Christian Ire Irons has the world by the balls. He owns his own bar, and he’s the leader of a motorcycle gang. Maybe his family can’t accept his rough, tough, tattooed existence, but that’s their problem, not his. And yet, it’s Christmas, and the impending holiday illuminates the void in his life. His life would be perfect with the right partner and a loving family.
‘Twas the night before Christmas, when into Christian’s bar, a sexy older man wearing a tuxedo appeared…
Nicholas Farley appears to have everything life can offer—money, social position, a successful business. So why is he so lonely? On an impulse he can’t explain, Nic runs away from it all and straight into Christian’s bar. The attraction between them is immediate and electrifying. Can Nic dare to be the man he truly is inside, with a little help from Christian?
Can a hot holiday hook-up become more than a game of naughty or nice?
“Would you look at that, boss?”
Christian Ire Irons—Chris to his friends and Fucking Hell, Christian to his mother—lifted his head at his second-in-command’s words. He whistled under his breath, the passive-aggressive Christmas card he’d received from his mother instantly forgotten. It wasn’t every day a man in a tux ventured into his bar. Along with the garage Christian owned, the bar was his baby and the home base of the motorcycle club Christian ruled over.
The Rusty Wheel catered mostly to bikers and other people who didn’t fit in elsewhere. The usual clients wore leather—even some of the women—or really short and slutty outfits—even a few of the guys. Christian had made it clear when he opened the bar that he didn’t like bigots, and whoever came to his bar could wear whatever the hell they damn well pleased. But a tux…that was a new one.
“That’s certainly more interesting than reading your mommy’s Christmas wishes,” Raff teased.
“She’s always wishing me the same thing anyway. For me to grow up and stop humiliating her.” Christian leaned back lazily. The wooden chair creaked under his weight as he took in his newest customer.
The man had longish black hair that he’d tied back with a silver band. Silver glimmered at his temples. Some wisps had escaped and framed his clean-shaven face. He was lean under the tux, bordering on too thin. Christian guessed the stranger stood about six feet.
Merry Christmas to me.
Christian smirked and shook his head. He was sure his mother wouldn’t approve of the surprise Christmas gift that had fallen into his lap. He’d always had a thing for the salt-and-pepper look. For shy men who were all proper and buttoned up. In his experience, most of them turned into little wildcats in bed.
However, this guy wasn’t just shy. His gaze flicked through the bar, and his shoulders were stiff under his clothes. He reeked of nervousness. And the tired, desolate expression in the stranger’s large eyes tugged at Christian’s seldom-touched heart. The man was pale. Christian wondered if that had anything to do with the dark smudges under his eyes, or if that was his usual complexion.
The man carefully made his way toward the bar, doing his best not to meet anyone’s gaze. He pulled out one of the barstools and climbed up. Christian wondered why he was here. Men who looked like they’d fallen out of the glossy pages of a celebrity magazine didn’t come into seedy, dark bars run by a motorcycle club in the shadier part of Boston.
“Whoa, bossman. You look like you want to lick the suit like a candy cane.” Raff laughed, then took a big gulp of his beer. “Scary shit.”
Christian shot his friend a grin. “It’s a tux. And I wouldn’t mind peeling our guest out of it.” He wasn’t ashamed to admit it. His gang knew he preferred guys. That had been an issue when he’d taken over from his predecessor. His men soon learned not to mess with their new leader if they didn’t want to tease the Ire out of Christian Irons.
Raff cocked his head, his gaze fixed on the stranger, who was talking with the bartender. “He’s cute,” Raff muttered. “If you dig dudes. He’s older, though. How old do you guess?”
“Forty. Forty-five, tops. He’d look even cuter with a red bow wrapped all around that creamy skin.” Christian quickly adjusted himself in his leather pants.
Raff made a choking sound. “TMI, boss. There’s not enough bleach in the world to cleanse me of the last time I found one of your toys tied to your bed.” He scratched the red stubble on his cheek. “He smells like money. Why would a classy guy like him go for a greasy biker like you? Think he has a thing for a lack of manners and no charm?”
“Fuck you, Raff.” Christian emptied his beer and returned the pint to the table with a thud. If he placed the wet glass right on top of his mother’s card, that was strictly accidental. It was Christmas, for fuck’s sake. He didn’t want to spend the holidays drinking with his gang. God knew he couldn’t spend it with his family, or people would end up with knives stuck in their chests. His stuffy family brought out the best in him.
“I can be charming—with the right incentive. As for why he’d agree to spend the holidays with me? He chose to come to this bar instead of attending the posh party he’s so obviously dressed for. On the twenty-fourth. I’m sure he’s looking for a wild ride.” Christian stood. “Watch and learn, young Padawan.” He strode away to Raff’s amused chuckles. He was tempted to put his second down a notch or two for his behavior, but right now he was on a mission to get himself a Christmas present.
Christian walked up to the bar, rapped his knuckles on the wood, and nodded at the bartender. Hershey grinned knowingly, the piercings in his lip and eyebrows blinking in the overhead lights. He brushed a lock of evergreen hair out of his face, then grabbed an empty beer glass. “Boss.”
The sexy stranger stopped scrutinizing the content of his own beer glass and looked up.
Christian sat down beside him, and their gazes locked. Exotic blue eyes mixed with shards of caramel widened to round marbles. A soft gasp escaped the man’s parted lips, which were an enticing shade of light pink. The man raised a slender hand and brushed an errant strand back behind his ear.
Christian saw his fingers tremble. The man’s open vulnerability, despite his age, both aroused him and woke Christian’s urge to tug him into his arms.
“Tell me your name.”
The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “Nic.”