Erotic Temptations, Book 2

  [Siren Publishing: The Lynn Hagen ManLove Collection: Erotic Romance, Contemporary, Alternative, Christmas/Holiday, MM, HEA]

  WINTER BLAST:

  Alan’s flying home for Christmas. Alone. Another year single, another reminder that love always seems to skip his stop. But when he runs into his old crush, the very straight boy who used to live across the street, things take an unexpected turn. One bad case of car trouble later, Ryan’s offering to help…and Alan starts to wonder if this winter might come with a few surprises that’ll melt more than snow.

  ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS:

  Elijah’s Friday nights are spent at bingo with his three elderly neighbors. No love life, just gossip and glitter sweaters. When the regular ball caller falls ill, his grandson steps in, and suddenly every woman with a walker is ready to pounce. Broad, tall, and unfairly handsome, Mason makes the whole room swoon…except he’s only got eyes for Elijah.

  Length: 24,000 words

  EROTIC TEMPTATIONS, BOOK 2

  Lynn Hagen

  Siren Publishing

  a subsidiary company of Siren-BookStrand, Inc.

  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  Erotic Temptations, Book 2

  Copyright © 2025 by Lynn Hagen

  ISBN: 979-8-89618-035-7

  First Publication: December 2025

  Cover design by Emma Nicole

  All art and logo copyright © 2025 by Siren-BookStrand, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  If you find a Siren-BookStrand e-book or print book being sold or shared illegally, please let us know at legal@sirenbookstrand.com

  Siren Publishing

  a subsidiary company of Siren-BookStrand, Inc.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Lynn Hagen loves writing about the somewhat flawed but lovable. She also loves a hero who can see past all the rough edges to find the shining diamond of a beautiful heart.

  You can find her on any given day curled up with her laptop and a cup of hot java, letting the next set of characters tell their story.

  For all titles by Lynn Hagen, please visit:

  www.bookstrand.com/lynn-hagen

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  EROTIC TEMPTATIONS, BOOK 2

  Winter Blast

  All I Want for Christmas

  EROTIC TEMPTATIONS, BOOK 2

  LYNN HAGEN

  Copyright © 2025

  Winter Blast

  Rental keys in hand, I headed to my car, exhausted from my flight. Holiday travel was the worst, only made slightly better by the cute guy who’d sat next to me. My hopes of a possible mile-high experience deflated when he said he was married, bragging about child three on the way. No matter the situation, if there was a straight guy near, my busted-ass gaydar pointed me right toward him.

  It was as if I was doomed to stay single for the rest of my life.

  After tossing my bag into the trunk, I slid into the car then wrinkled my nose. What on earth was that stench? It smelled like someone had left old socks under the seat. If this was a prediction of my Christmas vacation, I was screwed. I adjusted the seat and started the car, ready to be at my parents’ already.

  The engine coughed to life with a noise like a dying blender. Not very Christmas-movie, but then my life had never been one of those anyway. Heat eventually blasted out but only after a full minute of blowing cold air directly at my knees. Why do rental cars do that? Somewhere, some engineer was cackling.

  I maneuvered out of the rental lot, already regretting my choice of shoes. Who wears slip-ons in a New England winter? Only someone who’d been away too long. The holiday traffic crawled along, an endless line of brake lights, snowflakes swirling in the headlights. It looked pretty, if you weren’t the one driving through it with a headache and a sock-scented car.

  My old neighborhood hadn’t changed much. Same stick-figure trees slouched under the weight of snow, same mailbox shaped like a dolphin for no reason, same vague sense of low-level dread at seeing it all again. Houses lined both sides of the street, decked in enough blinking lights to cause seizures. My parents had always gone for understated class—wreath on the door, white lights, a plastic reindeer that’d lost one leg sometime before I hit puberty.

  Christmas had always been Mom’s thing, though. And apparently still was, because I nearly blinded myself pulling up to their driveway. Every tree branch sparkled, and the windows glowed with candles. They’d even gone for one of those inflatable Santas in a hot air balloon. I could practically hear Dad swearing at it from here.

  The driveway was freshly shoveled, uneven lines like my dad had given up halfway through. I’d barely put the car into Park before Mom burst out the front door, apron on under her puffer vest.

  “You’re here!” She opened her arms in a gesture that suggested I was returning from war, not from a time zone away and a layover in Detroit.

  “Hey, Mom.” I climbed out, knees protesting, and tried not to inhale. The rental car funk had clung to my coat.

  Mom’s hug nearly knocked the wind out of me. It also felt good, safe, and comforting. “You look tired! Why do you look tired? Are you eating enough?”

  One question in and I was already regressing to adolescence. “I eat. Sometimes even vegetables.”

  She clicked her tongue. “You always were skinny. Here, let me see you.” She pushed me back to arm’s length, peered at my face, then patted my cheeks like I was six and had just lost my baby teeth.

  Dad appeared behind her, holding a snow shovel in one hand and a mug of something suspiciously non-alcoholic in the other. “You made it,” he said, as if every airline in the country had been plotting my doom.

  “Barely. But yes. I’m here.” I grabbed my suitcase from the trunk. It slid from my hand and dropped into a slush puddle. Christmas miracles, they never end.

  Inside, the house was a fire hazard of cinnamon-scented candles, garland, and stuff Mom called “decor” and Dad called “crap from the basement.” The tree was huge, taking up half the living room, and covered in family ornaments. A glittery macaroni angel I’d made in ’97 still clung to a branch near the top. It looked about as stable as my love life.

  Mom fussed over me as I peeled off my coat and shoes. “You hungry?”

  “I could eat,” I said, because I’d have eaten a shoe if she’d offered. Anything to get the taste of airport food out of my mouth.

  “Dinner’s almost ready. You remember your room?”

  “As if I could forget.” I hauled my suitcase up the stairs. My old bedroom waited at the end of the hall, door still painted the same blue. Inside, it was like stepping into a time capsule, except the “cool” posters of boy bands were now slightly yellowed and curling at the edges. The bedspread from high school was still there, too, probably because it was easier to leave it than to explain the stains.

  I set my bag down and flopped onto the bed, springs protesting. Outside, snow spun in the gray winter sky. I stared at the ceiling and tried not to think about work, or dating apps, or the fact that every year I was more single than the year before. Maybe they should decorate me instead of the tree.

  Mom called up the stairs, “Dinner in half an hour!”

  “Got it,” I shouted back. My voice echoed, which felt metaphorical.

  Peeling out of my jeans, I changed into sweatpants pilfered from my suitcase, then wandered to the window for a little nostalgia and self-pity. The view was pure Norman Rockwell—snow-draped lawns, icicles, windows glowing amber against the dusk. Across the street, the old Miller house stood, still adorned with its green shutters. And there, shovel in hand, was Ryan.

  He wore a battered blue jacket and a hat pulled low, face mostly hidden except for the scruff on his jaw. Years ago, I’d spent an embarrassing number of hours watching him from this same window.

  Back in high school, he’d been the golden-boy-next-door, the poster child for small-town masculinity. He’d been on the football team and crowned the prom king, the kind of guy who peeled off his shirt at the pool and made everyone else look like they should’ve just stayed inside.

  We’d been friends, sort of. He came over for video games, drove me home from parties, never treated me like the weird gay neighbor.

  Of course, I never told him I’d spent half my teenage years quietly obsessed with his laugh, his eyes, the way he was always just a little too close when we watched movies sprawled on this bed.

  I watched him work the shovel, snow spraying up with each scoop. He looked good. Better than good. Adulthood had hit him like a Marvel movie origin story. He’d gotten bulkier, arms stretching the seams of his jacket, and taller, somehow. Not that I was staring.

  Okay. Maybe I was staring a little.

  If this were a romcom, I’d be racing across the street and confe
ssing my undying love. In real life, I considered hiding behind the curtain and pretending I hadn’t seen him at all. That was more my style.

  But then Ryan looked up and spotted me. Shit!

  He grinned, wide and open, and waved. A dorky mittened wave, like we were still kids.

  I wiggled my fingers back, a feeble hello, and wondered how weird I probably looked. Old habits die hard.

  After a minute, curiosity or self-destructive tendencies—or both, let’s be honest—got the better of me. I pulled on a hoodie and boots, then tramped downstairs, nearly getting impaled by a garland-wrapped banister. Mom intercepted me at the door.

  “Where are you going? Dinner’s soon!”

  “Just going to say hi to Ryan. He’s across the street. Shoveling.”

  Mom’s expression softened. “Oh, good. You haven’t seen him in years. Tell him hello from us!” She patted my arm like I was five and about to cross the street by myself.

  Outside, the cold bit through my hoodie like a personal insult. Snow crunched under my boots. At least it covered up the fact that I still walked like I’d spent my life indoors. Spoiler. I had. As I crossed the street, Ryan straightened and rested the shovel against his shoulder.

  “Hey, stranger!” His voice was much deeper now but still warm. He brushed snow from his sleeve and graced me with a breathtaking grin.

  “Hey yourself.” I tried for casual, but my teeth were chattering. “Either you enjoy pain or you lost a bet with your dad.”

  Ryan laughed. “Neither. My parents are in Florida, so it’s just me battling the elements. Gotta keep up the neighborhood standards.” He gestured at the snow, which had already half-filled the part he’d just cleared. “Or, you know, try.”

  I glanced over his handiwork, then back at his face. “You missed a spot.”

  He shot me a look. “I did not.”

  “You kinda did.” I pointed at a stubborn patch by the mailbox.

  “Blame the plow guy,” he said conspiratorially. “He’s got it in for me.”

  That smile was dangerous. If I hadn’t been so cold, I’d probably have melted right there on the sidewalk.

  “So, how’s life?” Ryan propped the shovel against the porch rail. “You’re still living in Chicago, right?”

  “For my sins. Yeah.” I crossed my arms, mostly for warmth. “Working, not dating, you know, the whole tragic gay urbanite thing.”

  His eyes crinkled. “That makes one of us. I’m still here, living the local dream. Lawnmower, house, and a fridge full of questionable leftovers.”

  At least one of us had a fridge. I mostly had takeout boxes and LaCroix. “Sounds glamorous.”

  He shrugged. “You know me. Always living on the edge.”

  Awkward silence threatened to settle, but Ryan just leaned against his porch rail and watched me with a steady gaze. “You look good, Alan.”

  I nearly swallowed my tongue. “You need to get your eyes checked,” I said, because witty deflection was my only move.

  “Nah. I can see perfectly.” He grinned, and for a second, I felt sixteen again, convinced he was flirting. But he’d never flirted with me before. Not even when I all but drooled on him at Homecoming.

  Distracted myself by looking around. “You’ve kept your parents’ house in one piece. Impressive.”

  “They’d kill me if it looked bad on Zillow. I keep the lights on, shovel the walk for nice neighbors, keep the plants from dying.”

  I glanced up at his “nice neighbors” comment, but he just grinned wider. “And what about you? Work good?”

  “Work is…work.” I shrugged, looking anywhere but his eyes. “I’m in HR now. I’m the fun police.”

  He laughed, a real, warm sound. “Doesn’t sound like you.”

  “Trust me, nothing about HR is fun.” I glanced up at him. “You still working at the town hardware store?”

  He shook his head. “Nah, I’m teaching phys ed at the elementary school now. Herding sugar-addled kids all day. Sometimes I miss hardware. Bolts don’t scream and throw dodgeballs at your head.”

  My brain conjured an image of Ryan in gym shorts and a whistle, and I had to look somewhere else before my face gave me away. The wind picked up, flinging snowflakes in my face.

  He pushed off the porch. “You want to come in and warm up? I’ve got hot chocolate. Or coffee.”

  Somewhere inside, my phone buzzed. Saved by the bell. I checked the screen. Mom, reminding me she’d actually take hostages if I was late for dinner.

  “I’d better not risk it,” I said. “Mom’s got dinner, and if I’m so much as five minutes late, I’ll be disowned.”

  Ryan smiled, soft this time. “No one wants that.”

  Swear, I was getting a flirting vibe, but it was probably my broken gaydar once again crushing my soul.

  I shrugged. “Eh. The freedom might be nice.”

  He stepped closer, snow squeaking under his boots. “We should hang out while you’re in town. Get coffee? Or a drink?”

  The part of me that wanted to say yes was loud and needy. The other part, the one that remembered all the years I’d come home alone, was less enthusiastic.

  “I’ll be around,” I said and hated how noncommittal it sounded.

  Ryan didn’t seem bothered. “Cool. I’ll text you?”

  “Do you still have my number?”

  “Always,” he said, and that look in his eyes got me right in the stomach. I’d been gone for ten years, only to find myself full circle, standing in front of my crush and still yearning for him to see me. God, I was pathetic.

  I tried to play it off with a weak smile. “See you around.”

  Heading back across the street, I could feel Ryan’s gaze on my back, heavy as a backpack full of bricks. I didn’t look back. I was afraid of what I’d see, or worse, what I wanted to see.

  Inside, the warmth hit me full force. Mom was already setting the table, humming along to Michael Bublé. Dad was fiddling with the TV, the glow of football flickering over his face. It was the sort of scene that made people nostalgic or maybe just lonely.

  Mom eyed me as I shook off my boots. “See Ryan?”

  “Yeah. He’s still shoveling.”

  She beamed, pleased. “He’s such a nice boy. You two used to be inseparable.”

  I didn’t correct her.

  * * * *

  Mom made some kind of chicken with cranberries and nuts for dinner, and Dad spent half the meal complaining about potholes while I blinked through a fog of jet lag and cinnamon candles. Both parents took turns firing questions at me like it was a competitive sport. No, I wasn’t seeing anyone. Yes, I’d had my last promotion. No, Chicago probably wouldn’t get a decent mayor in my lifetime. Did I want more stuffing, even though I’d just said yes to more potatoes? Sure, why not, let’s load up on carbs like I was running a marathon instead of hiding in my childhood bedroom for the next week.

  Some families discussed their feelings. Ours discussed car repairs, weather, and how the neighbor’s inflatable snowman kept deflating in a way that was “undignified for the season.” I laughed at all the right moments, made up a promotion in HR because “promotion” sounded better than “I am now a middle manager with more email and no pay increase,” and did not mention Ryan. He might as well have been a ghost, like all my other crushes. Conveniently invisible.

  After two helpings of pie, I dragged myself upstairs, shutting the door on the unmistakable sound of Dad shouting at the football game and Mom humming along to Bing Crosby.

  I opened all the windows in the bedroom. The radiator was stuck at Sahara, and I figured I’d rather freeze at night than sweat through polyester sheets. Snow was still coming down, swirling under the streetlights. Ryan’s house glowed across the street, every window lit up. I stood there, staring like a creep. I really needed a hobby.

  I glanced at my phone when it buzzed. Three messages from Ryan, as if he’d been sitting there, too, thinking about high school and macaroni angels.

  You survived dinner?

  If you need a rescue code, say “potato salad.”