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NO MISTLETOE NEEDED



Cammie Cummins















COPYRIGHT


NO MISTLETOE NEEDED


Published by Cammie Cummins


No Mistletoe Needed, Copyright © 2017 by Cammie Cummins

Cover Art, Copyright © 2017 pvstory | Depositphotos.com

Cover Design, Copyright © 2017 by Cammie Cummins


All rights reserved


This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination, or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, locales, or events are entirely coincidental. All characters depicted in this book are 18 years or older.



No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.



Warning: This eBook contains steamy explicit descriptions of sexual activities including male/female, FFM coupling, oral, and lesbian sex. It is intended for mature readers who are 18 or older and not offended by graphic depictions of sex acts between consenting adults, specifically hot male-female, FFM, lesbian sex, group sex or explicit erotica.















NO MISTLETOE NEEDED



My first Christmas after my divorce.

Not the most joyous of seasons for me this year.

But Mike, my neighbor from across the street, had come over to help me with my Christmas tree. A live tree. I always get a live tree. He put it up, strung the lights and the garland around the top, and even did my outdoor lights which I wasn’t even going to do this year, but he’d have none of that.

Maddie, my daughter, would be home from college for the holiday, but not until Christmas Eve. The day after Christmas she had tickets to fly out to Colorado and do some skiing with her dad before going back to school for her next semester. The thought of only having the one day with Maddie made me feel lonely, but hanging ornaments on the tree, the house full of sweet smelling pine and baking cookies, and all the classic Christmas carols I had playing throughout the house helped whisk my blues away.

Mike climbed out from under the tree after giving the bolts securing the trunk into the base a final tight turn as I came into the room with a pot of water for him to dump into the tree stand.

To be honest, I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going, having caught sight of how Mike’s tight blue jeans had slipped low over his narrow hips, revealing more than a generous eyeful of his tight ass.

Moon’s out early, I thought, as he, unaware I was there, came to his feet and knocked right into me. The pot of water tipped forward before slipping out of my hands completely, soaking Mike’s red and green reindeer sweater and the living room rug.

“Oh!” I jumped back.

Water had splashed everywhere.

Mike stepped back with his hands raised, his mouth hung open. His sweater completely soaked.

“I am so sorry.” I putt the now empty pot on the coffee table with the boxes of ornaments and garland I’d pulled down from the attic earlier that day. “That must be so cold.”

He patted his soaked sweater. “It’s not so bad. Refreshing actually,” he said with a smile. “I worked up a bit of a sweat putting the tree up.”

“Let me get something.” I rushed into the kitchen and grabbed a hand towel.

When I returned, I patted his sweater, using the towel to try and soak up the water. “I can’t believe I did that.”

“It’s no big deal, Mary. Just water. It’ll dry.”

He took the towel from my hand, the touch of our hands lingered. His was strong and warm, mine, soft and chilly and wet from my pathetic attempt to mop up the mess. He gave me a look. Yes, that kind of look.

I blinked and pushed the thought from my mind, letting go of the towel.

No. Nope. He didn’t. He’s my best friend’s husband. You’re not going there, Mary. Not going to happen.

Mike and his wife Lucy had moved in across the street about five years ago. They’d bought one of the last houses left in our cul-de-sac development. A nice couple with two kids the same age as Maggie. Over the years we socialized often; community and school events, block parties, that sort of thing.

Things changed last year when I learned Daniel was having an affair with his secretary. Confronted, he didn’t even deny it. Three months later, to the day, the divorce papers were signed, filed, and finalized.

Since then Lucy and I had grown even closer together, and Mike, well he’d been a life saver. He was my go to person for everything in the house from changing lightbulbs to leaky pipes.

He bunched up the towel and handed it back to me. It was so saturated water dripped from it.

I put a hand on his chest. “Oh, Mike, your sweater. It’s soaked.”

He wiped a hand down his front. “It’s only water.”

“I feel terrible. Take it off.”

“What?”

“Take it off,” I insisted. “I’ll put it in the dryer. There’s a special sweater function. It’ll take five minutes. Top.”

“No, Mary. It’s fine.”

I have no idea what got into me, but I reached for the bottom of his sweater. I started to pull it up his body. “Don’t be silly. It won’t take no for an answer. Come on, buddy. Off.”

“Okay. Okay. Fine.” He took it off and handed it to me.

I tried not to stare at his naked torso. The man had abs. And pecs.

I didn’t know exactly how old Mike and Lucy were, but I knew they were at least ten years younger than me. That would put him around thirty-five.

“Five minutes,” I assured him. “Grab a beer and have a seat in the kitchen. I can see if I can find an old shirt of Daniel’s somewhere that you could wear in the meantime.”


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