Unwrap Me: An XXX-mas Collection

By Honey Cummings

No one ever said the holiday season didn't come with its share of fun.
Whether you were hoping for something naughty or nice, there's a sexy story here for everyone. Office shenanigans, snow covered days, and even a little alone time with a significant other.
Santa is making a list, and the toys on this one are well paired for

• Language: English
• Publisher: 4 Horsemen Publications
• Release date: Nov 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781644501696

Honey Cummings

A passionate, award-winning author of Fantasy, Honey has turned her aim towards erotica. Blending everyday scenarios and crafting them into steamy, blood-boiling moments for every shade of audience. Whether you want something short and hot like a student-teacher hook up to the more paranormal flair where Sleeping with Sasquatch has unexpected bonus, look forward to erotic short stories, novellas, and hopefully a Trilogy in the future. Honey's debut erotic short landed No. 3 in Urban Erotica and continues to satisfy readers time and time again. Be sure to leave her a review and let her know what you think!

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Unwrap Me: An XXX-mas Collection

Copyright © 2020 4 Horsemen Publications. All rights reserved.

4 Horsemen Publications, Inc.

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Dunedin, FL 34698

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Cover & Typesetting by Battle Goddess Productions

Editor Nita Edetor

All rights to the work within are reserved to the author and publisher. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise, except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 International Copyright Act, without prior written permission except in brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. Please contact either the Publisher or Author to gain permission.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64450-169-6

Print ISBN: 978-1-64450-171-9

Dedication

To All the Naughty & Nice Readers,

May you find just the right amount of holiday magic in this collection to make your season a little naughty and very nice!

XOXO

The Authors

The Game of Gifts

Lou Bennett

Urban Erotica

Chapter 1 – The Key

My wet socks leave small puddles where I walk. Dirty, smelly, rainwater puddles, the sort of wet only found in London: thick, warm and fume filled. I hurry to the kitchen and rip off my sodden footwear. By luck, I had left clean socks drying on the cast iron radiator that morning, and I gratefully shove my thankful toes into the warm wool. Today’s miserable day has clearly followed me home. I hate my job, I hate my boss, and I bloody hate Christmas. The thought of another looming family Christmas at my parents’ house gnaws at my already frayed nerves. As beloved as my family is to me, the chaos of three brothers, their wives, and their hordes of children all crammed into the semi-detached in Swindon with my forever fussing parents is a Christmas tradition I have grown to dread.

My mother’s gentle but persistent inquiries about a boyfriend drive me insane but not quite as much as my sister-in-law’s affirmations that Mr. Right was just around the corner, and I just have to look a little more carefully. They are the most patronising and brain-frazzling comments that I have grown to hate as the years pass. Christ, I am 28. Not exactly a wizened old spinster. Yet.

I flick the switch on the kettle and pull my phone from my crumpled tote. Perhaps there has been a raft of gorgeous Tinder matches since I last checked on the tube about a half hour ago.

No, nothing new. I casually flick through some of the conversations I have with certain matches. Few of them excite me and even fewer are remotely attractive. I am scraping the barrel bottom, and I know it. I am never going to find someone credible this way. The current favourite is a seemingly quiet guy calling himself Garrett. He has only two pictures. One is a blurry underwater diving photo, the other a clear head shot of Garrett donning a dinner jacket looking like a Greek God. Definitely not real. Why am I even bothering talking to this creep?

I’m interrupted by the front door, so I reluctantly mooch through the hallway to answer it.

Delivery for Beatrice Thornbury. A young courier, dressed in alarmingly loud yellow, thrusts a small package towards me. Clearly, the assumption that I am indeed Beatrice Thornbury was made as soon as I opened the door.

Yes, thank you, I politely answer, trying to smile. It’s not this lad’s fault my life is currently slower and more boring than the average earth worm. I dutifully sign for the parcel and say goodbye. It only strikes me as odd when I’m walking back towards the kitchen that I’m not actually expecting a parcel. Whatever. I squidge myself back into my worn but gloriously comfortable armchair, readjusting the yellow linen cushions as I adopt my favourite position: cross legged. I begin to open the parcel, my curiosity rising as the plain outer packaging reveals a small black box, beautifully ribboned with red velvet and a tiny silver bell attached. It’s the most exquisite gift box I’ve ever seen. Utterly confused but extraordinarily excited, I untie the ribbon and lift off the lid.

Nestled in a red velvet cushion is a key. A heavy iron key. It looks old, it feels authentic, and I have no damn clue what the hell it means. Attached to the key is a manila brown address label. It reads:

Marram Towers, Waders Staithe, Nr Blakeney, Norfolk, England.

I’m utterly dumbfounded. Although the package is addressed to me, this must be a mistake. Remembering my need for a hot drink, I head to the kettle to prepare a brew. As I pass the kitchen table, my phone vibrates with a message. Pathetically, I’m way too keen and quickly pick it up to check. It’s a Tinder message from Garrett. Inwardly groaning, I open his message.

[STRANGER: Did you get my delivery, Beatrice?]

The words, black and white and this time clearly intended for me, nail me to my old floorboards. My heart begins to pound, and my stomach hollows out. How the hell did this creep find my address? I ask him, directly and bluntly.

[ME: How did you find my address?]

[STRANGER: Don’t be scared.]

[ME: Who said I’m scared?]

[STRANGER: Me.]

[ME: Well, I’m not.]

[STRANGER: You sound it. I can tell by the way you type.]

[ME: Fuck off creep. Leave me alone.]

[STRANGER: Beatrice, I’m sorry if I’ve scared you. Please look at your photographs on Tinder but especially Instagram. You have photographs when you moved in that clearly show the road you live on. One photograph even has your front door on it. You told me what area you lived in. It wasn’t difficult to find out where your street was after that. Really, I am sorry for frightening you. Look, take down all your offending photographs now, anything that can identify where you live or work. And call me. I’d really like to talk properly with you. I’ll tell you about the key then. I’ll send you my number. Call me tonight. Anytime. If not, I’ll leave you be. Sorry again. Gx]

[ME: I won’t call. Get lost.]

I hurriedly look at my photographs. I look at everything I have on social media, and I’m horrified to discover what I have posted about myself. He’s right. My street is seen in tens of photos. I’ve shared my house, my garden, and even the office.

Oh God, I’ve been so stupid. So damn stupid. I take them all down immediately.

Forgetting the tea, I grab myself a bottle of wine and open it. My terrible day just turned into a dreadful evening. How could I be such an idiot? Evidently it was easy. Congratulations Beatrice, you have been advertising your whereabouts on the internet for months, perhaps years. At least Garrett was good for something.

Remembering his delivery, I walk back over to the key. I’m intrigued. Why would he send me a key? I decide to look up the address on the internet. Nothing listed. As time passes and the glass of wine turns into a second glass, curiosity has got me by the knackers, and I decide to call Garrett.

Hello Beatrice.

How did you know it was me?

An unknown number an hour after I’ve asked you to call. I don’t really deserve a prize for guessing it was you, do I? He sounds smug as hell. He also sounds sexy as hell with a voice of smooth dark syrup, and I’m instantly annoyed.

Call me back via Face Time. I don’t believe the picture on your profile is you. I’m hanging up. I disconnect, pleased that I’ve grabbed the upper hand for once. I stretch my legs and arms. The wine is working, and I’m starting to relax a little. I don’t expect a call, so I reach for the TV remote and pull my sweater off. I contemplate getting into my pyjamas early, but my lazy attitude wins and I snuggle down in my cosy yellow nook.

The phone rings.

A Face Time caller. Unknown number.

I’m shocked, but then again there is no way this man could possibly be the man in his profile picture. I answer. I immediately regret answering.

The image in front of me is identical to the photograph in the profile. Dark hair, olive skin, deep brown eyes and cheekbones sculpted by a great master. Bloody gorgeous.

And here I am. Windswept, without a shred of make-up, and my wild auburn hair is an enormous mane, still reeling from the static created by the sweater pull. This is not a level playing field by any stretch of the imagination.

Hello Bea. His voice is like a long slug of honey.

It’s Beatrice. I sound like someone pulling on a squeaky bedspring.

Hello Beatrice. He’s totally unfazed.

Good evening, Garrett. If that’s your real name.

Now why wouldn’t it be my real name?

Sounds made up.

It’s Irish. It means strong spear.

Is it?

Is what?

Is your spear strong?

He raises an eyebrow, a perfect sleek brow. Never had any complaints. He’s smiling. Or maybe it’s a grin. Yes, definitely a grin. He has confidence oozing from every pore. I can almost see it bouncing around the screen. Whereas I, silly scruffy Beatrice, am flailing around like a giraffe on ice. Without the comedy value.

Tell me about the key? This I really want to know.

So he does. He tells me it’s the key to a property he owns, a weekend retreat. He invites me to join him for the weekend. It’s a remote place on the salt marshes of Norfolk. He assures me there are a couple of members of staff so we wouldn’t be alone.

Why should I possibly accept an invitation to stay in a remote hideaway with a complete stranger? It’s true. This would not be a smart move, even for a girl who makes a habit of not being very smart.

It’s a date, nothing more. I leave London on the weekends, and the marshes have limited dating opportunities. I understand your concerns. I won’t pressure you.

Glad to hear it.

He chuckles. It’s a warm rumble and it does something to my insides. Pathetic, Bea. That’s really pathetic.

We continue chatting. The chat covers everything from wet socks and climate change to London restaurants and late night TV choices. My choices are embarrassing and regrettable. When my phone warns me I’m nearly out of charge, I’m surprised to see two hours have passed.

Beatrice. I know the call is ending.

It’s Bea. God, I’m childish.

Bea. I have to go now. There is a train ticket underneath the key. If you change your mind about Norfolk, I would love to see you in person. The Towers are cut off by the tide so tomorrow 3.30pm is the latest you are able to cross the causeway. Let me know if you are coming, and I will send a car to the station to pick you up.

Are you seriously rich, Spear?

I have enough not to worry.

That’s a yes then.

I hope I see you tomorrow, Bea. Goodnight.

He smiles and hangs up. I’m sitting in the semi-darkness of my homely kitchen, or as my mother would say, worn, scruffy, and needing an overhaul. I continue to sit and brood. Do I go to Norfolk? Of course not—that would be irresponsible and dangerous. I don’t know this man. Despite the call, he’s still a stranger.

So of course I decide to go.

Chapter 2 – The Play Tool

I slouch in the back of the promised pick-up car, my bag deposited politely in the boot by my ever so courteous driver. When I say car, I actually mean a luxury Range Rover with an alarmingly pale cream leather interior. It worries me that I might soil the pristine surfaces with my sensible walking boots and large outdoor overcoat. Not my usual date attire, but he did say the place was remote, cut off by the tide and located on a salt marsh, so hey, I dressed for the environment.

The drive, which was disconcertingly silent, seems to be coming to an end. We left any sort of urban conurbation 40 minutes ago, and the landscape has turned to vast and epic salt marshes, punctuated here and there by a reed bed or a small lagoon. As we cross the narrow causeway, I see Marram Towers looming on the horizon. It looks like a set from a gothic horror movie, and I begin to regret my decision to come. Somewhat late for regrets, I tell myself.

The mute John pulls up outside the front doors, and my bag is retrieved for me. As he leads me through the gargantuan entryway, I definitely feel I have entered the twilight zone. The hallway is enormous. Stone walls are adorned with tapestries and light sconces, which in my humble opinion don’t give anywhere near enough light. The staircase, also stone, curls itself along the walls up towards a galleried landing draped in heavy darkness. The only colour comes from a huge Christmas tree, simply decorated with white lights, and a monumental arrangement of burgundy roses on the central table.

Your room in this way, Miss Thornbury. Oh, Silent John spoke to me.

I follow him up the staircase noting that, as we walk, additional lighting turns on automatically ahead of us. I can’t decide if it’s impressive or over the top. We walk silently. Yes, silently; the carpet is so plush it’s almost like walking through snow. We eventually reach the last door in the corridor.

I understand you have your key, Miss Thornbury?

For a moment I’m confused, but then I remember my gifted key. Garrett insisted I bring it with me.

Yes. Thank you. Is Garrett here? I ask, hoping Silent John won’t be evasive. Where the hell is he anyway? This whole charade is creepy, and I’m starting to freak out.

Mr. Drake will make himself available as soon as possible. In the meantime, feel free to get settled in your room, and dinner will be served at 6 in the dining room. With that, he turns and leaves.

Irritated, I retrieve the key and open the room. It’s magnificent. Wood panelling, tapestry curtains framing large leaded light windows, a grandiose stone hearth, and of course an even more grandiose four poster bed on the facing wall. I also spy a sparkling en suite to my left.

Ignoring the opulence, I dump my bag and retrieve my phone. I need to talk to Garrett. My call is answered by his voicemail, so I leave a whiny message asking for him to get in touch immediately.

I look at my watch to see it’s pushing 4pm. It’s nearly dark outside, so I pull the heavy curtains in an attempt to feel safer. I decide to change my top and footwear, but I leave my jeans on. They are perfectly fine for a haunted house stranding. I curl up on the bed and browse my phone, thanking the gods there is still signal out here.

After about 30 minutes and some serious cursing from me, Garrett decides to answer.

[GARRETT: Bea, apologies for not being there to meet you. Something serious has turned up at work, so I’m going to be late. Have dinner without me, and I will be there as soon as I can. I really am sorry. Gx.]

No. Not good enough. I need more details.

[ME: Where are you? What time shall I expect you?]

I wait but get nothing back. At 5.30pm, I’ve had enough so decide to find the dining room in hope of an earlier dinner. The dining room is easy to find, being directly off the hallway, and it’s as I expected. Vast, stone walled, and with the obligatory medieval banqueting table taking centre stage. This whole place is like a film set.

Miss Thornbury. Would you like to have an earlier dinner?

Christ! I nearly jump out of my skin. Where did Not So Silent John appear from? He stands behind me, unfazed and completely composed.

Err yes, that would be lovely. Thank you. Call me Bea. It’s only me by the way. Garrett is going to be late. I offer politely.

Indeed. Take a seat. I won’t be long. He gestures to a seating area, and I dutifully comply. He pootles about, gently laying a place setting and gathering various bits and pieces. He works like a master clockmaker, ensuring each intricate piece is exactly where it needs to be. No chit chat. Not from him, nor from me. This whole scenario is so bizarre that I start to relax a little. This has to be one of those dates to remember, regardless of the outcome.

Please take a seat, Miss Thornbury. He gestures, and I obediently take my place. It’s perfectly laid with cut crystal and silverware, and a small vase of burgundy roses has been placed by my side.

Honestly, Bea is fine. This is beautiful. Thank you. He nods and leaves. Within a minute or two, he is back with a delicious array of vegetables and a salmon en croute. He discreetly serves me a glass of wine and leaves me to it. So I eat. I realise I’m ravenous and hurtle through my meal at breakneck speed. I message Garrett.

[ME: My meal was delicious but rather lonely. Please let me know when you’re here.]

Nothing comes back by way of reply. He is becoming rude.

Can I interest you in some dessert, Miss Thornbury? Silent John returns, clearly never going to call me by my first name.

No thank you. That was wonderful. I think I’ll wait in my room for Garrett. I smile, hopefully respectfully, and leave him to it. I’m bored, annoyed, and fed up with Garrett. What the hell is he playing at?

I push open the door to my room and see it immediately. There on the bed is a long black box, yet again tied with a gorgeous red velvet ribbon and small silver bell. This was clearly not there when I left, so someone has been in my room in the short time I was downstairs. I do not like this at all. I’m genuinely disconcerted, and I lock my door.

I tentatively untie the ribbon and lift the lid off the box. There, lying on another red velvet cushion, is a vibrator. Long, sleek and silver, and winking at me when it catches the light.

I immediately throw it on the bed. This whole thing is turning into an absolute freak show. My heart is pounding, and I reach for my phone. He has messaged.

[GARRETT: Has my gift arrived yet?]

My god, is this from him?

[ME: The vibrator?]

[GARRETT: Yes. Do you like it?]

[ME: Are you auditioning for Creep of the Year?]

[GARRETT: I take it that’s a no?]

[ME: Where are you? Everything about this is seriously weird.]

[GARRETT: Apologies, Bea. I didn’t mean to scare you again. Please ignore the gift. Call it an error of judgement on my behalf. I’ll be home soon.]

Reality dawns on me. I’m beyond stupid.

[ME: How? The tide is in so the causeway is flooded. What are you going to do. Fly?]

[GARRETT: Yes.]

[ME: Piss off. I’m calling the police.]

I mean it. I’m now very scared.

[GARRETT: There is a helipad at Marram. I will fly in tonight. Living your life according to the tides is too inconvenient. I should have explained. Apologies once more. Gx.]

The panic stops, but I’m still scared. This man is clearly rich. Richer than any man I’ve ever known, and he has me stranded in his remote house.

[ME: I would like to go home as soon as you arrive. Please, can you fly me out of here to somewhere convenient? I can catch a train home from there.]

[GARRETT: I’m so sorry I’ve frightened you, Bea. Of course. Be ready to leave, and I will take you home as soon as I get there. This is all my fault. Gx.]

I don’t respond. I need a coffee as my head is groggy from the huge glass of wine at dinner. I flick the small kettle on and start gathering my things. I feel better knowing I’m heading home, albeit in the helicopter of a man I hardly know. The bolshie girl of yesterday would be disappointed with the frightened little sparrow I have turned into today. Regardless, it is what it is.

Chapter 3 –The Red Dress

I wake up, a little slow and woozy from the wine. I look at my watch, 9pm. I’ve fallen asleep for over two hours. I grab my phone and see a message from Garrett.

[GARRETT: I’m home. I’ve knocked on your door, but there was no answer. I am assuming you fell asleep? Let me know if you’d still like to leave. My pilot has returned to London, but I can get him back here within the hour.