Page 12 of Frosty the Farmhand (12 Days of Christmas)

11

REID

M y heart beats wildly in my chest as Harlan kisses me like I’m the air he needs to breathe. It’s thorough and unhurried, his palms rough against the smooth skin of my face. I love the contrast—the way the feeling ignites little shots of pleasure to zip through my veins.

He’s gentle and it’s almost startling considering the way he commanded me.

The things he said.

And I liked it.

I can feel my face heat, the color probably somewhere in the fire engine family as Harlan pulls away, his thumb trailing over my bottom lip as the other caresses my cheek.

“You’re an addiction.”

“So, you’re addicted to Christmas now?”

“Addicted to you.”

Holy hell.

Harlan’s gaze drops to my lap where my hand is still wrapped around my softening dick and covered with my release. It’d been spectacular—something I’ll undoubtedly jerk off to long after Harlan is gone.

It’s nothing I can think about now, especially not when he takes a handkerchief from his pocket and starts cleaning me up with such care I have to blink to hold back tears.

“Harlan?” I whisper.

“Hmm?”

“You carry a handkerchief.” It’s not a question and I’m not even sure why I say it, but his answering chuckle is more than my lust-drunk heart can bear.

“I always have,” he says, cryptic and short. But then he adds, “There was this old man who lived where I grew up, and he only ever wore dress clothes and carried one in his pocket.”

“Why?”

Harlan tucks the dirty square into his jeans and then stands, holding out his hand to me so I can do the same. “He said that he wanted to look his best when the good Lord reunited him with his wife.”

“That’s remarkably sweet,” I say, righting my clothes and brushing the dirt from the knees, “and really sad.”

Harlan shrugs. “He’d been married a long time, barely remembered his life without her. Kind of romantic, don’t you think?”

I gape at him because the man might as well have told me that he majored in tap dancing, and it would have been more believable than the words he just uttered.

Dirty talk, secret romantic…

“I like you like this.”

“Like what?” he asks, arching his eyebrow.

“Relaxed.” Fun. “Open.”

“Not as frosty, ” he teases, and I can’t stop the laugh the bubbles out of my chest as I mentally add playful to the list of things that Harlan Frost seems to be.

“That too. Since we’re already here,” —my grin is wicked as I lead him into the barn— “we can meet the horses.”

We walk quietly, and I point out the ones interested in saying hello. The stable is relatively quiet save for the last stall, a rescue named Onyx because of his black coat and mane. So far, he’d nearly injured every person who tried to get close.

His hoof scuffs against the ground as he snorts, his agitation growing with us standing there. I’m about to move away when Harlan stops.

“Easy, boy,” he murmurs, his voice smooth as he talks to the animal, their interaction already far more successful than anyone else’s here. Onyx steps back and forward, his head bobbing as he watches Harlan, and I swear I see relief in the stallion’s eyes as he pushes his nose into Harlan’s hand.

There’s no sudden movement or celebration at the truly miraculous feat, just the slow stroke of his hand and quiet murmuring that seems to soothe Onyx.

Or maybe it’s just Harlan.

Maybe the horse somehow knows he came from a ranch and that Harlan is his best shot at getting out of that stall.

When Onyx has had enough, Harlan whispers his goodbye as the horse retreats. “What?” he asks as he meets me at the door.

“He’s a rescue.”

“So?”

“He’s a rescue who hasn’t responded to anyone that well in the weeks since he’s been here. Wren is usually the go-to for difficult or abused horses, but he’s tried to kick her every time she gets near him.”

“What’s the goal with him?” The air is significantly colder than when we entered the barn.

Through the back door…

I smirk and I’m thankful it’s hidden by the darkness because this question deserves it.

“My uncle wants him to not be a danger to himself or anyone else—animals included. Ideally, it’d be great if someone would be able to ride him, but honestly, the goal is always just to give them a safe and happy life if we can.”

“We?”

“Yeah, it’s always been this way—for as long as I can remember.” Looking at him with a sideways glance, I ask, “Would you be willing to work with Onyx?”

“Me?” I want to roll my eyes but he seems genuinely surprised. “I wouldn’t want to overstep.”

“You won’t be. I’ll talk to my uncle, but I’m positive he’ll want your help.” Harlan looks skeptical so I pull him to a stop, lacing my fingers with his. “What you did tonight was truly amazing.”

“I knew you’d like me fucking your mouth like that.” His expression is smug, and I blush just thinking about it.

“That’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean?” he whispers, leaning forward to nip at my earlobe with his teeth. A gasp and a moan are all I can manage as he presses our bodies together and rocks his hips against our joined hands.

He’s hard.

He’s already fucking hard.

“Talk to Winston tomorrow, but tonight,”—he licks up the shell of my ear, making me shiver and buck against him—“come home with me.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Frost.”

“Hold on tight, Christmas. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”