So pop over to Blissemas and follow the link to Normandie’s blog and leave a comment. You’ll be in to win the BIG Blissemas pick a prize eBook reader or $100 voucher for ebooks and a $20 Amazon gift card and ebook from Normandie herself too! Prizes galore.
And now for a little bit of Blisse, from Proving Santa Exists in A Blisse Christmas Collection. I love this story, it was the first I ever had published back in 2006!
A collection of sweet,sensual and hot stories from the queen of festivities, Victoria Blisse. A sexy indulgence for you to enjoy this yuletide with all the sights, scents and tastes of Christmas without the calories and hard work. Snuggle up and relax into stories of sleigh rides, snowy interludes and Christmas couplings. A truly festive treat just for you.
“How are you enjoying your Christmas so far?” I ask, the film credits fading into the background. “It’s been amazing,” Jonathan enthuses as his eyes meet mine, then a serious shadow darkens their flame. “Christmas was never anything special when I was a kid. We never had a tree. The home said it cost too much and it was a fire hazard.”
I tut and shake my head.
“The highlight was the Santa. We knew he wasn’t real, just a man dressed as Santa. He’d bring each of us a toy. I got a little car one year. I still have it.”
“How come you knew it wasn’t the real Father Christmas?”
“Because we knew there was no real Santa. They told us so all the time. They told us not to get our hopes up because Santa didn’t exist and wouldn’t bring us what we wanted on Christmas Eve.”
“What?” I’m outraged. I feel my blood boiling with the harsh cruelty of it. “Santa does exist.”
“You don’t believe that, do you?” He shakes his head, his eyes wide.
“Yes, yes I do.” I nod my head emphatically. “Maybe not in the way a child does, but I heartily believe in the spirit of Father Christmas. I believe in the meaning behind the make-believe. My faith is in the giving, which is the true centre of the festive season—the heart of it all. It’s all about making life better for other people and, through that, enhancing your own life. Santa definitely exists.”
Suddenly, those lips are on mine again, and his arms wrap around me. I feel his cheek against my skin. I feel moisture there: the trail of a tear. I close my eyes and kiss back, giving. I give him the softest, gentlest kiss I can. I want him to feel cherished. My heart throbs in pain at the harshness he’s suffered in his life. I want to smooth over all those rough edges; I want him to see what I mean about Father Christmas existing.
I pull him closer to me. My arms wrap tighter around him, and I stroke his back to offer comfort. Our lips, in contrast, are joined lustfully. With every small move, I feel my heart beat harder and faster. I become dizzy with the speed at which the blood is whizzing around my body, making every inch of me zing with the created friction and heat. His body presses me back against the sofa arm, twisting my own beneath him.
His lips leave mine and kiss a fizzing trail of pleasure down my neck to my collar bone. His hands rise from their position on my hips to slide under my loose-fitting red jumper and up higher to cup my breasts. The shock of his cool hands through the thin, lacy gauze is deliciously arousing. I groan my appreciation as his fingers dig into the cups and ease out the masses of abundant tit-flesh beneath. Pushing the wool of my jumper up with the tops of his wrists, his lips leave the soft flesh at the hollow of my neck.