Genre: Paranormal, Erotic Romance, Contemporary Romance
Publisher: Melange Books
Publication Date: February 19, 2019
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“As you know, son, there is more to being Santa than just making and delivering toys. There is also the mission to rid the world of non-believers.”
“Yes, I know. It is the job of Santa to bring the magic of Christmas to everyone, young and old, and help to rid the world of non-believers because non-believers dampen the joy of Christmas for others.” I recited part of the Santa code from memory.
“And once I begin working my way through the list of non-believers, somewhere in my mission, I will find my Mrs. Claus. Just like you found Mom.”
“That’s right. Your mother was my thirty-fifth non-believer. I found her before my first Christmas as Santa. Just as you will.”
I narrowed my eyes and squinted at him, frowning. “This Christmas? Like the one that is in two weeks? Holy freaking fruitcake! I hope you are kidding me right now! That’s impossible. There’s no way it will be that easy. And, What if my Mrs. Claus is not a non-believer, and I don’t find her in time because all I’m focused on the mission?”
“She will be, and you will find her. You see, son, your mother… well, she was not an exception to the rule, she was the rule and failure, my dear boy, is not an option”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Your Mrs. Claus will have been a non-believer. She must be. It’s in the by-laws. And if you do not make her your wife by Christmas eve…” He paused and took a deep breath. “Well let me just reiterate, failure is not an option.”
“Fabulous,” I deadpanned, wondering how many more bombs they planned to drop on me tonight. “Okay, then. This should make for an interesting dating pool. How many existing non-believers are women between the ages of twenty and forty? Like fifty? A hundred? Two hundred? A thousand? What are we looking at here?”
My parents exchanged looks before my father turned to me and held up one finger. “One.”
“I’m sorry? Did you say one? There is only one non-believer left in the whole world?”
“Erm, females in that age bracket, yes.” My father pulled an iPhone from his pants pocket and began clicking away at the keys. “This woman.” He turned the phone to face me. The woman on the screen was a stunning brunette with skin that was slightly olive in tone and large chocolate brown eyes that seemed to sparkle with little flecks of gold in them. At least she was pretty. She was beautiful actually, and I was getting hard just looking at her. “Her name,” my father continued, “is Crystal Turner. She’s thirty-one years old, and she resides in Las Vegas of all places.”
“Oh.” I stopped short in my tirade, stunned with this new bit of information. “Well, Kringle Krisps! Okay then. At least I’m not running around blind. Any tips for how I not only turn this illusive woman not only into a believer, but also into Mrs. Claus in two weeks time? It’s not going to be as easy as it was for you with Mom, you know. I can’t just turn an unknown woman over my knee and spank her into believing.”
My father laughed, a loud guffawing knee-slapping laugh, and then all of a sudden, he stopped and turned very serious. “Well, you could certainly try.”
My most important job as Santa is to rid the world of non-believers of all ages. But first, I have to make one of them my wife.
Crystal spent her entire life avoiding Christmas, and I have only two weeks to convince her otherwise. She is stubborn, but I am determined.
She will learn the magic of Christmas either on Santa’s lap, or over it.
The fate of Christmas depends on it.
I am a full-time mom to a sassy, strong-willed, loveable little girl. Okay, so she is all me. I am on the wrong side of 30, and I have been married to my best friend for over eight years. Like most couples, we have our ups and downs, but I could not imagine doing life with anyone else by my side. We are Southern California transplants, currently residing in a very rural part of the east coast. I have two crazy dogs that I adore, even though they drive me out of my ever-loving mind, most days. I have recently rediscovered my love of words and decided to become a writer. My first story is my heart and soul, and it reaches into the depths of all that is me. I also create covers, promos, and logos for authors. I have met some amazing friends on this journey that I now happily call family. Without my family members, whether biological or chosen, I would not be half the person I am today. Their constant love and support keep me afloat.
Rayanna is a coffee drinking, wine loving, sushi obsessed, knee sock fanatic who works her passions into every story she writes. She resides in Southern Utah with her husband, 2 kids, mother, grandfather, and 2 dogs.
In her spare time, she enjoys celebrating life with good food, good drinks, and good friends.
You can find me at these following places:
He was the last thing she thought she needed, but she was everything he wanted.
Abused and alone, Kitty had no idea how far she’d have to flee after she finally got the courage to run. She never would have guessed she’d end up halfway around the world, or in the home — much less the arms — of dominant Australian whip-master, Noah Carver.
He knows she’s damaged, that she needs safety and time to heal, but the way her submission calls to him has Noah thinking more about what could be between them than her history.
The only question now is what she fears more: standing up to her abusive ex-dom, or staying with a man she’s afraid to love?
Hugging her towel, Kitty crept through the second kitchen archway, edging between the massive dining table and built-in china hutch, to peek out through the half-open drapes into the yard. She saw the radio first, sitting on the white-painted front porch rail, blaring its ‘80s music out into the yard where Noah was standing—no, not standing, dancing—step dancing, in form-fitting jeans, crocodile boots and worn tan hat, and a white t-shirt that fit him in a way that was at once loose and yet a second skin. She could see the ripple of muscle playing across his shoulders and back, bunching and flexing in his biceps as his arms moved to the beat, rising and falling, snapping out the rhythm with each of the whips he held, one in each hand. That was the source of the popping. Not one crack at a time, but two and three snaps to each fluid movement as he turned and stepped, and tapped his way through to the end of that Dire Straits song.
When it was over, the music paused long enough for him to reset himself. Head slightly bowed, he rolled his muscular shoulders, shook the whips out like long snakes in the dust around his feet, and then AC/DC started up. Thunderstruck. His foot started tapping. He found the beat, and then he began all over again. Fluid, graceful, line-dancing motions that he so effortlessly filled with a whole new accompaniment of tempo-keeping cracks from his whips.
She caught her breath, suddenly aware that her stomach was tightening and quivering right along with his punctuating music.
Abruptly retreating from the window, Kitty stood for a moment at the table, hands clutching and tightening and adjusting at her towel, feeling at once hot and flustered and confused and scared, and then stupid because she didn’t know why. Two tiny steps forward could have carried her back to the window for a second peek, but she made herself turn away.
The heavenly aroma of coffee drifted from the kitchen.
She hugged herself, knowing she ought to get dressed, but also knowing there was no way she was going back into her bedroom. Not now, possibly not ever.
She wandered as far as the living room, stopping again between the dark yawning maw of the hallway leading back to spider-infested doom — and the front door, with its multi-paneled glass windows that provided another peak at Noah out in the yard.
A sparkle of gold drew her eye into the living room. There wasn’t a lot of furniture to stumble around or useless decorations, but there were a lot of display boxes hanging on the walls. In each one, attached to a green-felt backcloth, was a coiled brown-plaited whip with a golden plaque the size of a business card. Noah’s name was engraved on each one, with the division of whip cracking that he’d won—most of which read simply ‘Mens’ Champion’—and the year. There were fifteen of them total, and they spanned nine years’ worth of achievements.
Scattered among them and along the fireplace mantel were pictures. Some of Noah at various ages; some of other people. Everybody had whips, and one was a newspaper clipping taken from the local paper in which the headline included both Noah’s name and the 2000 Sydney Olympics, where apparently he and others from the Australian Whipcrackers & Plaiters Association had put on the Opening Ceremony and, as the paper put it, opened the eyes of the world to the competitive sport of Australian whip cracking.
She was looking over his framed collection of Guinness World Record titles when the front door suddenly opened and Noah walked in. How she had missed hearing the music shut off, she didn’t know. It wasn’t as if he were trying to sneak up on her. The heavy tromp of his boots when he crossed the threshold, took one look at her in nothing but a towel, and abruptly stopped, was damn near deafening.
To his credit, he didn’t ogle her. He kept his eyes locked with hers and any hint of discernible expression locked tight behind a mask she could not read. It was probably disapproval. It had to be disapproval, though there wasn’t so much as a single censuring note in the way he finally said, “Rule Number Five, love. Admittedly, I did only specify shoes, but in my defense, I assumed you would know to put your clobbers on and not to go nuddy about.”
Both whips were in his hand, coiled and tied. But every experience she had in regards to whips had taught her how easy it was to make them ready for use again. It would have been so easy, especially with that thought running wild in her head, to be afraid of him. And yet, with his face void of expression, and his tone careful not to be too scolding, he made no move to come at her.
He smelled like sunshine, too, her brain supplied.
Like that should make a difference, she wanted the rest of her to argue, but in some weird way… it did make a difference. It was all she could smell, the sunshine, the dust and leather of his boots, the faint spice of his deodorant or soap, and the warm coffee spreading through the house. It made such a difference that, standing there, staring at him with those whips in his hand, her nipples budded into tight little peaks and a single thump of warm neglect pulsed between her tensing legs. She clutched her towel, tightening her thighs in an effort to kill the sensation, but like ripples on a still pond, that thump spread up through her belly, becoming a series of smaller pulses that she could feel steadily throbbing out through her sex and into her womb.
Fortunate enough to live with my Daddy Dom, I am a Little, coffee whore, pain slut, administrator at my local BDSM dungeon, resident of the wilds of freakin’ Kansas (still don’t know how I ended up here) and submissive to the love of my life. An International and USA Bestselling Author, I have penned more than 120 novels, novellas and short stories, and am the author of the Masters of the Castle series.
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