Loading...
Loading...


Read Online Books/Novels:

Santa Daddy

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Keira Andrews

Language:
English
ISBN/ ASIN:
9781988260402
Book Information:

Mall Santas aren’t supposed to be hot

Hunter Adams is hopelessly adrift after college. He’s still a virgin, can’t find a real job, and has no clue what to do with his life. In desperation, he returns to his humiliating old job as an elf at the Santa’s Village in his hometown’s dying mall. The Santa on the job is an unexpectedly sexy lumberjack, twice Hunter’s size and age. He makes Hunter feel very naughty—too bad he’s grumpy and intimidating.

Years after the tragic death of his partner, Nick Spini has his beagle and long, hard days on his Christmas tree farm. That’s plenty. But he can’t refuse a loyal friend’s plea for help and finds himself filling in as Santa at the local mall. Despite Nick’s attempt to stay aloof, the beautiful, anxious young man playing elf brings out his long-dormant daddy instincts.

When a surprise blizzard traps them alone in Nick’s isolated forest home, their attraction burns even brighter. Will they surrender to the sizzling connection between them and find the release and comfort they crave?

Santa Daddy is a holiday gay romance from Keira Andrews featuring an age gap, steamy m/m first times, daddy role-playing and light spanking, Christmas romance feels, and of course a happy ending.

Books by Author:

Keira Andrews Books

Chapter One

Mall Santas weren’t supposed to be hot.

Heart thudding from his run through town, Hunter stopped short inside the storage room, the back door to the parking lot slamming shut behind him with a gust of frigid air. He blinked at the vision standing in front of him like a mirage amid the stacks of dusty boxes and crates.

Was he still asleep? Was this a fever dream? Because mall Santas were supposed to be old and kind of short and schlubby. It was the law of the universe or something.

Yet this Santa—probably mid-forties and wearing shiny black boots, red velvet pants with fuzzy white cuffs, and a matching red velvet coat hanging open—was something out of a Details lumberjack photo shoot or one of those fireman calendars Hunter’s mom got every year that he used to secretly jerk off to as a teenager.

A white tank top stretched over Santa’s broad, muscular chest, dark hair peeking out the top of the cotton, his nipples hard and skin a warm olive. His short hair and full, trimmed beard were way more pepper than salt, but the scattered silver highlights were crazy sexy. He had to be at least six-two and towered over Hunter, arching a dark eyebrow.

Please ask if I’ve been naughty or nice.

“About time.”

Hunter blinked at him, his porno fantasy evaporating as he tried to catch his breath. “Huh?”

“You’re late,” Santa accused gruffly.

“Oh. Right.” A burst of anxiety froze out the sizzle of lust that had warmed Hunter’s veins. “I know, sorry.” He panted softly, pulling off his wool hat. His hair fell over his forehead, and he pushed a strand out of his eye. “I overslept.”

Santa stared at him as if he was profoundly stupid and/or pathetic. “It’s almost noon.”

What are you, my father? Hunter squirmed with embarrassment. He despised being late, but he couldn’t turn back time now and erase the last twenty minutes. He hadn’t intended to stay up until almost four playing God of War, and then he’d set his alarm for ten p.m. instead of a.m. because he was a tool.

He knew this—he didn’t need inappropriately hot Santa to remind him. Mall Santas were also supposed to be jolly and kind, not judgy assholes. He rolled his eyes. “Whatever. You’re not my boss. And where’s Mr. Tremblay?”

“Broke his hip.”

“Oh. Shit, that sucks.” Old Mr. Tremblay had been Pinevale’s mall Santa for as long as Hunter could remember. “Um, I’m Hunter. Hunter Adams.” A couple hours north of Toronto, Pinevale wasn’t so small that he knew everyone in town, but Hunter definitely would have remembered seeing this guy around. Where on earth had John found him?

“I’m Mr. Spini.”

A first name was apparently unforthcoming. Who did this guy think he was? Hunter was twenty-three, not some kid. Before Hunter could say as much, John Singh bustled in through the mall entrance beyond the boxes, pushing wire-rimmed glasses up his nose and wearing an incredibly ugly reindeer sweater with fuzzy antlers. In his fifties, he and his husband, Desmond, lived a few blocks from Hunter’s mom. He was short, stout, and always in a hurry, but was usually smiling. Not now, though.

“Hunter! Finally.”

“I know, I know. Sorry.” Hunter’s face went hot as he shrugged off his backpack and pulled out the ridiculous candy-cane tights. Keeping his head down, he unlaced his boots and stripped off his jeans, goosebumps spreading over his skin in the chill of the storage room, the floor freezing. As he tugged the tights over his boxer briefs, he looked up and met Santa’s gaze, which swept down Hunter’s body.

“What?” Hunter shoved his socked feet into the too-tight black slippers with toes curved inward and golden bell on the ends. He muttered, “I look lame, I know.”

Not all of us can look unfairly hot in these costumes.

Santa said nothing as John handed him the padded belly, long white beard, and red velvet hat with white trim. “Final touches.”

Hunter buttoned the green velvet jacket that barely covered his ass and junk, the fluffy white cuffs landing two inches above his wrists. The seams were snug around his shoulders, and he couldn’t really lift his arms. Last time he played elf was his senior year of high school, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d grown in five years. He’d been a late bloomer, although usually he still felt like that pimply, bony kid.

“Good thing this is the last year for Santa’s Village.” Not that he’d be desperate enough to be an elf again next year. He was getting a real job in January if it killed him. A job that didn’t require a humiliating costume.

Then he felt like a dick and quickly added, “I just mean because the costume’s too small on me now. It sucks that the mall’s closing.” Even though it was the Mall That Time Forgot and was super depressing.


Loading...