, I’m not sure why she hasn’t mentioned anything. We’re usually the sort of friends that over share—not withhold.

  I can’t cross my arms with both of the baskets in my hands, but I can sort of rest my hands on my hips and glare at the back of her head until she turns around again. When she does, her eyes are still focused on her screen and I have to clear my throat obnoxiously until she glances up at me.

  “What?” she asks as she eyes my basket hips. “Did you take my basket? You bitch.”

  She doesn’t even put any heart behind calling me a bitch, the word falling flat between us.

  “What’s going on?” I ask her.

  “What’s going on with you? How’s having twenty-five of the hottest men on the west coast fawning over y
ou going?”

  “Nope, we’re not talking about my guys—”

  “Don’t you mean your harem?” she asks as she wiggles her eyebrows up and down like she’s Groucho freaking Marx or something.

  My lips twitch at the term, and I have to focus all my energy on glaring instead of laughing. “Stop deflecting. I’m worried about you.”

  “Why are you worried about me? You’re the one that has a different dude making you scream O, Holy Night every night of the week right now.”

  “Dude.”

  “What, not funny?”

  It’s actually hysterical, if not totally freaking inappropriate, but there’s worry eating away at the light in her eyes. And I’m a good best friend, dammit. She will not dissuade me from figuring out what the hell’s going on with her.

  “Just tell me what’s going on, Cara. Please.”

  She shuffles from one foot to the other and glances down at her phone when it rings again. I snatch it away from her, and one of the baskets almost goes flying.

  I stare down at the foreign area code. “Who the hell is calling you from New York?”

  “Donovan Cain.”

  My mouth sags open. “I’m sorry, what? Why?”

  Cain is another hockey legend. Dad would shit his pants if he knew Cara was talking to a guy from the Vikings. WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?!

  “Cara.”

  I don’t know how she does it without falling over, but she somehow manages to sag against the back of the mannequin behind her as she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. She takes another before she opens her eyes and fixes me with an intense stare.

  “You remember that video that Coach Fredericks posted on Facebook of me teaching the boys how to chirp?”

  I narrow my eyes and nod. Cara doesn’t have a lot of adorable moments, but that sure as hell was one of them. I never thought seeing her teach eleven to fourteen-year-old boys how to effectively trash talk the other players without being crass would be cute, but god, it so was.