Winter Wishes (The Play #1.5)

By: Karina Halle

A Holiday Novella of The Play

For my Anti-Heroes



“Morning, love.”

For a moment, I can’t tell if I’m dreaming or not. Lachlan’s thick Scottish brogue has this way of invading my dreams, blurring the line between fantasy and reality. But, hey, how many people can say the man of their dreams is the man of their life? Even when I wake up, I’m acutely aware of how lucky I am to be Lachlan McGregor’s love.

I know. How cheesy. And thank god for that, because if I didn’t have Lachlan by my side, in my bed, wherever I can have him, I would be losing my fucking mind.

It’s been ten days since I threw caution to the wind and took the greatest risk of my life by leaving everything I ever knew behind in San Francisco, and came to Edinburgh on somewhat of a whim, hoping to rekindle the love I never stopped dreaming about. It’s been ten days of hot, passionate sex, long conversations and sloppy dog kisses. It’s also been ten days of second-guessing my decision, biting my nails, and missing Steph, Nicola, and my brothers back at home. Not to mention the grief over my mother, which is ever-present and bone-deep. To say I’ve been torn in a million different directions is an understatement.

But Lachlan has been by my side every step of the way, so no matter which direction my thoughts and heart and soul have been leaning, his very being reminds me that I’m not alone in it. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without him. I wouldn’t be here, that’s for sure.

I must sink briefly back into sleep again until I feel his lips press softly against my forehead.

“You can’t sleep forever,” he murmurs, his breath hot on my skin. “You’ll want to get up before the snow melts.”


I open my eyes as he pulls away and peers down at me. His eyes look especially green in the morning light, crinkling at the corners as a hint of a smile tugs at his lips. Damn, those lips of his. He’s so fucking handsome it’s like walking around with a permanent colony of butterflies in my stomach.

“What are you talking about?” I ask softly, my voice still groggy with sleep.

He nods his head at the window just as Lionel jumps up on the bed and starts licking my face. I playfully shove him out of the way and sit up to look outside.

I gasp.

He wasn’t kidding.

A thin layer of snow blankets the park across the street, frosting the grass and sticking to bare branches like icing sugar. “Oh my god,” I say, unable to take my eyes away from the blinding white scene. “Does this normally happen?”

“Sometimes,” Lachlan says. “It used to snow more often, but you know, bloody climate change and all that.”

I look at him with wide, hopeful eyes. “Does this mean we’ll have a white Christmas?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

I tilt my head at him. “Oh, come on, you’re supposed to be more excited than that. I’ve never had a white Christmas before. I used to ask Santa for one every year and obviously that never came true.”

“Maybe you were a naughty girl.”

I grin, hitting him on his rock-hard bicep. “You know I was.”

He nods slowly, his eyes trailing over my mouth, neck, chest. Teasing. “Still are,” he says, his voice dropping a register. “Very much so.”

The hairs on my neck stand on end, my skin coming alive from just his gaze. As usual, it takes nothing more than a look from him to turn me on. He doesn’t even have to be around to drive me crazy. I never thought I would become one of those girls that masturbate over their own boyfriend instead of a model or celebrity crush, but there’s a first time for everything.

He leans down, eyes fluttering closed, and kisses the corner of my mouth before slowly sweeping his lips across my jaw. So warm, wet, and soft. I sink back into the pillow, his lips like the sweetest drug. He presses against me and I can feel his hard, stiff length through his jeans, and I instinctively press my hips up to meet his, craving him inside me. I’m wet within seconds and desperate for him to get closer.

“Why are you not always naked?” I practically whimper, sliding my hands underneath his white t-shirt and down the hard, smooth planes of his muscular back. I could touch that back of his for hours.

“Because I’m a stupid, stupid man,” he whispers, sucking my neck into his mouth. The moan it elicits is loud but being noisy is something I refuse to be embarrassed about. Besides, he likes it. What man doesn’t want to hear just what kind of pleasure they’re giving to a woman?

“A stupid man with a great big dick,” I tease him, reaching under and palming his erection.

“Perfect for the girl with the tight little cunt.” His voice gets all low and growly over the last word and he licks down to my collarbone, bathing me in sparks.

Damn. The dirty mouth comes out to play.

I fumble for his jeans, undoing them as quickly as I can, while he pulls his shirt over his head. God, the sight of him above me, every hard-earned, rippled muscle, every beautiful, telling tattoo—it just never gets old.

He reaches back to yank off his jeans when Lionel springs forward, grabbing the hem with his teeth and pulling playfully.

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