Stuff My Stocking: M-M Romance Stories that are Nice and Naughty (32 page)

“Not because you fear I’ll throw you out on the street if you disobey,” Gabriel continued, “but because you want to. For me.”

Tristan’s breath hitched in his chest. Sparks of pure delight snapped outward from his center, tightening and twisting his muscles as he sought to stave off the inevitable. The edge of the precipice rushed toward him...closer...closer... 

He yanked himself back with a choking cry. As he writhed in delirious, frustrated agony, his vision blurred and faded to an opaque gray shot through with threads of crimson. A endless moment later, he heard Gabriel speak in a tone that lapped at his skin like the tongue of a tabby-cat.

“Well done. Now beg for me.” 

Tristan heard a voice raised in a babbling, incoherent stream of nonsense and realized it was his own. Too far gone for shame, his body a perfect knot of throbbing need, he howled his pleas to the faraway sky.

Then Gabriel reached forward and closed his hand around Tristan’s cock, and it could be nothing but finished. Tristan’s body closed down tightly as he came, and he lost himself in the raw, flaying pleasure that bordered so closely on pain as it be indistinguishable. With a wordless grunt of completion, Gabriel thrust into him once more, spearing him hard. Tristan sobbed as a final, violent burst of sensation tore through him. His knees buckled and he fell forward over the foot of the bed.

Waves of sleepy satisfaction broke over him. Even when Gabriel landed a sharp smack on his arse and left him slumped there like a used rag, he couldn’t bring himself to respond with anything more defiant than a whimper. 

“Interesting,” Gabriel purred from somewhere behind him. “Clearly, I’ve been taking the wrong tack. From now on I shall simply fuck you into docility.”

Tristan bestirred himself with a half-hearted sneer. “Never claimed to be good for much else.”

“You’re mistaken.” Gabriel loomed over him, backlit by the blaze on the hearth. “As I’ve said repeatedly, I sincerely believe you could become more than you are, Tristan.” 

“Right. A proper gentleman, with a proper gentleman’s accent, and a proper gentleman’s education.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Accent and education are merely surface considerations that would allow you to accompany me on my travels. If forced to choose, I’d rather see you cultivate your soul.”

In the short, brutal course of his existence, no one had ever so much as suggested Tristan even possessed such a thing, much less that he might be able to improve it. With some effort, he struggled to a sitting position, his legs hanging over the footboard, his bare feet dangling above the floor. “My soul, eh? You’re so sure I ’ave one?”

Gabriel snorted – a vulgar sound not in keeping with his customary manner. “Do you truly suppose a creature could live so long as I have and not develop the ability to read another’s worth?” He sighed and shook his head. “Never mind. Come to bed, Tristan.”

“I thought you was gonna read the book?”

Gabriel hesitated, his surprise obvious. “You’re sure?”

“It’s my Christmas gift, ain’t it?” Tristan wriggled and scooted his way to the head of the bed, wincing at the leftover traces of discomfort in his arse, but happy enough to have caught Gabriel at a slight disadvantage. 

“What if I told you I did have another gift for you – something shiny and expensive – but I gave it to a little beggar on a street in Whitechapel because his great, dark eyes reminded me of yours?”

Tristan tried to sulk, but found he was too contented for disappointment. “I’d say good on ’im for knowin’ ’ow to use ’is looks to ’is advantage.”

Gabriel stared him. He shook his great head slowly, back and forth. “You never cease to astound me.”

Tristan reached for the book. It didn’t appear to be very long. Bound in red cloth, with gilt-edged pages, its title was embossed on the cover:
A Christmas Carol
, by Charles Dickens.

“Where’d you buy it?”

Gabriel laughed, low and rumbling. “As it happens, the shops were sold out, so I obtained it from the author himself. He was reluctant to part with one of his few personal copies, but I was...persuasive.”

“Gabriel, you didn’t—”

“Oh, certainly not. Someday, Mr. Dickens will be counted as one of England’s great literary treasures, and that book will be worth its weight in gold.”

“Yeah?” The thought of handful of gold made Tristan happy. “What’s it about, then?”

“I understand it’s about another selfish man, spoiled and greedy and cold, who does not keep Christmas in his heart.”

Tristan offered a grin, which he did his best to render in as cheeky a manner as possible. “Blighter sounds a right bastard. I
do
’ope he gets his comeuppance.”

“Fear not, guttersnipe. I suspect he does.”

They settled into the nest of silk sheets, and as the wind roared, and the snow swirled, and the fire crackled and spat on the other side of the room, Gabriel began to read.

“Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner. Scrooge signed it: and Scrooge’s name was good upon ’Change, for anything he chose to put his hand to. Old Marley was as dead as a door-nail...”

THE END

Copyright ©2010 Selah March

Also from Selah March:

Seven Year Ache
Wild Horses
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot
Year of the Cat
(available from Amber Quill Press/Amber Allure)

Fantasies Volume III

(available from Phaze Publishing)
Coming soon:
Nightshade

(available from Amber Quill Press/Amber Allure)

Email:
[email protected]

Website:
www.selahmarch.com

A WALK ON THE WILD SIDE by Sarah Madison

Dear Santa,

In case you missed it, this year was the year of the cat. Ooh Tiger Woods got lots of tail. It can't really be all his fault, who could turn down a rough and tumble play with a Tiger? For Christmas this year, tell your elves to give their wood creations to others, for I just want a Tiger with Wood of his own. My tiger is looking for his mate. Can you please help me Santa?

{PHOTO INSERT:  A big, beautiful, green eyed tiger stares into the camera. Several palm leaves lay shadows across his face.}

***************************

The tiger padded slowly through the snow-shrouded forest.  There was no need for stealth, not yet anyway.  A small flock of crows flew upward into the trees with a squawking, angry protest, and the tiger paused, testing the air.  His nostrils flared as he took in the scents around him: the rich, loamy smell of dead leaves and earth beneath the light covering of snow, the crisp promise of more snow to come on the wind from the west.  When the wind shifted, he could smell wood smoke and the scent of a small group of deer moving along the top of the ridge.

He lifted his head in that direction, tracking the slight movement of brown bodies against brown foliage along the hillside.  The deer tracked single file in a stately manner—they hadn’t scented him yet.  He eyed the distance, knowing it was too far.  Tigers were built for stealth, not speed.

Besides, he had different prey in mind.

He turned back to the track he was following, placing each massive paw carefully along the trail as he moved.  When he reached the clearing, he paused again.

Below him was a small pond, frozen over now and dusted with snow.  The air was still with that hushed expectation that precedes more snowfall, and the skies were leaden and gray.  Behind him, large paw prints clearly marked the course of his passage, showing up as dark patches of mud where the weight of his body churned up the thin layer of snow. That was all right, too.  It would snow again soon and obliterate any signs that he’d been there.  

He was patient.  He could wait.

He made his way down the small slope to the pond and chose his hiding place with care.

***

Alex was angry.  Angry with Tate, but more angry with himself.  He seldom got angry, so it pissed him off even further.  Which lead him back to thinking this was all Tate’s fault.

After stewing in the hours since Tate stormed out, saying he needed ‘some air’, Alex decided that he, too, needed to clear his head.  He slipped on the navy wool coat he’d been using since the weather turned colder and wrapped his dark muffler around his neck.  Even though he could hear Tate’s voice in his head, telling him he’d stay warmer if he wore a hat, Alex chose to remain bareheaded.  Unless it was a fedora, hats made him crazy and, unfortunately, fedoras were no longer in style.

That was a shame, he thought.  Everyone looked good in a fedora.

Alex stepped out onto the back porch and paused to retrieve leather gloves from his pockets and put them on.  It had been snowing for the last several hours now; this, on top of last night’s snow, left everything looking deceptively clean and pristine. He debated for a moment as to which direction to take and then decided to head into the woods toward the pond.

The image of Tate, his bright, auburn hair covered with a sexy, Indiana Jones style fedora, flashed into his mind.  It would so work on Tate, who was the outdoors type anyway.  While Alex enjoyed the occasional casual walk in the woods, Tate was always trying to get him to go rock-climbing, spelunking, or some equally athletic pursuit.  Thank goodness, Tate also liked hanging around the fireplace in the evenings, reading a book or listening to music.  Otherwise, Alex might start to wonder what the two of them had in common.

Case in point: the disagreement this morning.

“What do you mean, you don’t do Christmas?”  Tate had been adorably incredulous.  Alex had been both irritated and charmed at the same time.  The very fact that Tate treated him as just another person was part of his attraction, Alex was sure.

“I’m a vampire, remember?  According to most religions, that makes me the bad guy.  Sort of the antithesis of Christmas, don’t you think?”

“I’m guessing this means you don’t celebrate Hanukkah instead?”  Tate, as usual, had been quick to turn things into a joke.    

Alex hadn’t been in the mood.  Sometimes, Tate’s relentless cheerfulness got on his nerves.  

Tate had been persistent, however. “You mean to tell me there’s some kind of vampire ban on celebrating holidays?”

He hadn’t been willing to accept Alex's “it’s just not us” as an answer. 

“Come on,” he’d wheedled.  “Holidays aren’t just about religious observances, you know.  Or giving gifts, or stuffing yourself silly with food.  It’s about getting together with your family and friends and showing them how much you care about them.  Let’s throw a party. We can invite Nick and his pack.  Hell, we can even invite Julie.”

Alex had blinked at that.  Peter’s sister had made herself somewhat scarce, ever since the big showdown with Alex’s ex-lover Victor a few months ago.  Alex had assumed that Julie had gone back to the suburbs to pretend that her brother wasn’t really a werewolf and that he didn’t associate with vampires either.

“Why don’t I dress up as Santa as well?  That makes about as much sense.”

“Wrong holiday special.”  Tate’s comeback, as always, had been swift.  “You’re Scrooge through and through.”

That had stung a bit, he had to admit as he walked deeper into the woods.  

With his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders hunched against the wind, Alex crossed the border of the yard into the woods.  A small deer path was distinguishable through the trees and he followed it, knowing it would eventually lead him to the pond.  The air around him seemed muted with the falling snow.  He felt the cold dampness on his face and thought it unfair that he, among all his friends, was the only one who felt the cold. 

His words to Tate came back to him. The conversation had ended abruptly with Tate leaving the house—not so much as in a huff, but definitely not pleased with Alex.  He’d been left wondering if they’d had their first fight.

The thought depressed him.  Though they hadn’t known each other all that long, it was amazing how important Tate had become to Alex.  He couldn’t imagine a day in which Tate didn’t drop by at some point, and he’d gone from being relieved that Tate wanted to maintain separate living arrangements to being bored and lonely whenever Tate was off doing his own thing.

How had Tate managed to worm his way under Alex’s skin when no one else had done so in centuries of living?

He’d reached the pond almost without being aware of it, so deep was he in his own thoughts.  He looked down the slope toward the water.  It had a little dock and a bench for fishing.  He and Tate had talked about restocking it in the spring.  He couldn’t see the appeal of fishing himself, but when Tate spoke of it, something about it made him want to share that experience with Tate.  It certainly seemed to entail less effort than rock climbing, that was for sure.

He paused for a moment to look up at the dull, pewter-colored sky.  Snowflakes continued to drift down lazily, but no further accumulation had been predicted.  Below him, the surface of the pond had been blown clean of most of the snow.  His breath plumed in a vapor before him and an unaccustomed sense of peace came over him.

What difference did it make if Tate wanted to celebrate the holidays anyway?  It was no skin off his nose either way.  Maybe he was just being a Scrooge.

Having achieved what he’d come out for in the first place, he debated returning to the house, but decided that since he’d come this far, he might as well go down to the pond.  He carefully made his way down the slope, conscious that his shoes weren’t really the best for this sort of activity; if he wanted to keep up with Tate, he might need to invest in some hiking boots.  One thing at a time, he thought to himself with a smile.

***

The tiger lifted his head at the sound of the approach of his prey. He shifted his weight slightly, so as to bunch his feet up underneath him, his muscles ready at long last to hurl himself forward at his target.  His tail flicked at the tip as his prey came into sight.

Wait for it.  Wait for it.

***

Alex's superior sense of hearing alerted him at the last second to the sibilant sound of movement off to his left.  He turned his head in time to see the unbelievable: a full-grown Siberian tiger suddenly lifted itself up from the snow-covered foliage surrounding it.  Its dense fur, coated with a light layer of snow, spoke of how long it had lain in wait.  The large cat exploded out of the underbrush with frightening speed; Alex had just a second in which to turn and throw one arm in front of his face before the big cat ploughed into him, pinning him to the ground.

Eight hundred pounds of jungle cat flattened him into the snow-covered earth.  Had he been human and not vampire, ribs would have broken.  As it was, the tiger settled on top of him and he was having trouble breathing.

He lifted his head from where it rested on his forearm and glanced to the side at the enormous paw that had his shoulder pinned to the ground.  Long claws extended, sinking into the thick wool of his coat and all the way through to his skin.  At the back of his neck, he could feel the warm breath of the tiger as it nosed under his muffler, seeking his flesh.  He could hear the soft chuffing sound as he felt the test bite of the tiger on his shoulder.  The massive hindquarters thrust up against him suddenly, and he felt the claws dig in reflexively at his shoulders.

There weren’t many things that could kill a vampire, but Alex hadn’t been living the Life and was more vulnerable than most.  The knowledge that he could die here, under the tiger’s paws, caused the adrenaline to pump through his body.  Unbelievably, he felt both excited and in fear of his life—he was even starting to get hard.  He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so alive.  

Just when breathing was becoming a bit of an issue, the tiger got to its feet and moved off him.  Cautiously, Alex lifted his head and looked around for the big cat.  Seeing that it stood a few feet away from him, Alex rolled over onto his back and let out his breath with a rush.

The tiger watched him, tail flicking slowly.

Alex got to his feet slowly, brushing off leaf litter and snow, inspecting his coat before speaking to the tiger.

“If you’ve ruined another coat,” he warned, “I will turn you into a hearth-rug.”

The tiger yawned widely, showing its long fangs.

“Oh, very impressed, I’m sure.”  Alex straightened his coat and ran a gloved hand through his hair.  “Can we go home now?”

For an answer, the tiger began to trot off toward the house.  Grumbling under his breath, Alex followed.

***

There was no sign of the tiger when Alex mounted the back porch stairs.  There were giant paw prints on the porch where the snow had blown in, but all was silent when he opened the screen door and entered the house.

Alex removed his muffler and gloves, and hung his coat up in the hall closet.  In the living room, a fire glowed in the hearth, the bright orange flames just starting to lick at the edges of the logs. An open bottle of merlot sat on the side table, along with two wine glasses.  

Amused, Alex crossed over to the wine, lifting a glass and taking a sip.  “I’m willing to hear what you have to say,” he said aloud to the empty room.  “You don’t have to butter me up.”

“Pity.”  Tate’s voice came from behind him.  “I like buttering you up.”

Alex turned with a smile on his face, only to let his mouth fall open at the sight of Tate standing there.  

Tate had made good use of his time in getting back to the house first.  Not only had he lit the fire and decanted the wine, but he’d also removed his wet clothing.  He was still wearing the blue and black flannel shirt from that morning, but that was all he was wearing.

The soft flannel shirt hung open to reveal Tate’s toned chest and abdomen, lightly dusted with reddish hair, and the rolled up sleeves showed off Tate’s muscular forearms.  Alex was immediately captivated by the sight of Tate’s strong thighs, pale skin, and the way his cock jutted forward from a thatch of rusty-brown hair.  

“Butter,” Alex said decisively, “goes with everything.”

Tate laughed.  “I just can’t carry off seductive, can I?”

“No, no!”  Alex took a hasty swallow of the wine and set it down.  “Seduce me, I beg you.”

Tate got a speculative look in his eye and took a step closer.  “Really?” he asked.

Alex nodded.  “You know that moment in the woods?  When you had me pinned and you could have killed me at any moment?  That was… hot.”

Tate moved forward another stealthy step.  The gaze he fixed on Alex was that of a predator.  Alex could feel the tension simmering in the air between them, and his cock shifted and thrummed in his jeans.  

“Yeah,” Alex breathed, never taking his eyes off Tate.  “The whole time you had me pinned down, I knew you could kill me if you wanted.  At the same time, I was incredibly turned on.  I could feel your breath on my neck.  I wanted to feel your teeth on my skin.”

Tate closed the remaining distance between them with purpose, his cock bouncing a little with every step.  He took Alex by either side of his face and kissed him hard, the coarse hairs of his weekend beard rasping against Alex’s skin.  “Suck me,” he demanded with a smile against Alex’s lips.

“I’ve got a better idea.”  Alex quickly unzipped his jeans and freed his cock, grateful for the decision not to wear any briefs this morning.  Weekends with Tate seemed to make him think in these terms.

He began working his cock, bringing it to full hardness, as Tate dropped his head to watch.  They were standing so close now that the heads of their cocks could brush each other, and Alex deliberately brought them into contact.  

Taking hold of Tate’s cock in his left hand, he rubbed their heads together, mingling precome until the two cockheads were slick with it.  Then he began pushing his foreskin forward until he had covered the head of Tate’s cock as well.