As a young stag-shifter, all Pembroke dreams of is being harnessed to Santa’s sleigh. Yet his world comes crashing down when Santa is slain by the imposter Frost.
War erupts in the Arctic Circle, pitting elf against reindeer, and Pembroke is sent on a perilous mission. If he fails, his herd will be lost. When the mission goes awry, the stag-shifter must put his trust in an unlikely ally.
Where does one turn in a land of ice and blood? What happens when the enemy infiltrates your heart? What begins as a wavering alliance just might take Pembroke farther than he ever imagined.
“Oh yeah?” Kassel asked, his voice dreamy with lust and something else, chilling Pembroke to his bones.
Pembroke didn’t care.
He would prove himself.
He arched his back as if he was getting ready to be harnessed to a sleigh. His shoulders back, Pembroke held his head high. His flanks rising in the air, as if supporting an uplifted tail.
“No.” Kassel said. “Like I’m really Him.”
Pembroke felt the rough sole of Kassel’s bare foot against the broadest part of his back. Pembroke was caught off guard by the pressure. His face forced down, Pembroke felt his haunches rise till his ass, like a halved plum, split open for the Toy-Maker’s inspection.
Pembroke flinched as he felt the weight of a large buckle fall between his shoulder blades. Kassel dragged the cool metal down his spine, resting it on the small of Pembroke’s trembling back.
Kassel paused only for a second, before dragging the metal even further, splitting his friend’s cheeks, teasing the soft pink skin of Pembroke’s puckered hole.
Without thinking, Pembroke let his shoulders take the weight of his prostrate body as his fingers lifted to spread his cheeks further apart.
He felt Kassel’s hot breath blowing across his body.
“Now how many days till you guide my sleigh?” Kassel asked.
Thwack.
A sting blossomed against Pembroke’s hole. It leapt away as fast as it came. Like a bolt of lightning carried through his body. The pain surprised him so much Pembroke hadn’t heard the question.
Thwack!
There it was again.
This time Pembroke felt the buckle catch more, burrowing deeper.
Kassel’s voice continued slow and measured as if he was the Toy-Maker himself. “How many days till you guide my sleigh?”
There was an exquisite stillness as Kassel paused for Pembroke’s answer.
The pause, intoxicating. Pembroke imagined the Toy-Maker, winding up, gripping the hilt of His whip.
Together, He and Pembroke would soar through night’s cloud palaces. They’d cruise by starlight.
Pembroke would never flinch under His whip. He would hold the position. His fingers grabbed at the fleshiest parts of his ass, spreading them wider, already the flesh within, tingling with the beginning of welts. A leather, gloved finger, wet with dust-laced saliva, spread cooling across his skin. Spackling up and down his crack, preparing it like a runway, for more landings.
Drool poured from Pembroke’s mouth in anticipation.
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