Spreading Christmas Joy (Alpha Men 3)

Maybe I could take a few days off? I mean I have a deadline, but my brain is fried. It’s Christmas. Everyone deserves a little time off. It doesn’t matter that I hate the holiday. I mean I do hate everything about it, but that’s not important right now. I don’t hate my new neighbor. Hell, I’m liking so much about her, I’m willing to ignore her love of this god awful holiday. Who knows? Maybe she could make me change my mind. If she fucks as good as she looks…

I find myself grinning. I need a hook. I don’t have a lot of time, and I can’t afford to waste much on my hot neighbor. She definitely seems like she needs a good fuck, and that’s half the battle. She wants to help me decorate for Christmas? I can let her decorate her little heart out and then after I make sure she leaves my bed crying out, O’ holy night, I’ll get back to work.

That seems simple. And my cock is rock hard imagining it.

I go back inside, closing my door, still thinking about it. I go back to my computer, but for once, I ignore my manuscript. Instead, I find myself searching lingerie. Lingerie for a certain little blond neighbor that I’m going to enjoy putting on the naughty list. I know exactly what I’m looking for and almost laugh out loud when I find it. Sexy little red and white silk, barely-there, corset, panties and matching garters. If Santa was real, this is exactly what he’d make Mrs. Claus wear to their bed.

She likes Christmas? I can definitely make that work for me. And I definitely know that this Christmas, for once, I’m going to enjoy spreading Christmas Joy.

Fuck yeah I will.

Chapter 5

Joy

I come awake with a start. I look over at the clock, my eyes blurry with sleep. It’s seven in the morning… on a Sunday. Two days after I’ve made a fool of myself in front of my new neighbor, and two days in which he still hasn’t put up one trace of a decoration. It’s a silly thing really, but ever since I moved into my house our street has won the annual Christmas trophy. At this point, it’s a source of pride. There’s no way we will win this year—not with my neighbor’s house being completely undecorated. There might be bigger problems in this world, but it makes me sad.

My doorbell rings again and I remember why I woke in the first place. I look again at the clock.

Who even gets up at seven in the morning on a Sunday?!?!

It’s my one day of the week to be sloth-Joy. I stand up, shivering without the covers as the cool air of the house hits me. I look mournfully at my sheets and favorite blanket as my doorbell goes off again.

“Alright! Hang on! Keep your pants on!” I grumble. There’s a terrible secret about me that no one knows. I may love Christmas and everything about it, but there’s nothing cheerful and joyful about me in the mornings. I have to have at least two cups of coffee before any of the real me starts shining through. I grab my ratty old robe off the side of my bed, wrapping it around me like a security blanket. It’s warm cotton, and at one time I think it was a vibrant red. It’s so old and has been washed so many times it’s a pale pink now.

I look through the peephole, and I have to hold onto the door to keep from falling.

My neighbor is outside! My sexy neighbor is outside my house at seven in the morning looking freaking amazing and, and…

And shit! I’m here without my hair brushed, in my ratty old robe, and I probably have morning breath! Shit!

I push my hand through my hair, trying to comb it with my fingers. I’m positive it doesn’t, but at least I tried. I try to make a mental note not to breathe on him, or talk a lot just in case he might be able to smell my breath. I paste on a fake smile and then I open the door—all while searching for something cool and fun to say.

“Um… hi,” I say and bang the side of my head gently against the door, wondering what it is about this man that makes my brains go as limp as a wet noodle.

“Hey Christmas Joy. You’re looking pretty this morning,” he says—obviously lying through his perfect, white teeth. Good gravy, how does one get teeth that perfect? Are they fake? I doubt anything on this man is fake.

“Hey… umm…”

“Eb.”

“Eb?”

“That’s my name,” he says, laughing.

“Oh… I’m Joy.”

“Yeah. You are.”

I’m wishing the ground would swallow me up. Is that really so much to ask?

“Why are you here?” I ask, and I wouldn’t have thought it was possible, but now I feel even more stupid.