Read an Excerpt
Flickering firelight lent an enchanting glow to Nicky’s naked body. Charles Wilson stroked his lover’s hair, pushing the thick blond strands back out of his eyes. Nicky swirled his tongue around the tip of Charles’s cock, taking a little more of the hard shaft into his mouth each time he bobbed his head a fraction lower.
A touch to Nicky’s cheek immediately brought his gaze up. Charles studied the sleepy pleasure in his pet’s eyes. He always liked to see him happy, especially now — when it somehow seemed to be a rarer sight than it had been in previous years.
He smiled down at his pet. “That’s right, Nicky... exactly like that. Perfect.” The words were hoarse with arousal, forced through a throat that barely relaxed enough to let him breathe let alone speak properly, but his pet thrived on praise and Charles wouldn’t deny him what he craved so much.
The fire crackled in the hearth. A shower of sparks raced up the chimney. Warmth glowed over Nicky’s body. Only the black leather collar around his neck hid a small strip of skin from his master’s appreciation.
Charles shifted his posture, sinking more comfortably into the high backed chair by the fireplace. Nicky began to work him in earnest, dipping his head low in his master’s lap and taking the topmost part of his shaft into his throat.
With a hand settled snugly on the back of his head, Charles let his pet do what he wished. In the five years they’d been together, he’d learnt exactly what would please his master best. He needed no further instruction on the matter.
Moments later, Charles’s grip on his pet’s hair tightened a fraction. Nicky looked up and held his gaze as his master spilled into his mouth. He swallowed him down with every sign of enjoyment of the salty taste, murmuring around his shaft until he was finished. Only then let did Nicky let his master’s cock slip delicately from between his lips. Tidying Charles away and doing up his fly, Nicky didn’t rush away from his place at his feet. He rested his head in his master’s lap. Charles went back to stroking his hair, winding his fingers through the long strands.
The grandfather clock in the hallway chimed half past ten. “You’d best go up now if you want to finish off your traditions,” Charles said.
Nicky looked up at him and hesitated. While he seemed reluctant to leave his master’s side, Charles was under no illusions. His pet would go—he never failed to carry out every one of his Christmas traditions right down to the final detail. There was no reason why that should change this year.
Eventually, the younger man nodded and stood up. He really was incredibly beautiful, all lean muscle and fair skin. Charles let his eyes travel over his body. He never got tired of looking at his pet. “It won’t take long,” Nicky said softly, as if he needed to apologise—as if his master wasn’t used to all of his traditions by now.
Charles merely nodded.
Nicky glanced at the fireplace. “Shall I?”
Charles shook his head. “I’ll see to it.”
“Yes, master.” His pet nodded his understanding, but Charles wasn’t taken in by the submission in his response.
Nicky would far rather complete the task himself. In spite of viewing a great deal of evidence to the contrary over the last few years, he was still quietly convinced his master was incapable of completing any task he saw as a submissive’s responsibility. Nevertheless, he left the room without actually voicing a protest to Charles damping down the fire himself.
As the door closed behind Nicky, Charles dropped his head back against the high chair back and stared up at the brightly coloured decorations festooning the ceiling. His pet had outdone himself this year. Everything that didn’t run away fast enough was wrapped in tinsel and sparkles.
He closed his eyes against the garish display of Christmas cheer.
Although he’d never been present for his pet’s final Christmas Eve tradition—the packing of the last present right before he went to bed—Charles could well imagine him kneeling on the floor in their bedroom, biting his bottom lip, concentrating on getting the brightly coloured paper just right. It was a far better sight to rest his eyes upon than yard upon yard of garlands criss-crossing the ceiling.
Charles didn’t recognise the voice, but he knew it wasn’t Nicky. It was all he needed to know. No one else had a place in their house on Christmas Eve. Charles snapped his eyes open. He sat up straight in his chair, all sign of sleepy contentment vanishing.
A tall, well built young man stood in front of the fire. A short, white toga barely scraped the top of his thighs. The material fluttered as the heat from the fire swirled the air currents. Charles glanced across to the door. It was still closed. He should have heard anyone come in.
The man looked around the room.
Charles launched himself to his feet. “Who the hell are you?”
“You are Charles Wilson?” the stranger asked again. His voice betrayed sudden uncertainty.
Charles automatically weighed himself up against the potential threat. The man was shorter than him and more lightly muscled. If he wasn’t armed, Charles was confident he’d end up on top.
The same fact seemed to register with the man facing him across the hearth rug. He looked nervous now—or the sudden sight of Nicky’s excessive Christmas cheer had thrown him off balance. Charles felt anyone walking unexpectedly into the Santa’s grotto of their living room was entitled to lose their bearings for a few moments.
“Who are you, and what you are doing in my house?” Charles demanded. He strained his hearing. Was there anyone else in the house? If there was, were they aware of Nicky’s presence upstairs?
The man looked around him again. “I am the Spirit of Christmas Past,” he said slowly, taking in each bit of holly and mistletoe adorning the fireplace.
The tension drained out of Charles. He sat on the arm of the chair and looked the “spirit” over from a different perspective. He was quite cute, with light brown curls trailing over his ears and his ridiculous toga barely covering a fantastic physique.
One thing Charles would say about Nicky and his Christmas obsession, it did make for a very interesting December sex life. However, on this occasion, the spirit of Christmas Past, or whatever the hell his real name was, was a gift too far.