Once Upon a Christmas Tree (The Valentine Nook #0.5)

by Lulu Moore

It’s the low-slung black jeans that does it. The ones hugging thick thighs and a firm, rounded ass, and tucked into a pair of worn leather brown boots that look like they’ve been pulled on in a hurry, given the way the laces are hanging loose.

He scoffs out a thick, gravelly laugh, and through the light five-o’clock shadow covering his cheeks, I see deep dimples pull in. Shit. This guy’s as hot from the front as his ass suggests.

I honestly wasn’t sure if I imagined her in my drunken haze or if we’d actually met. Then I remember those vivid green eyes flashing at me in amusement as she told me to try the eggnog, just like they’re flashing at me now.

For no reason at all, my mouth drops. So does my gaze. It coasts down to her winter boot–clad feet and slowly back up. Really slowly. An apron is wrapped around her waist, accentuating the most incredible curves I’ve ever seen, full and luscious. She’s an hourglass come to life.

Christmas Tree green, just like her eyes. And Jesus, what I wouldn’t give to see those berry-red lips wrapped around my cock. How is she even real? She looks like she should come with wings and sit on top of the tree. I could give her something to sit on. Oh dear god. What the fuck is the matter with me?

Pushing her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, she rocks on her boots. I don’t know if she’s realized she’s just pushed her boobs closer to me. Probably not wise to point out either. I just need to stop wondering what they’d look like with my dick sliding between them. Spectacular is my guess.

Wow is this a he thinks about when he just barely met her?!

It must be the tiredness I feel acutely in the back of my brain that caused me to forget about this insanely hot guy, with the sexiest accent I’ve ever heard. Like Theo James soaked himself in a vat of honey. Is it possible to be turned on by an accent?

“No, sadly. I’m just regular Haven.” “I don’t think there’s anything regular about you?” he replies without any hesitation, and the way he holds my gaze makes me feel like I’ve stepped into one of Kyle’s ovens. Naked. I’m feverishly hot.

Though I forget all about the gingerbread house when Alex sucks in his plump lower lip, adding a head tilt. I need to schedule an early night with my vibrator, stat.

As I pass him the final store bag, his thumb brushes over mine and my entire body zings with electricity.

That grin of his breaks across his face, and when he winks, heat pools in my cheeks and in my core.

His blue eyes twinkle mischievously as he leans in closer; it’s enough that the scent of him—delicate musky oak—hits me right between my thighs.

Several times we reach for the ice together, and more than once, our eyes lock for a second, creating so much heat I’m surprised there’s ice left. Twice I feel his hand brush my waist as I shift past him to collect empty trays from the end of the bar, sending a cascade of goose bumps down my spine.

I slide down to the ground. Or maybe I melt because Alex is still pressed against me and. It’s. Hot. Not temperature hot. Really fucking sexy, my-entire-body-may-combust hot. Even with my back to his chest, I can tell he’s basically Thor. He removed his thick sweater when he went to sit down, and now he’s only wearing a very thin, very soft plaid shirt—the

And he’s totally ripped.

He places his glass down and steps closer, leans in a little closer…and his eyes flick up to the giant ball of mistletoe I made Joe hang above the bar. I can’t stop myself. I grip the front of his shirt and tug him into me. I can’t tell if his mouth crashes to mine first or if I lift on my tiptoes to get there right before he does, but I forget all about it when his tongue sweeps into my mouth.

Gripping onto me, he lifts me up, sits me on the top of the bar, and nestles himself between my thighs, all without his mouth ever breaking contact, and I can’t help it…the loudest groan escapes me. Loud enough that he pauses for a fraction of a second and chuckles.

“Cowboys are hot, though.” “Are they?” I tilt my head as I look at her. “Do you ride?” I may as well have double entendre flashing in neon above my head. She huffs a little laugh, and her cheeks go bright pink. I expect her to look away, but she doesn’t. “I do…” she replies eventually, and a glint of amusement sparks in her eye. Yeah, she’s definitely as into this as I am. “Though I haven’t in a while.”

his hands push under my shirt, deftly unhooking my bra with the expertise of someone who’s done it many times before. Even I don’t usually get it the first time around, and it’s my bra. This guy’s a pro.

“Oh Haven, you’re soaked. So fucking wet.” His voice is so deep and gravelly, it amps me up further. I can feel arousal dripping out of me.

I’ve had years of practice in making myself come, a few fumbled nights of passion in between, but I’ve never experienced anything like this…a relentless wave crashing through me and gathering strength, ready to shred me from the inside out. This isn’t an orgasm. It’s an exorcism.

Dang that good👀

This guy is a straight-up, certified god. A Christmas miracle.

His cock springs free. The tip glistens. He’s rock hard. And massive. Oh my god. I try to edge back on the couch like I need to make space for it, but he catches my leg and yanks me back. “Don’t worry, we’ll make it fit.”

Unfortunately, every village has its idiot…or something along those lines. Ours is Agatha Chase. A self-appointed high witch, specializing in the services of love, and just like everyone else here, her family goes back generations.

For reasons I could never figure out, no one really seemed to like Caroline. But I chose not to question why, pushed it to the back of my head, and ignored it all. It didn’t matter that we didn’t laugh together much or we had little in common, who needs those things when you’re in love?

Over the last six months, I’ve realized the tiny niggles that constantly followed me around were, in fact, giant red flags waving in my face. Ones I refused to acknowledge until the evening before our wedding when I walked in on Caroline fucking my ex–best friend.

Ironic that the grumpy, cynical man doomed to be single forever is the owner of the most romantic village in England, isn’t it?