A Manny for Christmas

Prologue

The man is an actual miracle worker.

In under a week, Max has transformed this neglected little cottage on his parents’ estate into a cosy, festive nest.

Our cosy, festive nest.

Okay, so his efforts may be more cosmetic than fundamental.

The neglect is still there, and we have a long way to go before this place is fully functional, but he’s done an incredible job of creating the illusion of the perfect Christmas retreat in the six days since his folks handed over the keys to us.

He’s so getting lucky tonight it’s not even funny.

I snuggle further into the soft blankets he’s tucked around me on the knackered old sofa and admire the view.

The fire crackling jauntily in the stone fireplace.

The velvet curtains in a rich burgundy hanging on both sets of windows, which Max appropriated (I suspect without permission) from some unused upstairs room in his parents’ house.

The tree, which is the sweetest, plumpest, most squat little tree and somehow perfect, dripping with a tacky and random assortment of tinsel and coloured lights and baubles, its evocative scent wafting through the room and making me feel all manner of festive feelings.

The presents under the tree of all shapes and sizes, ready to be ripped open tomorrow.

And best of all, the man coming towards me, dressed inexplicably in only jeans and a t-shirt despite the temperature outside.

Right now, I applaud his inability to feel the cold, because, by God, is he a feast for the eyes.

The jeans are worn, hugging his sculpted bum and thighs just enough to make me salivate, and the soft white cotton of his t-shirt skims perfectly taut muscle and exposes the frankly mystifying but utterly delicious golden skin of his bare arms.

And above the t-shirt?

Even better.

That face.

That smile.

Those eyes.

Crinkling at me like he likes what he sees. Like he knows just how willing I am to get cold for him, if he insists on stripping these layers off me.

I eye-fuck him shamelessly and scoot my feet away from the edge of the sofa so he can sit down.

He sets two flutes on the ground next to him and holds up a bottle of champagne.

His biceps flex as he twists off the cork, and I salivate a little more.

I reckon the champagne would taste even better if I licked it off that golden skin.

He tilts his head towards me and gives me his best I’m here to serve, but you may not be able to handle it smile. The smile that, conversely, makes me want to lay myself at his feet and serve him.

‘Happy, baby?’ he enquires.

‘Deliriously.’ I wriggle smugly under my blankets. ‘Where’d you get that?’

‘Mum and Dad dropped it round earlier. Moving-in present.’

‘That was sweet of them.’

‘Yeah.’ He tilts a flute and slowly pours in the champagne before handing it to me. ‘You warm enough?’

‘I’m so toasty. That fire’s really kicked in. And I’ll be even toastier when you get under here with me.’

‘Give me five seconds,’ he promises, filling his own glass. ‘And I couldn’t let my woman go without a good fire on our first Christmas living together.’

I sigh. ‘You sound just like a caveman when you say things like that. I’m weirdly turned on. And I hate myself a little bit.’

His smile turns dirty. ‘You would have been a complete pushover as a cave woman. Fire.’ He thumps his chest. ‘Woman.’ He palms my boob. ‘Sex.’ He reaches under my blankets and I laughingly push him away while attempting not to spill my drink.

‘Watch it. But also, yes. You gave me fire, I’ll give you sex. Not because it’s the polite thing to do, but because I really, really want you. And it won’t be an option tomorrow. Not after stuffing myself full of your mum’s Christmas lunch.’

His eyes darken and his touch turns gentle as he removes his hand from my boob and strokes my hair, sifting his fingers through it as he arranges it over the blankets.

Max makes his appreciation for my body very clear indeed, but my hair?

Honestly, that’s something else. The guy cannot get enough of it.

‘I want you too, sweetheart,’ he says, twisting my hair around his hand.

In the firelight, it gleams pure gold. It looks almost alive.

He turns his hand this way and that to admire it as the light catches it before dragging his eyes up to my face.

‘I want you to be so full of me that you can’t ever imagine being anywhere else. ’

My gaze runs over his dirty blonde hair, which is already slightly tousled and about to get totally fucked up, if my fingers have any say in the matter. I reach up and cup his jaw, licking my lips as those crinkly amber eyes I love bore into me.

‘I can’t ever imagine being anywhere else when I’m with you,’ I whisper.

His habitually cheerful face is deadly serious now. His eyes don’t leave mine as he takes a sip of champagne and leans forward, pressing his lips to mine. I open, and his warm tongue chases the cold, bubbly liquid through my mouth. I swallow.

‘Don’t ever cut your hair,’ he says in a gruff voice a moment later, his lips moving against mine.

I give him a tiny shake of my head as my hand closes over the warm skin at the back of his neck. ‘I won’t. Trims only.’

‘Trims only.’ He kisses me again. ‘I’m like a fucked-up version of Samson, basically. You cut your hair, and I lose all my strength. I’m totally in your evil clutches, Delilah.’

I set my flute down blindly on the floor and twist the soft cotton of his t-shirt around my hand, pulling him further down towards me.

‘I’m not going anywhere, my darling,’ I promise him.