Chills and Thrills

Chills and Thrills

by Celia Montgomery, Lynn Lake, Marlene Yong, Elizabeth Coldwell
     
 

An Xcite Books collection of five festive stories with mixed themes including m/f, m/m, Christmas, winter, party, stripper, sexy stranger, swinging, light BDSM/spanking, fantasy and humour.

Chills and Thrills by Celia Montgomery

Lily, newly single, books a winter retreat in a Scottish National Park to get over a break-up with

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Overview

An Xcite Books collection of five festive stories with mixed themes including m/f, m/m, Christmas, winter, party, stripper, sexy stranger, swinging, light BDSM/spanking, fantasy and humour.

Chills and Thrills by Celia Montgomery

Lily, newly single, books a winter retreat in a Scottish National Park to get over a break-up with her cheating boyfriend. The fierce winter weather means she’s the only guest at the secluded log cabins – and leads to a near-death experience! Can hunky owner Coop bring about a thaw and put the smile back on her face?

Rogue Red Suit by Lynn Lake

It’s December 4th, and everyone at the North Pole is just gearing up for the busy season. Except for Trixen and Bevin, who are making naughty, laid out naked together on Santa’s velvet sleigh cover in the big guy’s garage. Then Santa himself suddenly opens the side door and booms, ‘We’ve got a rogue, Trixen. I need you.’ Someone is besmirching the Jolly One’s good name. Can Santa’s Helper use her voluptuous charms to hunt him down and snare him?

Santa Maybe by Marlene Yong

When Melanie, wearing only the skimpiest of Santa costumes, decides to seek revenge on her unfaithful lover by seducing his boss, the sexual encounter proves unexpected beyond her wildest fantasies – to her dismay … and delight.

Christmas Lights by Elizabeth Coldwell

Andy’s the only man on his stretch of his street who doesn’t see the point in decorating the outside of his home for the holiday season. When his hot neighbour, Trent, tries to persuade him to make more of an effort, the two men find their relationship progressing to a much more intimate level with the aid of a string of Christmas lights …

Snowball by Sam Stewart

Letters to Santa are for children, or so 25-year-old Amanda believes. In this festive tale of love, sex and spanking, our heroine yearns for a handsome knight to sweep her off her feet. When an incident involving a stray snowball leads to a revealing conversation with her parents’ handsome neighbour, Mark, she starts to wonder, does he share her kinkier passions? She could just ask him, but for a bratty bad-girl like Amanda, there are more fun ways to find out!

These stories also appear in Santa’s Hot Secrets

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Product Details

ISBN-13:
9781909335943
Publisher:
Xcite Books
Publication date:
11/15/2012
Sold by:
Barnes & Noble
Format:
NOOK Book
Pages:
54
File size:
110 KB

Read an Excerpt

When I pulled up in my driveway, Trent was putting up his Christmas lights, shirtless in the late-afternoon heat. Two of the houses across the way already had strings of lights decorating every shingle and window frame, their roofs adorned with illuminated reindeer, and fir wreaths hanging on their front doors, so I’d known it wouldn’t be long before Trent followed. In the three years I’d been living on this street, the displays had been getting ever bigger and more ostentatious, and Trent Maisner always produced the biggest of the lot.

Me, I’d never quite seen the point, maybe because it never really felt like Christmas here. Back in Montana, where I’d grown up, it got properly cold in the winter, and all my memories of Christmas involved snowball fights, carol concerts, and mugs of hot chocolate, topped with cream and marshmallows, drunk in front of a roaring fire. It felt like the right surroundings for snowmen and sleighs and footprints on the roof tiles that might, just might, have been left there by Santa. Here in Southern California, where the temperature barely dipped below the high 60s, even in mid-December, it was a lot harder to get into a festive mood. As a result, my home always remained undecorated, apart from a small, artificial tree in one corner of my living room. Though he’d never said as much, I always got the impression Trent felt I was letting the rest of our little corner of the street down.

I should have gone inside the house. I had groceries to stow, and a half-finished article about one of Hollywood’s hottest young directors on my PC that wasn’t going to write itself. Instead, I stood watching Trent, admiring the way the well-defined muscles in his back and shoulders flexed as he worked.

Not that I didn’t get plenty of opportunities to do just that. The guy, a builder by trade, spent most of his free time remodelling his own home, the quality of his work a perfect advertisement for his professional services. And he seemed positively allergic to wearing anything on his upper torso. Many was the time when the words just weren’t flowing, and I’d step away from my desk to brew myself some coffee and sip it in the kitchen. As I did, I’d watch Trent hammering and sawing, his skin shining with sweat, and imagine how it would feel to lick those salty droplets from his skin. A delicious fantasy, and one I’d jerked myself off to on any number of occasions, but just that. Every impression I’d gained of Trent was that he was as straight as they came; once married, but now divorced, with women seemingly queuing up to become the next Mrs Maisner.

Trent climbed down the ladder propped against his front wall, stretched, and pushed his dark-chestnut fringe out of his eyes. He caught me looking in his direction, and wandered over. I hoped he had no idea of the kind of thoughts I’d been having about him.

‘Hey, Andy, looking for some tips on how a pro decorates his home?’ The man’s self-confidence bordered on arrogance at times. It should have made him less attractive in my eyes, but it didn’t.

‘I would be, if I had any intention at all of decorating my own,’ I told him. I knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but I continued, ‘I’m sorry, Trent, but I just don’t see the point in wasting all that time and money, just to treat the neighbours to a free light show.’

‘You’re a regular old Scrooge, you know that?’ Trent sounded as though he was only half joking.

‘Hey, it’s not that I don’t like Christmas,’ I protested. ‘It’s just not so much fun when you spend it on your own, that’s all.’

When he looked at me, I couldn’t tell whether his expression was one of sympathy or pity. It suddenly occurred to me I didn’t actually know how Trent passed the holidays, or who with. I tended to shut myself in with a turkey dinner for one and some cheesy old film or other on cable; until now, I’d never really given a thought to my nearest neighbour’s arrangements. He probably invited a couple of hot blondes round for a sex marathon, I thought enviously, sharing the kind of Christmas with him that part of me so badly longed to.

He sighed. ‘Isn’t there any way I could persuade you to put a few lights up for once?’

I shook my head, beginning to get a real thrill from our verbal sparring. ‘Do you really think this street needs any more lights? Hell, there are so many up already I bet the whole place is visible from space come nightfall.’

Trent grinned at the image my words created, but he didn’t back down from his position. ‘Andy, what’s it going to take to get you to change your mind?’

With a shrug, wondering just how far he was prepared to push this, I said, ‘I don’t know. Maybe you’ll just have to make me.’

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Meet the Author

Lynn Lake’s fantasies could fill a book – and have (or, at least, parts of many, many books). Her imagination substitutes for a somewhat dreary existence in the middle of nowhere home to a particularly harsh climate. She’s a frustrated crime writer (few markets) and an unfulfilled SF author (no science background). Her erotic experiences, frankly, look better on paper, where she need not discriminate based on couplings, positionings, flogging devices, and/or binding materials. Rich, thick, wet ink spilling out of the golden nib of a finely-crafted fountain pen onto bright, white, textured paper is a form of ecstasy to her, free of STD’s.

She has a cat and an insatiable craving to express herself. 

Inspiration comes from everywhere, everything, and everybody she meets or sees or visualizes, but mostly from her mind (very often early in the morning when she first wakes up). She doesn’t wait for the wet muse to tingle her in the appropriate places, however; oftentimes she just sits and stares at a blank piece of paper (Hilroy, lined, in a wire-bound notebook) until an idea strikes her and she pen-strokes it, first into a brief outline, and then into a full story (which usually goes through a, minimum, three-draft process). She’s fairly well-read and quite good at mimicking other styles, which helps in the whole process, as does her natural shyness.


Elizabeth Coldwell joined Xcite Books in 2011. Formerly the editor of the UK edition of Forum magazine and co-founder of the Guild of Erotic Writers, she has been writing erotic fiction for over twenty years and her work has been widely published in the UK and US. She enjoys writing across the spectrum of erotica genres, from m/m space opera to girl/girl messy fun, vanilla to BDSM, paranormal to contemporary.

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