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    Christmas Obsession
    Christmas Obsession
    Christmas Obsession
    Ebook101 pages1 hour

    Christmas Obsession

    By Darcy Rose

    ()

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    About this ebook

    For months Vincent has watched his innocent, young, next-door neighbor. 
He knows it's wrong, but he can't get enough.



     

    She's his obsession.

    Shy, sweet, and incredibly naive.

    A true temptation.


    As a hitman for the mob, his job is something he doesn't ever want to touch her, so he keeps his distance, forcing himself to ignore the primal need to take her.



     

    All that changes on Christmas Eve when he comes face to face with Faith.
 Unable to forget her sweet scent and soft smile, he knows he can't stay away any longer. He's going to get the ultimate Christmas gift this year… his obsession.


     

    ​​​​​​*This is a spicy Christmas novella that's going to be most certainly on the naughty list. Including dark themes, filthy language, and a happily ever after.


     

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBleeding Heart Press
    Release dateNov 25, 2020
    ISBN9798227233899
    Christmas Obsession
    Author

    Darcy Rose

    Darcy Rose is a USA Today bestselling author who writes about shy and innocent heroines, to match them up with dark and intense heroes who have only eyes for one girl. If you like your books short, taboo, dark, and a bit (or a lot) kinky, then her books are perfect for you. For more info, go to www.facebook.com/darcyrosewrites/ or follow her on www.instagram.com/authordarcyrose/.

    Read more from Darcy Rose

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      Book preview

      Christmas Obsession - Darcy Rose

      FAITH

      I’m at my desk, staring out the window of my second-story townhouse. It’s Christmas Eve, and the trees outside are covered with white snow. The sky is full of clouds, and though it’s barely into the evening, the streetlights have come on. Golden circles of light fall on the glimmering snow, and I see the lights on at almost every house in view—all except Vincent’s.

      Vincent. Just the thought of him sends a shiver down my spine. Our neighbor, Vincent, is an enigma. A handsome, broody, and unfortunately way too old for me enigma. Simply thinking about him feels wrong and forbidden, so I try not to.

      Instead, I’m fantasizing about the day I get out of here, the day I can finally get away. I tap my finger gently against my lips as I daydream about a strong stranger, some man carrying me over the threshold of a new home. A new life, a new future…

      I imagine my lover as tall, with close-cropped dark hair. His veins throbbing through his forearms as he touches me, the sharp angle of his jaw as he presses his forehead to mine, the feeling of his fingers pressing into the grooves of my spine.

      I wrap a tendril of my brown hair around a finger as my fantasy turns a little darker. Ignoring the novel still open on my desk, waiting to be read, I close my eyes and focus on my daydream. My stranger starts to look more and more familiar, as I realize who I really wish was touching me…

      FAITH! my mother’s shrill voice rings up the stairwell, making me jump half a foot in the air. My heart rate triples, and I shove the dirty thoughts out of my head.

      As if she could read my mind. I know she can’t, but sometimes she gives me a look so judgmental and condescending that I fear she might hear my innermost thoughts. Which are, to be fair, pretty resentful. We don’t exactly get along.

      What is it, Mom? I call back, turning in my seat but not getting up.

      The seam of my jeans is pressing just slightly against my now swollen clit. I cross one leg over the other, trying to ignore the throbbing as my mom appears in the doorway to my bedroom.

      Her hair is in curlers, and she has an almost frantic look on her face. She’s pouting slightly, and suddenly, I am reminded of her beauty pageant days. Sometimes, she still has the beauty queen affectations, namely, the megawatt smile on command and perfect graceful wave. It used to embarrass me so much when she would pick me up from middle school and wave at me from the car like she was on a parade float or something.

      She tried to get me to do beauty pageants when I was a kid. After I burst into tears onstage three pageants in a row, she gave it up. Even as a child, I preferred to stay home, held up in my room, with my nose stuck in a book. It has always been our biggest point of contention.

      I invited Vincent over for Christmas cookies, Mom says, sashaying slightly into my room. She’s still wearing her big fluffy leopard-print robe, with the sash tied tight around her middle.

      What? I retort, my jaw dropping open. Why would you do that?

      Vincent moved in three months ago, and my mom immediately tried to sink her shellacked claws into him. He drives a Porsche 911, and I swear I could see dollar signs in my mom’s eyes.

      I can’t blame her, though. Vincent is mesmerizing. Tall, with broad shoulders and dark eyes. His stare is intense, even from afar. Some mornings, when I leave for community college, I feel his eyes on me, tracking me like a hunter tracks his prey. And I like it. Even though I’ve never been with a man before, all I can think about is what it would be like to touch him. To feel his mouth on mine, to have him hold me with his bulky arms…

      Yeah, yeah, I had a silly teenage crush on him. It is stupid. There is no chance he’d ever notice me. Who’s interested in a nineteen-year-old girl who still lives with her overbearing mother? After all, Vincent is an adult; he appears to be in his late thirties at least.

      He probably wants to date adult women who already have their life together, not the college student who fantasizes about him instead of doing her homework. Now I would have to watch my mom try and seduce him in my own home. My stomach is in knots, but I bite my tongue, keeping my opinion to myself.

      My mom rolls her eyes—hard.

      You think I’m gonna blow the chance to marry a guy with a Porsche? Her tone is sharp, and I feel a pang in my gut. It’s five-thirty, and my mom never bakes. I already know what’s coming next, but I ask her anyway.

      When did you make cookies, Mom?

      She pauses, pursing her lips at me. She crosses her arms and glares. Even with her blonde hair in curlers, she looks good for her age. Between three divorces, raising me, and kicking a nicotine addiction–twice, she always made time for her skincare routine.

      Don’t talk to me like that. You know what we do, Faith. I’m not even dressed yet!

      I sigh deeply, holding back the urge to roll my eyes. She always does this. Invites someone over, without warning me, and then forces me to cook an impressive meal in less than an hour.

      God, I can’t wait to move out.

      I close the novel and rub my temple with one hand as I rise from the chair. I cross my room and push past my mother, who is still standing in the doorway.

      Thank you, Faithie. I know I can always depend on you.

      Shouldn’t it be the other way around? I mutter as I walk down the hall.

      What was that? my mother calls after me, but I descend the stairs without answering.

      Our home is modest and completely decked out in Christmas decorations. Mom dropped out of interior design school when she got pregnant with me, but she took pride in keeping a clean, showroom-worthy home.

      We have a huge Christmas tree, covered in baubles and beads and tinsel, but everything is soulless. It’s as if someone took a Pinterest post and brought it to real life. There are no happy memories, no soul to this home. All the tinsel in the world couldn’t make up for a wino mom who only wants to marry rich—for the fourth time.

      I tie my hair back in a ponytail as I enter the kitchen. I’ve been growing it out for a few years now, and the light-brown locks are nearly to my waist. I grab the butter, eggs, baking soda, flour, and sugar and arrange them all on the kitchen counter before washing my hands.

      Even though I’m pissed that Mom is making me do this on such short notice, I do love to bake. When I was younger, my grandma taught me her secret sugar cookie recipe, and I no longer have to look at a written recipe to make it. This recipe is in my muscle memory, and I lose myself in the meditation of baking cookies.

      I hum to myself as I cream the butter and sugar together. Christmas is my favorite time of year. I love the snow, the decorations, the feelings of love and goodwill that surround me. It’s easy to lose myself in Christmas, to devote myself to feeling jolly and finding the perfect presents for my loved ones.

      Before I know it, the cookie dough is ready. I roll the dough out on the counter and lean down to get the cookie

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