Padme's Library: 🎅🎄Saturday's Series Spotlight🎄🎅: Mr. Christmas by Leta Blake

Saturday, January 6, 2024

🎅🎄Saturday's Series Spotlight🎄🎅: Mr. Christmas by Leta Blake

Mr. Frosty Pants #1
Summary:
Frosty former friends get a second chance in this Christmas gay romance!

When Casey Stevens went away to college four years ago, he ghosted on his straight best friend, Joel Vreeland. He hoped time and distance would lessen the unrequited affection he felt, but all it did was make him miss Joel more. Home for the holidays, Casey hopes they might find a way to be friends again. But Joel’s frosty reception reminds Casey of just how hard he had to fight to be Joel’s friend in the first place. It’s going to take a Christmas miracle to get past that cool façade again.

Joel isn’t as straight as Casey believes, and his years of pining for Casey have left him hurting and alone, caring for his abusive father and struggling to get by. Unable to trust anyone except his rescue dog—and with no reason to believe Casey is interested in him for more than a holiday fling—Joel’s icy heart might shatter before it can thaw.

Can Casey and Joel’s love overcome mistrust, parental rejection, class differences, and four long years apart? Mr. Frosty Pants is a stand-alone, Christmas gay romance by Leta Blake featuring a virgin hero, childhood friends-to-lovers, second chance romance, and steamy mm first times.

Mr. Naughty List #2
Summary:
A cute teacher gets a spanking this Christmas. How hot can it get being on his former student’s Naughty List?

Is Aaron allowed to want a hot holiday fling with his young former student? Even more forbidden, is he allowed to want this student to spank him?

It’s another Christmas, and Aaron is still in the closet as a gay man and a natural submissive. With one youthful indiscretion blacking his ethics record, he can’t afford to indulge his desires no matter how pent up and needy that leaves him.

Until his former student comes home for the holidays.

Dominant and charming, RJ knows what Aaron needs—intense, steamy encounters and a firm hand. As Christmas nears, RJ helps Aaron unlock his true self. But family and fallout await, and all good things must end.

Or can their hot holiday affair turn them into lasting lovers?

Mr. Naughty List is a steamy, Christmas MM romance set in the Mr. Christmas series that began with Mr. Frosty Pants, but can be read as a standalone. Featuring light D/s, spanking, an older sub with a younger Dom, former student/teacher dynamics, and, of course, warm, sweet holiday feels complete with a strong happy ending.

Mr. Jingle Bells #3

Summary:

Opposites attract as frosty business partners become fake boyfriends in this Christmas gay romance!

Playing fake boyfriends starts their sleigh ride into love!

After an emergency forces Ashton Sellers from his apartment, all he wants for Christmas is new lipgloss, zero contact from his abusive family, and a place to stay for the holidays. Cue his business partner begrudgingly taking him in.

Walker’s a fuddy-duddy with no sense of fun, but he does have a safe, warm home with four adorable dogs and delicious food on the table.

If it turns out Walker’s also a secret softy with a tender side and a hot body beneath his endless parade of golf shirts? Great, good, cool. And if Walker wants Ashton to pretend to be his boyfriend for his sister’s Christmas-themed wedding? Awesome, amazing.

Could Walker be the safe haven Ashton missed out on as a child? Could they be falling in love for real?

But when Ashton uncovers a painful mistake in Walker’s past, it hits too close to home. As the jingle bells quiet and the snow settles, will Ashton be able to forgive Walker, or will their relationship be over before it ever truly begins?

Mr. Jingle Bells is a gay Christmas story by Leta Blake featuring forced proximity, opposites attract, fake dating, office romance, steamy scenes, and a taffy-sweet happy ending. It's set in the Mr. Christmas universe, which began with Mr. Frosty Pants, but can be read as a standalone.

Content warnings for childhood abuse, past addiction issues, PTSD episodes, and gambling.

Mr. Frosty Pants #1

Chapter One

If Casey Stevens ignored the gaudy multicolored Christmas lights strewn through the bushes and trees—and the massive air-blown, glowing Santa popping in and out of a big, green box in the front yard—his old house looked the same as it had before they moved out. Although his dad would suck his teeth in disapproval if he saw how the new owners had decorated for the holidays.

All Casey’s life, Jonathan Stevens had insisted on keeping Christmas “classy”: single, white electric candles in each window, expensive greenery on the window sills, and a big wreath on the front door. To Casey’s dad, strings of lights all over the house were the epitome of tackiness, and colored ones? Well, they were downright trashy.

Casey slowed his Lexus RX—last year’s Christmas present from his parents—as he passed his old home. Nostalgia dug its nails into him with a bittersweet grip. His folks had moved out of the upwardly mobile Manor Crest neighborhood and into the uber-uppercrust Pearlwood community the autumn after he’d left for NYU. This was his first visit to Knoxville in almost four years, and his folks’ new neighborhood seemed nice enough, full of shimmering near-palaces, but it didn’t satisfy him or feel like home. Not the way the old Manor Crest house did.

In the new house, Casey didn’t have his own bedroom anymore. Instead, he had a generic, perfectly appointed guest room to crash in, complete with cream walls, cream bedspread, and cream carpet. Impersonal and threatening in its purity, it was nothing at all like the messy room in the Manor Crest house where he’d kicked back to watch YouTube videos of cats climbing into boxes and squirrels raiding bird feeders. The place where he’d first jerked off, fretted about the fact that it’d been to thoughts of Joel, and coped with the angst of falling in love for the first (and only) time.

Leaving his former house behind, Casey drove over the next hill, his eyes gobbling up the old, familiar sights. These were the streets he’d biked on as a kid, the houses he’d passed every day on the way to the bus stop, and the neighbors he’d ultimately lost track of.

He noticed Mrs. Weinstein had put her menorah in the window like she did every year. And Mr. Maples had put out his giant, glowing Nativity scene again. The same one Casey and Joel had stolen the baby Jesus from during their senior year. They’d hidden it in Joel’s garage for a night or two and then brought it back to Mr. Maples’s yard on Christmas Eve wrapped in a big, red bow.

Casey’s stomach fluttered remembering the way Joel had laughed as they’d run off into the cover of night, leaving the glowing baby Jesus behind where he belonged. Joel’s slanted smile had glinted like a knife in the darkness.

Joel.

Casey stopped the car and gazed longer at Mr. Maples’s nearly life-size Nativity scene. The shining Mary was pretty with her long, brown, painted-on hair and blue painted-on dress. Her rosy, holy lips were open in astonished joy as she gazed down at the child in the manger.

Casey’s cheeks heated. Those were the lips he’d stupidly kissed “for practice” on Joel’s dare the night they’d stolen the Christ child. Joel had knelt solemnly by the manger, his pale skin glowing and dark hair messy, clutching the baby Jesus in his arms as he’d watched Casey’s clumsy attempt with hot eyes. Casey would never forget how his adorably asymmetrical face had lost all its usual crabby irritation.

A shiver shot up Casey’s spine like it always did whenever he thought of that night: the clarity of feeling in Joel’s shining gaze. He’d looked holy too—holier than Mary even—lit from below by the glowing, empty manger.

In that moment, Casey had almost let himself think…

Yes, for a second he’d really believed it was possible that his own tender feelings were returned. There’d been something so undeniable in Joel’s eyes, something he’d never seen there before and never let himself look for again.

God, Joel’s eyes.

During an elective poetry class at NYU, he’d tried to describe them once. The best he’d come up with was a sad metaphor describing Joel’s eyes as akin to muddy water—dark, reflective but clear.

Obviously that poem never saw the light of day. He was better at ad copy than whimsical explorations of feelings and fanciful descriptions of nature. Poetry class had turned out like life in general for Casey: an exercise in pretending to show everything while actually showing as little as possible.

Which was why he was getting a degree in marketing. He could shine up shit like no one else. Maybe it was because when it came to ad copy, design, and branding assignments, he actually wanted to draw people in. In day-to-day life, he’d learned long ago that to “keep up appearances,” he had to hold people at arm’s length.

Ann, his therapist in New York, said he was a master at presenting a smooth, likable façade instead of showing his raw humanity. And he agreed. There was a reason for that, after all. He’d been brought up in a household that prioritized image over reality, and it wasn’t like anyone was clamoring to know his personal shit anyway—not his parents, not his acquaintances at NYU, and hardly any of the guys he’d dated.

Even coming out hadn’t changed how alone he felt. There was something holding him back, keeping him from connecting. Something he was bound and determined to change because that was another issue he was working on with Ann: Coming to terms with the fact that at twenty-two, he no longer had anyone to blame but himself for his disconnected loneliness.

The fact was, there’d only ever been one person he’d ever been tempted to be entirely authentic with, even if he died from the humiliation of it. But he’d chickened out and pushed Joel away with both hands.

Putting the car back in gear, he eased past Mr. Maples’s Nativity scene and then past Mrs. Westfield’s gold-bow-and-holly-encrusted house—keeping it classy too, he guessed. Snowflakes drifted in hazy circles, flecking his windshield. Not enough to turn on his wipers and definitely not enough to stick.

Just the usual Tennessee tease.

He winced, thinking of his ex-boyfriend Theo packing up the small box of things he’d kept at Casey’s apartment. “Being with you is just a tease of the real thing, babe. You don’t love me. You act like you do, but you don’t.” Theo had run his hand through the fuzzy black curls on top of his head, sighing in frustration. “To be fair, I don’t love you either. We both deserve someone who wants more than ‘this doesn’t suck.’” He’d smiled sympathetically, his white teeth shining starkly against his dark complexion. “We deserve someone we’re crazy about.”

He’d had a point. Casey hadn’t even cried when Theo left for good, and he supposed that said something.

No, it said everything.

It’d been six months since Theo put a definitive end to their year-long, off-and-on relationship. Casey didn’t really miss him so much as he missed knowing there was someone he could rely on to hang out with every weekend. Someone that meant Friday and Saturday nights were handled. Someone he enjoyed sexually and liked as a person, even if he wasn’t in love. In a city as big and bustling as New York, the appearance of intimacy was something. It beat being alone.

At this point in his senior year, he was ready to agree with Ann that his parents had done him a disservice in getting him an apartment instead of letting him live in the dorms. He’d at least have gotten to know more people in a communal situation. Probably. But Jonathan Stevens wouldn’t have it. Not when he could afford “better.” Not for his son.

But now, months after his and Theo’s breakup, Casey’s ridiculously expensive one-bedroom apartment, just a few blocks from busy Washington Square, felt so lonely that, despite Ann’s warnings that he might regret it, he’d been eager to accept his mom and dad’s invitation to come home for Christmas break. Spending time with his family, putting up the tree, catching up with old acquaintances, and being back home in Knoxville again? It seemed like it would be a great change from the isolation of his life at college.

Until yesterday when he’d actually arrived after a tedious, twelve-hour car ride—something he’d rebelliously insisted on rather than accept his father’s offer to foot a ridiculously expensive, last-minute plane ticket—and discovered his parents’ new house wasn’t home at all.

God, he knew he shouldn’t complain. So many people struggled and did without, and he was lucky as hell his parents had money. It was his own fault he was lonely. Maybe he was just broken inside. Maybe he was just wrong, and all the therapy in the world wouldn’t fix him.

Maybe Joel was far better off without him.

Breathing against the ache in his chest, Casey braked by the stop sign where he’d shivered on cold mornings waiting for the school bus. He’d waited there with Joel, of course.

He sighed and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He was set to graduate from NYU in May. It’d been almost four years since he’d said goodbye to Joel. And yet he still couldn’t move on with his life. They’d never even been together! Joel had dated girls for fuck’s sake. Whatever Casey felt, it was his own burden to bear, and it was ludicrous.

Ann said he needed to either let the past go or confront it head on. When he’d told her he was taking up his parents on their invite, she’d replied, “If you insist on returning to the scene of the crime, now’s as good a time as any to be more transparent with the people in your life, Casey. Consider it.” He’d known she was talking about his folks, but when he considered being transparent with anyone, the only person he could think about was Joel.

He rounded the corner and entered Belmont Hills, the neighborhood behind Manor Crest, built twenty years before it. The houses there were smaller and more rundown, and the neighborhood amenities existed in a state of disrepair. The playground and tennis courts were overrun with weeds and punctuated with litter. The swing set had no swings to speak of, and the pool was roped off with yellow caution tape. Not much different than when Casey had last driven through four years ago.

He took a deep breath as he turned onto Elder Lane and passed a multicolored blizzard of over-the-top Christmas joy hosted by the house on the corner. He was almost there. Icicle lights dripped from the rooflines of the ranch style home next to Joel’s dad’s place.

One more driveway to go…

Casey pulled in front of the split-level house in need of a paint job. He gripped the wheel and swallowed hard, biting down on the inside of his cheek.

The garage door was open, exposing the place where Casey used to sit on the cold, hard concrete floor to watch Joel practice his bass guitar. But now the interior was packed with children’s toys: tricycles, bikes, balls, and scooters galore, as well as a big, pink toy kitchenette and a chalkboard. Holy shit, did Joel have kids? His heart clenched hard.

But then two lanky teenagers, a blond girl and boy, came bursting through the front door with unopened boxes of Christmas lights tucked under their arms and pouty expressions on their faces. A flustered woman followed with a stepladder, pointing at the porch roof and directing them with swooping motions of her arms.

After a few moments, she turned to stare curiously at Casey’s car lingering by the curb. When a man came out to join them, he kissed the woman, and she motioned at Casey. His heart lurched, and he swallowed against the lump in his throat, easing his foot off the brake.

It was clear. Joel didn’t live here anymore.

It’d been foolish to think he would still be in his father’s old house. Why would he be? It’d been nearly four years, and he was a grown man now. He’d probably gotten married or at least moved into a place of his own. But deep down, Casey had always assumed Charlie Vreeland, Joel’s dad, would still live in the house, that he’d be there forever as a tether to the days when Joel and Casey had hopped the fence between their backyards, violating their fathers’ common belief that Manor Crest boys and Belmont Hills boys shouldn’t play together.

Wiping at his face, annoyed by the sting of unwanted, stupid tears, Casey headed toward the corner of Belview Drive. There was just one more thing he wanted to see before he drove back to his parents’ house. He hoped it was still there. It had to be. It was the one thing in the world that had been theirs alone.

The bench.

But as he approached what used to be the empty lot he and Joel had claimed, his stomach dropped. Someone had cleared the trees to make way for a new house going up. And, from what he could see, the wood-and-iron bench—their bench—on the formerly wooded lot was gone. His breath caught. The bench where they’d hung out to smoke Joel’s stolen cigarettes. The bench Joel had only ever shared with him. Their secret. Gone.

He’d never again sit on the garage floor and watch Joel play bass.

He’d never again sit beside him on their bench, as they smoked cigarettes and eyed each other.

He’d never again crawl through Joel’s window after his dad had gone to sleep and huddle with him in his twin-size bed listening to a Gaslight Anthem album and aching all over with unexpressed feelings.

Never ever. It was done. Over.

Gone.

Minutes passed. He straightened up and wiped again at his traitorous eyes. The snow came down harder, threatening to stick. He flipped on the radio, his chest tight and throat aching.

If he could change the past, he would. He’d do everything differently. Maybe Joel wouldn’t have ever cared for him that way, but Casey could at least have had Joel in his life as a friend. And that would have been something, wouldn’t it? Better than the big, fat nothing he had now.

Leaving Belmont Hills and heading back toward his folks’ new place, he turned up the radio. A barrage of Christmas songs washed over him—bells and harps, familiar choruses and verses—but none of them touched him. He carefully stuffed his memories of Joel back into the box he’d built for them in his heart. But they didn’t seem to fit inside anymore. They poked out with sharp, rough edges.

As Casey crested the hill leading to his parents’ new house, he gazed at the hazy Smoky Mountains in the distance. He was “home” for the holidays. But he hadn’t been prepared for how much it hurt.

Mr. Naughty List #2

Chapter One

Freshly scrubbed and eager, Aaron fairly skipped by the glittering storefronts in Market Square. Knoxville was all done up for Christmas with lights and ribbons and wreaths, and he hummed along to “Jingle Bell Rock” as he passed the outdoor ice rink on his way to the cozy, familiar pub where he usually met his hookups.

He paid Scruffy City Hall’s leather-clad bouncer the $10 cover charge for the night’s band and headed inside to find the dim, wood-lined interior already packed with people. Needing a drink sooner rather than later, Aaron forced his way through the crowd and up to the bar to put in his order with the hipster, bearded bartender and was gratified by a glorious whisky sour within mere moments.

An unfamiliar and yet very Christmas-y song rang around him, emanating from the next room. Visible through an arched doorway, the small, crowded stage flashed with spangled lights from a disco ball.

The holiday spirit was evidently rampant amongst the patrons, a mix of college students and single thirty-somethings, dancing and singing along to the catchy, Christmas-themed chorus. Silver, gold, and red decorations hung from the pub’s ceiling, adding a sparkle and shine that lifted the room out of mediocrity and into joy. Aaron’s spirits rose even higher.

Gazing around, hoping not to see any familiar faces and pleased to find nary a one, Aaron moved into the room where the band responsible for the jangling array of Christmas tunes amped up the excitement of the drunk and adoring crowd.

Dodging elbows and squeezing between dancers, Aaron sought out a place where he could watch, listen, and drink. The rock-n-roll carols vibrated his bones, a cheering, holiday-infused hum that made his eardrums ache, but Aaron didn’t plan to be here long enough to worry about his hearing. Fingers crossed, anyway.

He’d already been blown off once that evening by a potential hookup. In his desperation to secure an end to his current spell of celibacy, he’d been less choosy than usual in arranging this one. Aside from a photo of a handsome, if rather cruel-looking face, to identify the guy by, Aaron only knew his screenname—CaptainKY—and wasn’t even sure if that referred to the state or the lube.

Aaron had resisted the lure of hookup apps for almost six months. He’d been proud of himself for making good use of the Internet and his right hand to satisfy his needs instead of requiring the sexual services of a stranger. Not that he wanted to be celibate. It was just that it was so damn hard to find no-strings-attached fucks in a town the size of Knoxville. Not as a teacher trying to keep his sexuality quiet.

The last thing Aaron needed was to find himself face-to-face with a student’s closeted dad on parent-teacher night, or discover he’d screwed the older brother of one of his current students, or to trip and fall into some other horrible situation that could cost him his already tattered reputation and maybe his job.

Thus, his usual preference was to pick up men passing through town: business travelers for the most part, though truckers would do just fine if he was looking for a certain expérience spécifique. That’d been the plan tonight, actually. A tough-looking man who’d been trucking through town had offered to meet him for drinks and a long, slow blow job, followed by a nice, hard spanking. But the trucker had backed out at the last minute for an unspecified reason.

Which, okay. Fine. Whatever.

Aaron sometimes backed out of hookups too. It happened—second thoughts, or some protective instinct warned him against a particular rendezvous, so he flaked. But he’d needed it tonight. He’d been aching for it for weeks now. So, no sooner than the trucker had ditched him, Aaron had been back on the apps, scrolling for a new catch.

And he’d found one.

Cruel face. Baseball cap. In town for a monster truck show.

Aaron could totally not relate to that interest, but all the better. It was so much less likely they’d have to spend a lot of time talking. Instead, he’d test CaptainKY out here at the club, make sure he felt safe with him, and then go back to the hotel where the guy was staying. Probably not the Hotel Oliver, since that was a bit posh for the stereotypical monster truck fan, but maybe the new business-class Marriott, which was right around the corner from his apartment. Aaron wouldn’t even be tempted to spend the night.

Sipping his cocktail, he meandered closer to the stage, attracted by the glow of the fake stained-glass windows on the balcony above the room and the optical illusion of the castle-like hall behind the stage itself. The sound was tight, and the performers were dressed up in Christmas glitz—reindeer antlers, wristbands made of tinsel, and the girls wore shimmery hair and makeup. Entertainment, Knoxville style.

Aaron was meeting CaptainKY between nine and nine-thirty, but he’d been too anxious and horny to wait at home, so he’d come out a little early. He figured a drink in advance would soothe his jitters and make him looser all over. For whatever happened in the hotel. God, he hoped the guy was hung. He needed a cock in his ass more than he needed air.

Aaron drowned that desperate thought with another mouthful of whiskey. Fixing his attention on the band, he noted that it was made up of two girls and two guys: a glittering, probably Korean woman on drums, a pixie-looking lady with blue hair seated at a decorated, stand-up piano, and two fine, wiry pieces of man-flesh on bass and guitar. Both of the guys weren’t too precious to play up the Christmas theme either. One wore jingle-bells on reindeer antlers, and the other had tinsel bracelets and necklaces shimmering with every move.

Aaron’s gaze hung on the lead-singer-slash-guitarist. Beneath the reindeer antlers, the man wore his light brown hair shorn close to his scalp, and he possessed an easy sexuality that made Aaron’s nipples tingle and his overeager cock rush hot with blood.

Aaron rolled his eyes at his own horniness, annoyed to be like a raw nerve, needy and twinging with every semi-arousing stimulus in sight. Like this tall, handsome singer with his beautiful, angular body. Damn. Nothing semi-arousing about him. More like a total hard-on.

Finally finding an empty corner to lurk in while he waited for CaptainKY to arrive, Aaron stared at the stage, chewing his bottom lip and nearly drooling over the lead’s muscled arms and attractive hands. It was like a poem, the way the tendons of his forearms moved with each chord change. Aaron’s skin felt alive just watching.

As minutes passed and Aaron slowly sipped his whiskey sour, letting the alcohol relax his high-strung nerves, he admired the singer’s strong jawline and the wiry ligaments of his neck as he sang Christmas songs both strange and familiar. His voice was a scratchy baritone that sent shivers down Aaron’s spine.

Aaron licked his lips again, spinning out a fantasy where he got this man on a bed somewhere, straddled his long legs, and unwrapped the nice package showcased by the tight fit of worn jeans.

Flushing with want, Aaron fanned himself. He shouldn’t have worn a sports coat. Christ. Given that he’d been horny as hell before he even arrived at the pub, it wasn’t surprising that he was steaming hot in here now, or that his imagination had taken such a dirty turn when faced with a man exactly his rough-looking type. This was the kind of man who clearly knew what to do with his hands—based on the work those fingers were doing on the fretboard, anyway.

Standing there, sporting wood beneath his sports coat, Aaron was unprepared for the effect a certain toss of the lead’s chin would have. That quick move, followed by his piercing gaze raking over the crowd, triggered Aaron’s memory.

In a flash, he knew him.

RJ Blitz, former high school senior, sat in back row of Aaron’s very first English Composition class as a teacher. He’d glared at Aaron like he’d wanted to turn him inside out, or beat him up, or do something else that had left Aaron feeling eternally anxious for that whole school year.

Fuck.

Even now Aaron battled the fear that a student would guess his sexuality and use it to hurt him—either professionally or physically. He only needed one more strike and he’d be out. Even five years ago, before the mistake and the humiliation, RJ Blitz had been a student Aaron had avoided interacting with.

RJ had been just as tall and lanky as he was now, but he’d also radiated an intensity that had shaken Aaron to the core. Violence. Attraction. Aaron didn’t know, but he didn’t risk reaching out, even when RJ’s grades had been subpar despite his clear intelligence.

Once RJ had graduated, not only had Aaron been glad, but he hadn’t ever anticipated seeing him again. Well, maybe on the local news, arrested for God only knew what. Drugs probably. Though, to be fair, that had been a mostly subconscious opinion he’d formed of RJ’s possible future based on the anxiety RJ had always made him feel, the lack of effort he put into his work, and classist biases that Aaron was ashamed even now to admit to.

He blinked at RJ on the stage, all coiled sexuality and shimmery Christmas-coated lust. How was his former student the total hottie he was hungering for as he owned the small stage at Scruffy City Hall? A student. His student. And here Aaron had been ogling him for nearly thirty minutes. Hard for him even.

Fuck.

Based on the friendly smiles shot out to the giddy audience, as well as the affectionate, happy glances sent toward his bandmates, RJ was no longer the furious young man he’d once been. But there was still some underlying something in him that sent a shiver through Aaron’s body, riled him up, and, at least tonight, engaged his lust.

Maybe it was because on stage, all of RJ’s formerly pent-up, hostile energy was transformed into pure sex. No matter what song he pulled out—a rock version of an old Christmas standard, or a cheesy rendition of “Frosty the Snowman”—sexuality simply rose from him like a glowing aura of hotness.

Yes, his former student was quite possibly the most delicious thing Aaron had laid eyes on in ages. At least since the last Cocky Boys porn clip he’d jerked off to several days before.

RJ tossed his head again, and Aaron groaned. Definitely even yummier than porn.

Aaron stayed in his corner, sipping his drink. Watching. In the dark privacy of his mind, he allowed himself to imagine all sorts of dirty things: RJ shoving him against the alley wall behind Scruffy City Hall, RJ’s hand against his neck as he jerked Aaron off, huffing small growls in his ear like the ones he’d just let loose in the middle of an artsy rendition of “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” RJ plowing him as Aaron cried with joy.

He squirmed against the wall and took slow breaths. He wished CaptainKY would arrive already so he could get fucking laid. And he also hoped CaptainKY took his time, so he could watch RJ’s whole set. He didn’t want to miss a single, sexy minute.

Jiminy Christmas. What was wrong with him? He seriously needed to get fucked tonight. That was the only explanation for the appealing wrongness of wanting a former student—one wearing tinsel on his wrists, jingly reindeer antlers on his head, and a sexy smirk on his face—to fuck him silly. As messed up as it was, there wasn’t much Aaron wouldn’t do to get a chance at RJ Blitz. Just look at him, for God’s sake…

But Aaron had never been quite that good, or quite that bad. Santa didn’t give out presents like that. At least, not in his experience.

CaptainKY would just have to do. Now where the fuck was he?

******

Hopping down from the stage with adrenaline still rushing all wild and jangly, RJ tugged off the reindeer antlers and tinsel bracelets. Tossing them into the small crowd to the sound of a half-dozen girlish squeals, he made his way to the bar. Strange hands clapped his back, guys offering up congratulations, and young women trying to catch his eye to offer up more than congratulations. Unfortunately, girls in general weren’t his type, and he had eyes for only one thing at the moment: a cold beer.

RJ motioned for the bartender and was rewarded with a frosty, freshly poured mug. He took a deep gulp, closed his eyes, and moaned as the bitter barley taste filled his mouth and slipped down his dry throat. Perfect.

“Did you hear them?” Madison, the band’s pianist said, appearing at his elbow with the rest of the band just behind her. She grinned up at him with shining blue-green eyes they same color as her hair. “They love us.”

RJ shrugged. “Hard not to love Christmas music if you’re a fan of the season.”

Still, he knew just what Madison meant. The crowd had really loved them tonight. They could have played another hour if they’d had the material ready. His entire body thrummed with the kind of giddiness that only performing well in front of a receptive crowd could arouse. It was almost as gratifying as playing stadium tours as a professional guitarist with big-name bands. The roar of the crowds, the lights from the cellphones held up in the air, the screams… It all got his heart pumping like nothing else.

“Well, what now?” Madison asked, leaning against the bar and peering up at him. “Are we all going to party or…?” She shrugged.

“No partying for me,” Joel, the bassist and RJ’s old friend from high school, cut in. “I have a store to open in the morning.” Joel owned a local home and garden store, and t’was the season for fir trees and poinsettias. He squeezed RJ’s shoulder. “Casey and I are gonna pack up and head home. Want us to grab your stuff too?”

RJ glanced toward Joel’s boyfriend standing nearby, smiling, blond, and oozing with pride. Casey was RJ’s friend too, and he’d been closer to him over the years than he’d been to Joel, but now that they were a couple, RJ hardly ever saw Casey alone. “That’d be great. Thanks. Let me finish this beer and I’ll come help load out.”

“You stay here and enjoy your drink,” Joel countered. “Casey and I can take care of loading out. It’s just your guitar and amp. Becca always deals with her drums. How she fits them into the back of that Forester, I’ll never fucking know. It’s magic or something. But, yeah, man. Relax. Have a beer.”

Casey approached, gripped RJ’s arm, and squeezed warmly. “You don’t have to get up early tomorrow. Unlike us.” He winked. “Have fun tonight. You deserve it.”

RJ wasn’t sure why, exactly, Casey thought he deserved to get off scot-free from the pain-in-the-ass job of breaking down their equipment and loading it out, but he didn’t argue. He’d gotten used to roadies handling that stuff when he toured with big groups, and it was nice to pretend that he was a big enough act all on his own to not need to bother with it now either.

“Practice on Friday again?” their friend and drummer, Becca, asked, sidling up closer behind Madison and wrapping her arms around her middle. Becca’s long black hair was shimmery with glitter product, and she hadn’t removed her tinsel halo.

“Yeah. Seven o’clock at Joel’s place.” RJ nodded.

“Good. ’Cause we need it.”

Casey scoffed. “From where I sat, you guys already sounded great.”

Becca laughed and tweaked his chin. “Like you’d know. You always think anything Joel does is amazing.”

Casey kissed Joel’s cheek and shrugged his agreement. A vague jealousy settled under RJ’s skin. What would it be like to have someone to greet him like that as soon as his feet were off the stage? What would it be like to have someone who looked at him that way? Even Pan, his last boyfriend, had never shone with love like that.

Then he let it go. Casey and Joel were cute, but they didn’t live the kind of life RJ wanted for himself. Too settled. Too domestic. Too…sweet. If he ever committed to a relationship, he’d want something with more of a bite to it. A sharp, hot spark.

After final goodbyes and reassurances that Joel and Casey really didn’t mind loading out without him, RJ grabbed another beer and headed out the front door. Scruffy City Hall’s patio faced Market Square proper. Though a few people lingered, chatting with the bouncer, it was mostly empty, folks preferring to be inside on this chilly December night in Tennessee.

RJ wore only jeans, combat boots, and a black T-shirt, and he dropped into a chair at a wrought-iron table, shuddering as the sweat on his skin prickled in the cool breeze. Normally, he’d want a jacket at the very least. But after the heat of the packed interior and the bitter cold of the winter he’d spent in Finland last year, the chilly night air felt good on his sweaty skin.

Stars popped between folds of darkness, obscured by the lights of the square, and the scent of buttered popcorn drifted over from the outdoor ice rink the city slapped up every year at Christmastime. Squeals and gurgles of laughter spilled out from the walled oval of ice, providing a bittersweet sense of innocence offset by the thrum of dance music coming from inside the pub behind him.

RJ scrubbed his hand over his closely cropped hair and sighed with pleasure. Kicking his feet up into the chair next to him, he slung back another gulp of beer, then pulled out his phone to open his latest hookup app. There had to be a hard-up hottie in the holiday crowd somewhere, either in the pub itself or in another establishment in Market Square. It was Knoxville, for God’s sake. Home of tons of closeted, horny men.

As he swiped mindlessly, holiday shoppers went in and out of the Market Square stores. All of the windows were beautifully decorated with greenery, lights, colorful ribbons, bows, and shining stars. RJ had just decided to give up on the app and on getting laid when Scruffy City Hall’s door flung wide and a slender man in his late twenties stalked out with a cell phone pressed against his ear. His shoulders curved against the punch of cold wind, and he shivered hard despite his tweed sports coat.

“Sorry, I couldn’t hear you,” the man said breathlessly. “Are you running late?”

RJ’s heart stumbled. The man might have his back to RJ, but RJ would recognize that voice and that hot ass anywhere. Any. Fucking. Where.

An electric thrill shot up RJ’s spine.

Sitting up straighter, he dropped his feet to the ground and ran a hand over his hair to smooth it again, before quickly sniffing his pits. Not too ripe. Not too fresh either. Sweaty, like a man should be.

Yes, a man.

No longer a boy. It’d been five and a half long years since he’d last seen Mr. Aaron Danvers in person, and RJ most certainly hadn’t been a man back then.

“Oh.” Mr. Danvers’s head and shoulders dropped. Puffs of condensed breath lifted around him, and he shifted from one foot to the other. Suddenly, he raised a hand and flipped off the sky. Then, totally casually, like he hadn’t just expressed rage to the heavens, he said, “Of course. No problem. I completely understand. Have a good night.” Mr. Danvers ended the call and cursed softly before dropping his phone into his jacket pocket.

With his back still to RJ, he leaned his weight against another empty patio table, gazing toward the skating rink. Several slow seconds ticked by with music from the rink drifting over to them, Mariah’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” along with the giddy yells and bubbling laughter of people too young to know how crap the world could be. Or what it was like to be let down.

Mr. Danvers loosed a long, frustrated sigh. “Fuck,” he whispered finally.

“Get stood up, Mr. Danvers?” RJ asked. His insides trembled with fizzy-popping excitement, like someone had slipped Pop Rocks into his beer. But he leaned back in his chair, crossing his boots at the ankle, and tried like hell to look calmer than he felt.

Mr. Danvers’s shoulders tensed again, and he whipped around.

RJ caught his breath. God, he’s still perfect.

Mr. Danvers’s golden-brown hair, highlighted by the white twinkle lights all around Market Square, shifted in the breeze and looked soft to the touch. He’d maintained the compact, twinky build that had made even teenaged RJ feel like a hulking giant next to him. Everything about Mr. Danvers’s lithe body had always been arousing—his long neck, his delicately tapered fingers, and especially his juicy ass, which was currently encased in sexy, fitted trousers that hung perfectly to show off its shape.

Fuck.

RJ had often fantasized about biting into that bouncy flesh. Of course, he’d never had the pleasure. After all, Mr. Danvers had been his teacher. Off-limits and out of bounds. Not to mention completely oblivious to the desperate crush suffered by the gangly, acne-faced, long-haired, queer kid in the back of the sixth-period Senior English Composition classroom.

A surge of confidence lifted RJ’s chin. His face had cleared up since then, and he’d cut his long, greasy hair years ago. He was an attractive, grown ass man now. He’d traveled the world, for fuck’s sake, and screwed a lot of dudes. He wasn’t the awkward kid he used to be. As Mr. Danvers stared at him in surprise, and with a hint of confusion in his furrowed brow, RJ tried to put all that hard-earned adult experience into his expression.

Because, while there had never been any confirmation, or even any real rumors around school about Mr. Danvers, RJ had killer gaydar. And Mr. Danvers was as gay as a rainbow flag busting out its best colors over the Pride Parade.

He just knew it.

Mr. Danvers stared at him for a long, awful moment, and RJ’s bravado wore terrifyingly thin—had Mr. Danvers forgotten him?—before a smile of recognition broke across Mr. Danvers’s fine-featured face. “RJ Blitz? Is that you?” His adorable dimples grew deeper. “I didn’t recognize you up on the stage.”

RJ cocked a brow.

Weird. RJ wasn’t sure why Mr. Danvers had lied, but he knew bullshit when he heard it. Maybe Mr. Danvers hadn’t recognized RJ for a moment in the dark of the patio outside the bar when he’d first turned around, but he’d damn well known who he was on stage. Small inflections of Mr. Danvers’ voice and a sudden strain in his eyes had given that much away.

Curiosity about Mr. Danvers’s lie bit into him, like the way he wanted to bite into Mr. Danvers’ butt. What had prompted such a denial? Surely it couldn’t be…

There was no way…

Right?

And yet, in an instant, he knew. Mr. Danvers had found him attractive. Mr. Danvers thought he was hot. Mr. Danvers…yes.

A plan formed.

First, he’d get Mr. Danvers to chat with him right here and now. Then he’d convince him to get a drink and talk longer. And then, the coupe de grace, he’d seduce the man. Though he’d start with just the drink. Thinking too much about anything more would cause him to explode like a cheap amp plugged into an overcharged circuit. But, with any luck, he’d find out just how tender Mr. Danvers’s ass truly was tonight.

“Did you enjoy the show?” RJ asked, taking another slow pull of beer, pleased his hand didn’t shake.

“Of course!” Mr. Danvers’s dimples blessed RJ again. “You guys were great. You are RJ, right? I didn’t misremember, did I?” Mr. Danvers shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. It was that familiar, smug, teacher-stance that used to make RJ want to bend Mr. Danvers over his wide, messy desk, and spank the man until he didn’t act so distant and adult.

After all, Mr. Danvers was only four or five years older than RJ. That small age gap had been a thorn in RJ’s side back then, keeping him from even hoping he could have what he wanted, and he wasn’t going to let Mr. Danvers act like he was that much older than him now, either.

Offering what he hoped was a winning grin, RJ lifted his beer in a salute. “Yeah, that’s me. RJ Blitz.”

“Sixth period. Senior English Comp. My first year teaching,” Mr. Danvers said with a smile. He rocked back on his heels again. His hair ruffled in the breeze, and the music from the ice-skating rink swelled with a new song: Dolly Parton’s “Here You Come Again.” Weird that it wasn’t a Christmas tune. “Sorry if I wasn’t that great of a teacher back then,” Mr. Danvers said with a shrug. “I was still getting my feet beneath me. That year feels like forever ago.”

Perfect.

They were agreed then that there was no need for any student-teacher deference. Maybe this seduction would be easier than RJ had anticipated.

“For me too.” RJ kicked the chair beside him out from the table. The heavy wrought iron slid across the patio concrete with a screech that momentarily blocked out Dolly’s sweet voice from the rink and the bouncing dance music from within the pub. “Have a seat.”

Mr. Danvers stared at the chair for a long minute, a small furrow digging in between his delicate eyebrows—did he tweeze them to be so perfect?—until his expression broke into a smile again. “Sure, what the hell? Why not?”

“I mean, unless you have something else going on tonight,” RJ said, with a knowing wink.

Mr. Danvers rolled his eyes and gestured toward the phone in his pocket. “Apparently, I don’t. And I’m not ready to go home just yet. I’d love to catch up with a former student.” He gave RJ an almost flirty glance. Or was that wishful thinking on RJ’s part? “Let me just grab a drink to keep warm.” Mr. Danvers nodded toward the bar inside. “Want another beer while I’m at it? On me?”

“Sure.”

Mr. Danvers’s smile grew deeper, again revealing the dimples RJ had mooned over from his desk in the back row. “Your ID?”

“Seriously?”

Mr. Danvers shrugged.

“C’mon. You know I’m old enough.”

Mr. Danvers swallowed and flushed. “You look plenty young.”

“Like you’re one to talk.” RJ pitched his voice back, making it flirty as fuck, testing the waters. “I mean, get real, baby-face. Do you even shave?”

Mr. Danvers laughed but didn’t relent. RJ narrowed his eyes at him and thought back to the torture of having to watch Mr. Danvers teach every day, fighting off increasingly ferocious hard-ons. Back then, Mr. Danvers had looked like an uptight, arrogant, baby-faced dream, and the intervening years hadn’t aged or changed him much at all. Soft-looking cheeks, supple lips…

God, RJ still wanted to fuck him blind.

“It’s been five and a half years,” RJ said, lifting his chin and gazing at Mr. Danvers with determination. “I was nineteen when I graduated. Do the math.”

Mr. Danvers put out his hand with his beautiful, pale fingers outstretched toward RJ. “ID.”

This time he used his teacher voice, and RJ wanted to just grab him and kiss the smug look off his stupid, gorgeous face. Instead he grumbled in annoyance as he dug his wallet out of his back pocket to produce his driver’s license.

Mr. Danvers plucked it from his hand to examine it with a raised brow.

“See? Twenty-four years old. I’m really damn legal.”

Mr. Danvers darted a quick, startled glance at RJ. The potential double-entendre of his words gripped RJ like a hand around his balls, as Mr. Danvers’s eyes darted down to RJ’s mouth and back up again. RJ’s heart thudded with terrifying pride.

Yes, Mr. Danvers, I saw that.

He’d made his prissy, hot teacher think about kissing him. Probably fucking him, too.

RJ smirked to cover his glee, and when he took the ID back from Mr. Danvers, he was glad his hands weren’t sweaty because their fingers brushed.

“I’ll be right back,” Mr. Danvers said, his voice a little husky. “You want anything stronger than another beer?”

“Nah, good old YeeHaw will do.”

“Great.” He nodded at RJ’s sleeveless arms currently free of tats. Hashtag goals for the upcoming years. “Need your coat from inside? I can grab it.”

RJ had left his coat in the band’s van and, from a quick glance over his shoulder back inside the pub, it looked like Casey and Joel were long gone. Becca and Madison were still dancing, though. He could see Madison’s blue hair bouncing in the crowd.

“I’m good. Thanks.” He put his chin up again, determined to stay cool. “This so-called ‘winter’ has nothing on Finland mid-January. Now that’s cold as tits.”

Mr. Danvers snorted. “Surely I taught you how to use descriptive language well enough that you don’t need to resort to crudeness.”

RJ laughed. “Fuck yeah, you did.”

Mr. Danvers rolled his eyes. “I don’t remember you being such a brat.”

RJ shrugged. “I’m surprised you remember me at all. I was quiet back then.”

“Sure. If you call that whole angry, goth-punk vibe you had going ‘quiet.’” Mr. Danvers grinned again, dimples digging into his cheeks. “I’ll be right back with drinks. I want to hear about what you were doing in cold-as-tits Finland in the middle of January.”

The familiar sounds of “Do They Know It’s Christmas?” rang out from the sound system in the bar as Mr. Danvers swung the door open to go back inside. The crowd was still in a jovial mood. Gazing in through the wide, front windows, RJ saw Becca had joined in with the folks who were singing along, dancing, and swaying with raised glasses or beer bottles.

The buzz off the crowd was hot enough to intensify RJ’s already strong headrush. Patience was never his strong suit, and he tapped his foot to the beat, eager for Mr. Danvers to be back even as the door closed against him and the music. RJ hummed the cheesy melody under his breath while fingering the chords on his beer bottle. He couldn’t believe he was talking, flirting even, with Mr. Danvers.

What kind of holiday fever dream was he in? The best kind.

He grinned, remembering the last time he’d dropped acid. He’d been in Rome, and he’d promised himself he’d never do that shit again. Not after the entire world had breathed in and out like a big lung, expanding and contracting around him. Not after flowers had told him secrets that, even now, he was afraid to repeat. And definitely not after he’d nearly fallen into a chasm made by his own mind. Real or not, it was all too terrifying.

But here he was, mostly sober, sitting in downtown Knoxville positively tripping balls because he was talking to his high school crush. RJ didn’t know if he was scared or excited. Mostly both. He rubbed a hand over his short hair again. A cold wind blew across the square. RJ shivered hard.

Even letting his mind toy with the idea of touching the man he’d obsessed over, ached for, and lusted after was nearly too much for him. He’d wanted Mr. Danvers since he was a teen. He couldn’t stand to blow it.

Blow it. Ha.

He was going to seduce the pants off Mr. Danvers’s intoxicating ass tonight, and finally get the kind of Christmas homecoming he’d always wanted but never thought he deserved.

Mr. Jingle Bells #3

“Sorry to interrupt,” Nicole said, poking her head into Walker’s office with a small smile. “But, uh, have you seen Ashton’s Facebook post?”

“No?”

“It’s just… Typical Ashton, you know,” Nicole said with a fond grimace as she entered and closed the door behind her. “But maybe this time it’s a little too much?”

“Ashton? Going too far? Who’d have thunk?” Walker had told Casey before they’d created SRS that Ashton was as much of a branding liability as an asset, but Casey had just given him a penetrating look implying he knew far too well what Walker’s hang-ups were about Ashton—and Walker had decided not to say anything additionally incriminating.

“Here, just have a look,” Nicole said, passing Walker her phone. “I mean, I get that Ashton’s a jokester, and I understand he’s out and proud. That’s fine. That’s what we’re all about. Refreshing honesty, etc. But some things do reflect back on our company, and I don’t know about this post. It’s likely to upset some clients, don’t you think?”

Walker decided to reserve comment until he’d read it for himself. He skimmed it once and then, blinking away his disbelief, he read it more closely. Why he was surprised, he didn’t even know. Everything about the long-winded post was one hundred percent pure Ashton.

Ho ho! Merry Christmas! Ashton here! As you know, I blew up my homophobic fam three years ago by bringing a muscled, shirtless, Grindr hookup as my date to the family Christmas party. Getting disowned was never so easy! A+ experience! Do recommend!

This year, in an effort to spread the holiday joy, I’m making a generous offer. For the low price of a place to stay for three days while they fumigate my entire apartment building, I’ll help you turn your seasonal family gathering into a shitshow of epic proportions! If you’ve got homophobic parents, asshole aunts, ugly uncles, and aggressively insensitive cousins, you too can experience the joy of blowing up their holiday!

Hire me as your fake boyfriend and your nosy Aunt Karen won’t ask you when you’re getting married or if you’re ever gonna give your mom some grandkids. She’ll be too busy wondering about why you’re dating a gay man (if you’re a woman), or when you suddenly turned queer (if you’re a man). You’ll be the talk of the family for months to come!

With two years of university theater classes under my belt, I can pretend to love anyone. That’s right! Even you. And I can play it however is most likely to cause your family to implode/explode/breakdown. I can do serious and committed, or casual and slutty. I come in two modes: butch and hyper-masc, or glorious femme-queen covered in glitter. Okay, that was a lie. I only come in femme-queen mode. Just call me Mr. Jingle Bells! And for the right price (I honestly need a place to stay for three nights only! I swear!), I’ll be at your service!

PM for more info!

(No, but seriously, help! The hotels near my office are TOO EXPENSIVE! Who said Knoxville could grow up all fancy like this? What marketing whiz branded these places as super posh? Oh, that was me. Anyway, please. Three nights. Save my wallet.)

Walker read the post again, a small smile fighting its way onto his lips. From a business perspective, it wasn’t really funny. But from a personal one, it was hilarious. Only Ashton would even think to post something like this instead of just asking his friends for a place to stay. His post already had over sixty reactions and twenty responses.

This was the sort of absurdity that Casey said made Ashton special—the kind of unexpected behavior that would draw attention to their firm. But was this really the attention they wanted? The replies were getting more and more ludicrous by the second. Someone had only just now commented asking if Ashton charged extra for platonic blow jobs in his Fake Boyfriend package.

“Thanks for bringing this to my attention,” Walker said, rising from his desk. “I’ll take care of it, Nicole.”

Leta Blake
Author of the bestselling book Smoky Mountain Dreams and the fan favorite Training Season, Leta Blake’s educational and professional background is in psychology and finance, respectively. However, her passion has always been for writing. She enjoys crafting romance stories and exploring the psyches of made up people. At home in the Southern U.S., Leta works hard at achieving balance between her day job, her writing, and her family.