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Authors: Kelli Scott


BOOK: HolidayHangover
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Holiday Hangover

Kelli Scott


All work and no play has left Jane a very dull girl indeed.
When she’s not working her day job, she’s spending any free time toiling for
the benefit of her neighbors as the president of her condo association. At the
annual holiday party, her Secret Santa gives her a basket full of naughty sex
toys, someone’s inappropriate joke at her expense. Next thing Jane knows, she’s
waking up in a strange bed with very little memory of the night before.

Sprawled across red satin sheets with a pounding headache
and throbbing private parts, Jane struggles to recall whose bed she’s in before
her new bed buddy finishes showering. Bits and pieces of memory come back to
her, but the recollections don’t comfort, only confound her. It seems she’s
going to have a merrier Christmas than she was anticipating.

Holiday Hangover

Kelli Scott


Chapter One


I’m dying.
Not peacefully in my sleep. No, I’m dying
one of those slow, painful deaths you dread more than mimes, clowns or public
speaking. Dying in one’s sleep is a better way to go. And dying in bed is not
the same as dying in your sleep.

Feeling around, my eyes fused shut, I’m sure I am in bed.
Not my bed. My bed is like a heavenly cloud of crisp, clean linen. This bed—the
one I’m dying in—is more like a comfortable, cozy slab of stone. Cozy because
the vacant side of the mattress beneath my fingers is still warm from a body.

I’m not dying of a case of slab-of-warm-cozy-stone, either. I
fear the painful piercing in my brain will be the death of me. Opening even one
eye will surely be the nail in my coffin.

I hear running water. A shower, so I’m not alone. After all,
no one wants to die alone. I could use a shower before I die, or at the very
least a swish and gargle from the sink to wash away the fuzziness coating my
mouth. Maybe a warm, wet compress for between my aching legs, where I swear a
runaway freight train must have blown through. The splatter of flowing water I
hear is a pleasant accompaniment to the off-key humming of
Here Comes Santa
. Baritone. A man. I hope it’s someone I know, then on second thought
pray for a stranger I’ll never see again.

I breathe in the woodsy male scent around me but I’ve never
had any luck putting names to smells. And still no luck opening my eyes or
scaring up a little spit to swallow the nasty taste in my mouth.

Think, Jane—what’s the last thing you remember?

A party. That’s a start. Our annual Seacliff Condo
Association holiday party, to be exact. The Seacliff Condos aren’t by the sea,
nor on a cliff. Sometimes when the breeze blows our way the residents catch a
whiff of the nearby ocean. That’s something. The Cliff, as we call it, is very
nice. Upscale. But not on the water. If it was, I couldn’t afford living there.

The recreation room, which boasts an enormous television for
Monday Night Football gatherings or movie night, was decked out in an array of
holiday décor, representing Hanukah, Kwanza and Christmas in an effort to
mollify all residents and their religion of choice. As the president of the
condo association, that’s my job—to mollify. And delegate. I had zero to do
with entertainment, decorations or refreshments, being deficient at all three.
That would be Trisha Delgado from the third floor, a younger, sassier version
of Martha Stewart, if Martha wore sequined tube tops and hot pants in winter.

Trisha runs a small daycare out of her unit. I turn a blind
eye to her home-based business venture on account of her being easily delegated
to do my dirty work. In other words, I rely on her. She is my eyes and ears at
The Cliff during the day while I work my day job in the billing department of a
prominent orthopedic surgeon. Trisha secretly sends me texts if there are any
rumblings about potential uprisings due to our long list of rules and
regulations. She keeps me updated on unauthorized roommates, illegal parking
and unsanctioned activity of any kind. Not that I’m a killjoy or anything.

Trisha probably knows whose bed I’m in. The way she gossips,
everyone knows but me. The news will get back to me eventually if I don’t
figure out for myself who I’ve boinked. Boinking where you live is simply a bad


“Relax,” Trisha said to me at the party last night. “Have a
drink. Loosen up. Get in the holiday spirit.”

Holding up a wall with my backside, I sipped at a cup of
coffee while I watched everyone else at the holiday gathering get sloshed. “I
don’t do that sort of thing.”

She screwed up her face at me. “Which thing don’t you do?”

“Any of them.”


Yeah, it’s all coming back to me now. Not in a flood, but I can
recall bits and pieces of last night. God, I hope that was last night. I don’t
want to discover I’ve been out cold for several days in a sex coma. I’ve had
sex all right. My cunt throbs like nobody’s business, and not in a good way. In
a raw way. In a whisker-burn way, which might be a good way if I remembered the
incident. I have mixed feelings about remembering.


“Have. Some. Fun,” Trisha said, patting me on the back. A
pat to emphasize each word of bad advice. “One little drink won’t hurt.”

That was when I decided Trisha was in league with the devil.
I should have walked away.

“True.” I nibbled on a frosted Santa sugar cookie until I’d
munched away his privates. “But have you ever heard that song
Tequila Makes
Her Clothes Fall Off

“I love that song.”

“I’m fairly certain someone wrote those lyrics about me.”
Probably someone I’d fucked in my wild youth, before my brain had fully

Trisha giggled.

To me it was no joke. The subject dredged up blurry memories
of spring break in Cancun. Sand, sun and tequila shots do not mix. And there
was an X-rated video out there somewhere to prove my theory. I’d never be able
to run for president of the US because of my reckless past. Not that I planned
on throwing my hat into the race, but it’s nice to have options.

“Have a little eggnog,” said the evil temptress. “You aren’t

True—my condo was just an elevator ride away, like everyone
else’s. She was starting to make sense.

Pointing to a circle of residents, I said, “I think I see a
single man.”

“See ya.” As predicted, she disappeared into the crowd,
leaving me blissfully alone.

“More coffee, Jane?” asked Mrs. Pratt from unit 102B.

I could see the bottom of my cup and shrugged. “Thanks.”

She filled me up, a magical twinkle glinting in her good
eye. Before I could raise the cup to my lips she’d vanished into the throng of
partiers. For good reason. The coffee was not only laced but downright laden
with so much whiskey I nearly choked. The second gulp went down easier. I
usually found that the more I drank the easier I went down too. But the toddy
relaxed the tense muscles in my shoulders.

It was time to relax anyway. The party was officially a
success, based on volume and capacity. I probably could have gotten away with
sneaking out for the night to curl up on the couch with a blanket and a good
book. Tomorrow I would worry about cleanup, I thought. I set my empty cup on a
table and backed slowly away from the party, until I butted up against
something solid. Someone who smelled woodsy. Unless the pleasant fragrance was
the pine-scented candles flickering in the centerpiece on the food table.

Glancing back, it seemed I’d collided with Santa Claus.

“Going so soon, Jane?” he asked in a delicious Spanish

Chapter Two


That’s about all I remember.

My head is still pounding like miners are blasting for gold
in my cranium.

If I left the party and curled up with a book, how did I get
here? Now? In a strange bed, a painful throbbing in my head and pussy?

The water shuts off. I tense, squeezing my eyes shut,
relaxing only a fraction when what sounds like the sink faucet turns on,
followed closely by an electric toothbrush. Thank heavens my one-night-stand guy
has good oral hygiene. If I could get out of bed, I’d wrestle the toothbrush
from him and polish the veneer off my teeth, because I’m sure the fuzzies go

The toothbrush shuts off. Water too.

I hear footfalls on the carpet that are no match for my
pounding heart. Forcing my eyes open a fraction, I spot him. Not all of him.
Mostly I’m eyeing his backside, blurred by the demon alcohol and my unusually
long eyelashes. I smell him at about the same time I see him. The scent of soap
and mint have my pussy throbbing with a pleasant ache. I take inventory of my
latest mistake bent over an open dresser drawer. Dark hair trimmed short.
Tanned skin over rippling muscles. A tattoo covers his arm from shoulder to
elbow. A mole on his neck that I think he should have checked by a medical professional
catches my attention. I can’t see the color of his eyes but the towel wrapped
around his waist is royal blue.

I stop breathing when the towel hits the floor. I’ve never
seen a more perfect ass, except for its being marred with red welts I’m afraid
I inflicted with my nails. Flexing his nearly perfect ass, he steps into a pair
of boxer briefs that hug his butt like a second skin. Turning, he walks toward
the bed—toward me—the briefs snugly molding his ample package. The bulge in his
briefs is one of the reasons I’ll be sore all day and probably for part of
tomorrow. I’m conflicted about the painfully pleasant reminder of our forgotten
night of passion.

I manage a quick breath while he slips into a pair of 501s,
not bothering to button the fly. Why would he when he has that magnificent cock
holding up his jeans? I can’t see his face on account of keeping my eyelids
purposely at half-mast, feigning sleep.

He places his knee on the mattress, leaning in. I expect him
to tell me to wake up, get dressed and get the fuck out. He’s got things to do,
places to go and other people to bang. Instead he kisses my temple. His fresh
breath washes over my cheek. My pussy pulses like it has a heartbeat all its
own, drumming just for him—his scent, his tattoo, his mole.

Nuzzling my neck, he says, “Start waking up, sweetheart. I’m
making waffles.”

A gasp strangles in my throat. My mind and body fight the
dual impulses to vomit at the thought of eating food and climax in response to
his velvety voice tunneling through my ear canal to the only part of my brain
still functioning. The dirty part. It’s always the last to go.

“Fresh strawberries,” he whispers.

I moan.

His teeth skim my shoulder. “Whipped topping.”

I whimper.

“Hot coffee.” He swats my ass to punctuate his final bribe
and I squeak indignantly but refuse to open my eyes and meet my fate. Mystery
Man pops off the bed and walks across the room. “Don’t make me come back here,

I wait until I hear clatter from the kitchen before I force
my eyes wide open, blinking a few times, adjusting to my holiday hangover
limitations. Pushing myself up to sit, I look around the dimly lit room. To my
relief I’m still at The Cliff. All the units look alike. Lifting the red satin
sheet, I glance at my naked body and groan.

“Oh no,” I say, spotting the pillaged and plundered gift
basket on the nightstand adjacent the bed. “What have I done?”

Chunks of memory hit me like a bag of rocks. Dizzying
humiliation sets in and a wave of nausea washes over me. Sometimes memory loss
serves a purpose—like saving my peace of mind, making it possible for me to
sleep at night. What I previously struggled to remember, I now want to forget.
But I can’t.


“Time for Secret Santa!” the buxom blonde from 202A
squealed, blocking my escape from the party with help from Santa, standing tall
and immovable like a sentry.

Entertainment had been the squealer’s contribution to the
party. I’d protested a gift exchange in any form, but like any figurehead, I’d
been vetoed. My party committee minions had insisted on either Secret Santa or
a white-elephant gift exchange. Secret Santa won due to less potential for
bloodshed. Or so I’d thought.

Santa called out Mr. Lowenstein’s name. He eagerly claimed
his Secret Santa offering of a pooper-scooper, plastic trash bags for dog poo,
a leash and a muzzle for his tyrannical crapping canine, aka Byron, often found
wandering loose throughout the complex. Not so much a thoughtful gift as a last-ditch
effort to get Mr. L. to wrangle his mutt.

Being a victim of Byron’s poop bombs, I snickered good
naturedly along with the other residents’ laughter. The coffee-flavored whiskey
was making me break my usual professional demeanor. More gifts were passed
around. More laughter shared.

Trisha crossed the room and handed me a mug of eggnog. More
accurately, she handed me someone’s interpretation of the holiday treat, which
consisted of a hundred-proof bourbon with a pinch of egg, a smidge of nog and a
sprinkle of nutmeg.

Slurping my eggnog, I bobbed my head in Santa’s direction
and asked, “Who’s Santa?”

“Raul Ortiz.” Trisha purred his name and growled like a
cougar on the prowl.

“401D?” I replied. “With the partial ocean view?”

If you can call leaning over your balcony rail on a clear
day and craning your neck a view. We do. And The Cliff charges a premium for
the shitty seascape.

I don’t know people in the complex as much as I know their
dwelling. Some residents are merely 105A to me, or Mr. and Mrs. Mountain View
with their twins, Boy and Girl Mountain View. All I knew about 401D was that he
backed his car into his assigned parking space, staying well within the painted
lines, which I admired greatly. Amazing food smells came from his apartment,
which I also admired—but not the loud music late at night.

“Sexy Santa.” She shimmied, jiggling her boobs and bum. And
she was tasked with the well-being of other people’s children.

“Is he?” I asked, knocking back the last gulp of eggnog. “Sexy,
that is?” Clearly Mr. Ortiz was Santa for the night’s festivities, unless he
had a quirky sense of fashion. He was new to the complex. I’d seen the back of
his head from time to time. His car coming and going. That sort of thing. But
we had a small office staff to deal with the day-to-day issues of the
residents. Unless he attended the monthly meetings, knocked on my door for a
cup of sugar or habitually broke the rules, I might not notice him.

“He’s a landscape designer,” she said. “He’s working on a
bid to revamp the condo grounds, including a deep friends-and-family discount.”

“Mmm.” I liked the sound of that. The complex screamed for a
little curb appeal. And the word “discount” always got my heart racing.

“Jane,” Santa called out as if he knew me personally.
Intimately. We shared a glance. He winked when his hot hand seared mine as I
took possession of the gift basket offered. “Our fearless leader,” he said. His
features were obscured by a fake white beard, his form covered by a silly
costume, but I detected a hint of mocking in his voice, along with the accent.

“Thank you,” I said. “You shouldn’t have, Secret Santa,
whoever you are.” By the size, weight and elaborate bow on the basket, I
decided my tireless efforts for the benefit of my neighbors were truly
appreciated. I nearly popped out an emotional tear, until I reached into the
basket and pulled out a vibrator. Tears dried up and my smile evaporated.
Everyone—and I mean
—laughed. Trying to remain composed, I went
along with the joke and said, “Really, you shouldn’t have.”

I’d gifted my giftee with a fruit-of-the-month subscription.
The gift that keeps on giving—not that the vibrator wouldn’t. It was just that I’d
wanted to imagine the recipient of my present enjoying their morning cereal
topped with my offering of fruit. I certainly didn’t want my Secret Santa
imagining me enjoying the vibrator. I gave Trisha the evil eye and she held up her
hands, denying any responsibility.

“I’d be happy to help you with the batteries,” Sexy Santa
said for my ears only, his eyes twinkling with mischief instead of the holiday
spirit. Yes, my Secret Fucking Santa had the forethought to include batteries—thank
you very much—as well as lubricants, fur-lined handcuffs, something that
resembled a cat-o’-nine-tails and an assortment of condoms in a rainbow of
colors, textures, flavors and sizes.

Merry fucking Christmas.

After about ten minutes of ribbing from my neighbors, the
gift exchange moved on to the next victim, as did the humiliation and
merriment. I quickly downed some sort of warm spiced rum concoction to wash
away my embarrassment. I was nothing more than a joke to my neighbors, despite
the time I spent toiling over contracts for them and listening to complaints
from them. Unbending. Inflexible. In need of a release. To them, that was me—the
sex-deprived busybody in 402C.

That was when I decided to take Trisha’s bad advice and—in
no particular order—loosen up, get in the holiday spirit and have another

BOOK: HolidayHangover
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