Page 123 of Mistletoe All the Way

Right now, there’s time for something else.

“We’ll still be on time even if we don’t leave for ten minutes,” I say, speaking first.

“That’s all I need.”

After that he finds a condom, tosses off his duster, brings me to the couch, and lays me down. Then we untangle ourselves from some clothes, and he kneels between my thighs.

His dark eyes glimmer with passion. He rolls on the protection, notches the head of his cock against me, then slides inside.

I gasp. I moan. I pull him close, wanting to feel all of him, needing everything. Asking for it all.

And as he fills me, his cock hot and heavy and everything I need, I start to think maybe, just maybe, we can find a way to make this work.

He went to bat for me. I can do the same for him.

But for now, my mind is sparking with colors, with lights, with joy and lust all melting together at once.

I grasp at my cowboy Santa, tugging him impossibly closer till pleasure coils tight inside me.

It’s a sharp, hot burst of bliss.

We come together.

And then, we say goodbye to Rusty and hustle out of there, racing to the final event in the competition.

39 FOREARMS AND FLANNEL

Eloise

I’m still buzzed on the sex and the speech and the man who stood up for me when we reach the town square. I feel like I’ve drunk the best glass of champagne, and I can’t wait to talk to him later and figure this out. Figure us out somehow.

And I feel even better when I get my first look at the crowd. Hundreds of townspeople and tourists gather around the gazebo, spilling out across and past the town square.

It worked. It really worked. Sure, the town has talked up the event on its social, but I’ve watched their numbers and those of the Cowboy Vet. And, not to brag, but to totally brag, the Cowboy Vet’s are much bigger.

Noah was right.

I did this. I helped make Mr. Holiday a success by making him a mini star. And he looks the part right now in his over-the-top hot-as-hell Western-style Santa outfit.

And I did this by sharing something fun, something happy, something that makes people feel good.

Now I’m waiting with the hundreds of other people to find out what the final event is.

Could be a holiday scavenger hunt around town. A candy cane–making contest. A snowshoeing event.

Pass.

Right on time later that morning, the mayor strides through the crowd like she’s parting the seas with her candy cane megaphone. She marches up the steps to the gazebo, and booms, “Is Rowan Bishop in the house to introduce this challenge?”

The burly hockey star from the San Francisco Sea Dogs bounds up the steps. He’s a fixture in this town too, since he has a cabin here.

He thanks her, takes the megaphone, then declares, “The final event in the first-ever Mr. Holiday competition will be held at Coretta’s tree farm, and it’s… the lumberjack challenge.”

My eyes pop. That’s… hot. I’m picturing forearms and flannel. Or—I glance at Noah—a white T-shirt and rippling muscles.

“Each of the five contestants will cut down five marked trees,” he continues authoritatively. “They’ll be judged on speed and precision. We need clean cuts. No splintering. No falling branches.”

Rowan gestures to Coretta, the tree farm owner and my new client. She’s standing by the front of the gazebo, her eyes crinkled at the corners, her hair in tight curls under her white knit cap.