What Bad Girls Get for Christmas and Other Sexy Holiday Treats

By Kaysee Renee Robichaud

Although she has penned scary stories, a sweeping contemporary fantasy series, and space operas, Kaysee Renee Robichaud began her writing career writing sexy romances. Her latest minicollection delivers three holiday-themed erotic romances that appeared in small press anthologies over the years, collected together for the first time. Inside this book, discover some treats both sweet and a little bitter, when:

A train stopped outside Zurich and a surprise dinner companion play the vital roles in helping Anna to discover how to strip away the baggage of war and find the means and reasons to live again.

A man laid off for the holidays learns to find the real reasons to live and thrive. Sometimes life can be funny even when bringing us to tears.

Kris Kringle's illegitimate daughter discovers love, lust, and kinktastic ecstasy with gift wrap as well as devising alternate lyrics for the Twelve Days of Christmas that Bing Crosby would never have been able to sing without blushing.

Kaysee Renee Robichaud presents these sometimes playful, sometimes sobering, but always entertaining tales of love, loss, and life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Twice Told Tales II
• Release date: Nov 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463649787

Kaysee Renee Robichaud

"Kaysee Renee Robichaud ... balances perfect amounts of ... eroticism and adventure." -- Julian van de Camp,Wings of Steam BlogKaysee Renee Robichaud has been publishing her erotica and romantic fiction since 2008, through such well known book pulishers as Circlet Press, Ravenous Romance, Cleis and Alyson Books. Her work has appeared in numerous anthologies, including the Lambda Award finalist Women of the Bite, edited be Cecilia Tan. An audio version of her story "Adrift" appeared as episode 226 of the Nobilis podcast."Kaysee Renee Robichaud's [writing is] intense, nuanced ... poignant, [and] moving..." -- Sacci Green, Erotica RevealedKaysee Renee has lived all over the United States, but currently resides in southern Texas, where the winters are actually a lot like her childhood autumns. The summers, though, are pretty rough. She is eternally grateful for air conditioning, though a little sweat is good for the fiction."Kaysee Renee Robichaud [tells] a ... playful story, written in a breezy style." -- Jean Roberta, Erotica Revealed

Book preview

What Bad Girls Get for Christmas

And Other Sexy Seasonal Treats

Kaysee Renee Robichaud

On a Snow Swept Evening Outside Zurich, 1936

The train pushed through the snow and ice with relentless power, the engine's steady huffing broken only by the lonely whistle shrieking across the primeval land. Though a crisp night had fallen, the countryside was illuminated by a gorgeous full moon.

Anna rested her forehead against the dining car's chilly window and watched the passing world. They sped past snow dappled evergreens, oaks, and winter-painted hills on the way to Zurich. Her travel had only begun, and it brought a childlike joy to Anna's heart. In less than twenty years, the land seemed to have healed from the wounds it received during the Great War.

She wondered why her spirit had not recovered half as well.

Pardon me miss, someone said, drawing her from her deep thoughts. A deep, incredibly masculine voice. She glanced back from the window. He stood at her table, jacket over one arm, looking impeccable in a clean white shirt and dark tie. His shoulders were broad and his waist narrow, emphasized by his clothes' close cut. His silver-touched dark hair was close-clipped, and his face carried the lines of both deep mirth and deep melancholy—handsome, sensitive, and strong.

Yes?

The dining car has filled up, he said. Indeed, the tables were all full with gabbing parties. If you don't mind, I would like to join you for dinner.

He's an American. Were she a blushing girl of eighteen, she might have declined. Or hidden behind her napkin with blush. That girl was long gone, replaced by a thirty-six year old woman who knew more about experience than innocence. This gentleman looked about her own age. Perhaps a year or two older.

Of course, she said. Please.

He withdrew his chair, paused and met her eyes. His gaze warmed her in places she had assumed to be long frozen. My name is Geoffry, he said. Geoffry Sash.

Anna, she replied, holding out a hand. Anna Fardeau.

His lips drew up in a playful smile as he accepted her extended hand. His hands were large, his fingers slender and long. She sensed his grip was capable of fascinating demonstrations of strength, though he offered her only a gentle squeeze.

He sat down and laid a napkin across his lap with practiced grace, his movements calculated and generous. He took in the menu with a cursory glance, then caught her eyes, again.

And what are you having?

Fowl, I expect, she said.

The braised duck sounds delicious, he said. I'm more of a filet mignon man, myself. A rare treat best served at its rarest form.

Many men prefer filet mignon, she said. Though few fellows would actually label themselves as such. Announcing such a bloody preference requires real spine.

Not every woman observes it quite that way, he said. You've a keen attention to character. And words.

A blush caught fire in her cheeks, though she was not quite sure why. Perhaps it was the smugness to his smile, the daub of arrogance to his manners. Here was a confident man, and he attended her in a way no confident men ever had before. The way his eyes fixed on her, the way he leaned, these all spoke of a deep interest.

He asked, And what brings you aboard the Express?

I don't know, she admitted. The promise of adventure, maybe? Romance?

Ah . . . Ride the Orient Express, he said, drawing a hand through the air as though reading a larger-than-life advertisement poster, Experience the luxury, the sweep and the romance of a cross-continental adventure . . .

She could not hold back a laugh, and fresh heat invaded her face.

Precisely.

The Arlberg Orient Express, which advertised luxury transit from Calais to Athens and back again, with stops in such far-flung cities as Vienna and Budapest, pressed onward into the dark, snowy expanse. Its lonely whistle sang again, announcing itself once more to the cold, cold world.

Such a sound, she said and shivered.

Did you know they are all a little different?

Pardon me?

The whistles, he said. "Oh, the technology is the same. The finest these often depressed times can produce. But each has its own