Erotic Temptations, Book 1

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

  JINGLING BELLS:

  David swore he wasn’t going to the office Christmas party. He didn’t own an ugly sweater, and no way in hell was he showing up solo. But when the company’s sinfully hot CEO makes it clear he expects David there, suddenly David’s on a mission. Find the ugliest sweater in existence and pray it hides how hard he’s blushing.

  A CANDY CANE FOR SANTA:

  When Alex gets wrangled into playing the mall Santa, he knows it’s going to be an epic disaster. He’s five feet tall and no wider than a chopstick, has zero experience with kids, and his costume keeps trying to kill him. Between screaming toddlers and wardrobe malfunctions, Alex is ready to call it quits. Until one tall, dangerously sexy elf steps in to save the day…and maybe unwrap more than just presents.

  DIAMOND PEAK HOTEL:

  Cameron only took the holiday job to help with the hotel’s glittering Christmas gala, but crowds send his anxiety through the roof. Still, he needs the paycheck more than his peace of mind. What he doesn’t need? The instant, heart-stopping crush on his boss behind the front desk. Between mistletoe, midnight shifts, and a smile that melts his nerves, Cameron’s starting to wonder if this Christmas might bring more than seasonal stress.

  Length: 26,000 words

  EROTIC TEMPTATIONS,

  BOOK 1

  Lynn Hagen

  Siren Publishing

  a subsidiary company of Siren-BookStrand, Inc.

  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  Erotic Temptations Book 1

  Copyright © 2025 by Lynn Hagen

  ISBN: 979-8-89618-034-0

  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 1

  Jingling Bells

  A Candy Cane for Santa

  Diamond Peak Hotel

  EROTIC TEMPTATIONS BOOK 1

  LYNN HAGEN

  Copyright © 2025

  Jingling Bells

  One eye popped open then the other. My gaze landed on the alarm clock next to my bed, blinking twelve o’clock repeatedly in angry, red numbers.

  What time was it? Before my brain even had a chance to wake up, I was out of the bed, snatching my phone from where I’d left it on the kitchen counter.

  Two minutes after eight. I had exactly thirty minutes to get to work and my apartment was twenty minutes from my job.

  Cursing under my breath, I dashed to the bathroom. Flicked the light, and squinted at the shape in the mirror. A man with bedhead that looked personally offended by gravity. My hair had achieved new and unsanctioned angles overnight. Sticking up like frostbitten grass, which, coincidentally, was exactly what the landscaping outside my building looked like this morning. Toasted. Icy. Haggard.

  Not unlike me.

  A quick toothbrush pass, maybe ten percent as recommended by my dentist, then a too-fast shave that would haunt my jaw with tiny red marks until noon. I yanked a shirt from the laundry basket—who was I kidding, it was the “needs folding” basket, which, in this apartment, doubled for “still plenty clean, come on” basket—and a pair of navy slacks that were only wrinkled if you got closer than, say, five feet.

  A splash of icy water. I regretted that immediately. Water hit the floor, but I left it, a present for future David with my socked feet. Priorities.

  Twenty-four minutes until I was officially, and possibly irredeemably, late.

  Coffee. Needed it. Coffee was non-negotiable. I stabbed the “brew” button on my ancient Mr. Coffee. The red light flickered a few times like it was disappointed in me—join the club—before producing half a mug of sludge.

  Perfection.

  Burned my tongue on the first sip, then immediately sloshed some coffee onto the aforementioned clean shirt. It wasn’t just a drop. It was a Jackson Pollock interpretation, right in the middle. Maybe if I walked hunched over, nobody would notice. Or everyone would notice, and Janet would bring it up loudly enough to alert Homeland Security.

  “Wonderful,” I muttered. A quick glance at my phone. Nine minutes to get out the door, down the elevator, and sprint to the bus stop. I shrugged into my peacoat, two buttons missing, wrestled my hair with a dime-sized glob of gel—now it looked marginally less like a rooster’s comb—and crammed my feet into boots.

  Outside, snow had transformed the sidewalk into an obstacle course for fools. I was, evidently, the Olympic champion of fools this morning. The wind smacked me right in the face. Cold, sharp, personal. Was it possible for winter to have a vendetta? I wouldn’t put it past Chicago.

  I speed-walked past Mrs. Engle from the third floor, who was walking a dog that resembled a fuzzy igloo on a leash.

  “Morning,” she chirped in her terrifyingly chipper way.

  “Morning.” I probably sounded like a malfunctioning Alexa.

  The bus. I could see it, blue-and-white and waiting, its lights bright against the gray. I managed to slip twice, caught myself twice, and sloshed more coffee on my hand. Dignity: zero. But hey, I’d made it.

  The doors hissed open. I climbed aboard, tried to tap my transit card with some hope in my heart. The machine beeped three times in the universal language of, “Nope.” I flipped it over and tried again. Success! Only three people I’d held up gave me dirty looks.

  The bus was packed. Every seat was filled with people scrolling on their phones, earbuds in, determined not to make eye contact. I wedged myself next to a guy who smelled like onions and existential dread and tried not to think about how, technically, I could’ve just called in sick and gone back to bed.

  But no, I was a grown-up. That was my story, and I was sticking to it.

  Five blocks later, the bus hit every red light in the county. I checked my phone compulsively, as if time might’ve slowed down out of sympathy.

  It hadn’t.

  I was going to be at least five minutes late, assuming the elevator at Megalith Data wasn’t still “undergoing emergency maintenance” like yesterday. Because nothing said “cutting-edge tech firm” like a janky elevator and breakroom vending machine that only sold off-brand energy drinks and Funyuns.

  The bus lurched to a stop. I hurried off, surrounded by snowflakes whirling in the air like confetti. Bracing myself, I made the short, icy trek to the glass doors of the office. Ten minutes late. Maybe eleven. Maybe fifteen. I could fudge the numbers if anyone asked.

  Inside held no relief. The lobby heater was apparently broken, which meant the arctic air followed me through security. The security guard, Tim, looked me up and down like I’d just returned from the apocalypse.

  “Rough morning?” he asked.

  “I don’t even want to talk about it.”

  Tim smirked and buzzed me in. “Hope it improves, David.”

  Me too. A hand thrown over my head was my only reply.

  Halfway down the hall I caught my reflection in a window and considered just turning around and going home. Dark brown hair: mostly tamed, but with a chunk in the back that looked like I’d been electrocuted. Collared shirt: coffee-stained. Skin: offensively pale. Eyes: tired, but still blue and functional, which was about as much as anyone could ask for on a day like this.

  I slipped quietly into the sea of cubicles. Beige, beige, and more beige, interrupted occasionally by the aggressively cheerful green of fake potted plants. Phones ringing. The low drone of people gossiping, emailing, and pretending to work.

  I sat and tried to pretend I’d been there the whole time.

  No such luck.

  Janet appeared immediately. She had a sixth sense for moments when someone was vulnerable. She wore her hair in a terrifyingly perfect helmet and wielded a travel mug that looked like it could double as a murder weapon if you crossed her.

  “David, darling,” she called, in a voice that carried over the cubicle walls and probably into the next cou
nty. “Are we on California time today?”

  I leaned back and swiveled in my chair. “No, just doing a live demonstration of the new teleportation app. I see it still needs some work.”

  Janet cackled. “Teleportation or waking up on time?”

  Held up my coffee. “Neither, but at least one of them stains my shirt. Isn’t that impressive?”

  She gestured at the Rorschach blot on my chest. “Mm, I’d say that’s more of a seagull than a butterfly. Maybe a flying poodle.”

  I glanced down. “Good eye. I was going for ‘modern art,’ but flying poodle is good, too.”

  Janet circled my cubicle wall like a polite but relentless shark. Other heads began to pop up on cue. Carla, who wore only cardigans and a permanent grimace. Marnie, eating a bagel with enough cream cheese to fossilize a mammoth.

  “I have to ask,” Janet said, dropping her voice to “confidential” levels, which meant everybody within fifty feet could hear. “Are you coming to the Christmas party? It’s Friday. Free food, open bar, ugly sweaters. Everyone’s expected.”

  I choked a little on my lukewarm coffee. The company Christmas party. Nothing like forced merriment and an open bar to remind a man he was spectacularly single again. “I’m still waiting for my invitation. Last I checked, I hadn’t made your exclusive guest list.”

  She rolled her eyes. “It’s not exclusive. Just RSVP. Wear something that doesn’t look like it’s been attacked by caffeine. Come on, it’ll be fun. You know Laura in HR has a red sequined suit for the contest this year?”

  “Does it come with a matching cape?” I deadpanned.

  She grinned. “You’d have to ask her. So, are you coming? I’ll put your name down for two, just in case.” Her voice paused meaningfully, the implication dangling between us like a Christmas stocking full of disappointment.

  I gave her the patented “maybe” face. Raised brows, slight shrug, a tiny shake of the head. The universal sign for “please stop reminding me I’m single at Christmas.”

  “Depends,” I said. “Is there a prize for Most Awkwardly Single Guy at the Party?”

  Marnie piped up, not missing a beat. “There’s a trophy. It’s a tiny plastic reindeer.”

  I snorted. “Perfect. I’ll start practicing my sad, lonely shuffle.”

  Carla stared at me over her glasses. “You could always bring a date.”

  I pictured the last time I’d brought someone to a work function. It had ended with a spilled mojito, a horrible rendition of “I Want It That Way,” and a breakup in the Uber ride home. I’d told myself never again. I was nothing if not a man of principle.

  “My last date is still in therapy,” I said. “Also, I don’t think the reindeer trophy is ready for that kind of competition.”

  Janet laughed. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know. And please, for the love of God, change your shirt before the meeting. You look like the victim of a Starbucks mugging.”

  She sailed off, still cackling, leaving behind a cloud of perfume and gossip. The other women followed, already whispering about who’d be the drunkest this year or whether the CEO was actually going to show up. I sat and tried to look busy, a skill I’d finely honed over the last two years at Megalith Data.

  I glanced at my calendar. Seven meetings, three “urgent” emails, and one poorly spelled request from IT to restart my computer, presumably with a hammer.

  Picking up my cell phone, I stared at my reflection in the glass. Not my finest hour. I could lie and tell myself this was “charmingly disheveled,” but if this had been a meet-cute, I was clearly the before photo in a Queer Eye episode.

  Admittedly, there was something peaceful about being the single guy in a cubicle jungle full of drama. I had my own little island. No one tried to drag me into their divorce stories or office politics. I could just sip shitty coffee, do my work, and be left alone.

  Except for Janet.

  Always Janet.

  I scrolled through my inbox. Spam, spam, and two frantic all-staff emails about the snack thief. That, apparently, was the real crisis at Megalith Data. Someone was stealing string cheese again. Maybe it was Janet. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised.

  Ten seconds later, the phone buzzed. It was her, of course. She’d emailed me the info on the party, along with a message.

  I will be checking, just FYI. Also, I have a Tide pen if you need it. – J

  I had to hand it to her. She was committed.

  My fingers typed out a reply.

  If you spot a random gay man in festive attire, please hold him at the door for me. Will pay bribes in cookies. Also, a Tide pen would be appreciated. S.O.S.

  She replied immediately.

  Tide pen on the way. And I’ll keep an eye out for eligible bachelors. You know I have a list.

  Hard eye roll. Janet’s “list” was probably just a photo of Paul Rudd and a bunch of Tinder rejects.

  Maybe she would surprise me this year. The lack of sex in my life was bordering on cruelty. Maybe Santa would leave a stud under my tree. First, I needed to put one up.

  * * * *

  Lunchtime rolled around surprisingly fast. Unfortunately, in my haste to get out the door this morning, I hadn’t packed a lunch and refused to sip on an off-brand energy drink and munch on Funyuns. Not happening. I’d rather lick the breakroom microwave than risk the Funyuns. The vending machine glared at me anyway, bathed in arctic LED lights, daring me to give in.

  I briefly considered feeding it a dollar just to shut it up, but my dignity had already taken enough hits for one morning.

  A low growl rumbled from my stomach, making a noise suspiciously close to a dying sea lion. The breakroom fridge had nothing but three mystery yogurts and a Tupperware container that might have contained a salad once. Hard to say. It had developed a secondary ecosystem. I wasn’t in the mood for evolution.

  The deli down the block was calling my name.

  Grabbing my coat, I sneaked past Janet’s desk. Her head was buried in spreadsheets, lips pursed, pen tapping out some kind of Morse code for “I see you.” I made it to the elevator. Miracle of miracles, it worked this time. Seemed even the building wanted me to get carbs today.

  By the time I reached the sidewalk, more snow had started sifting down. Fat, lazy flakes. Each footstep crunched through yesterday’s half-hearted attempt at plowing. Freezing wind needled through my missing buttons just as my boots slid a little on the crosswalk. I pretended it was swagger.

  A block away, the deli’s neon sign flickered above a steamed window. It looked like everyone else had the same idea.

  Inside was packed. Nothing like the scent of corned beef, garlic pickles, and the tang of cheap mustard to make a person salivate. The warmth hit me, humid and noisy and absolutely necessary. If there was such a thing as food therapy, this was it.

  The crowd was shoulder-to-shoulder—guys in puffy coats, women in hats that could double as cat beds, one guy holding a yoga mat with an impatient look.

  Tables were jammed so tight there wasn’t a straight line from the door to the sandwich queue. I barely found a spot to stand without backing into someone’s laptop or mood.

  Two guys behind me were arguing about gluten, which apparently had ruined someone’s marriage. I tucked my hands into my pockets and studied the chalkboard menu. BLT. Turkey pesto. Something called a “MegaMelt” that looked like an assault on cholesterol levels more than a lunch.

  It was nearly my turn when the old guy at the front yanked a coupon from his wallet…and proceeded to have a shouting match over its expiration date. The counter girl didn’t blink. She’d seen battle.

  “Next!” shouted a guy with a beard so thick it had its own microclimate.

  I squeezed forward. “Turkey on sourdough. Mustard, not mayo. Tomatoes. Pickles on the side. Order of fries.”

  He had a face that told you not to argue about condiments. I handed over my card, managed a smile that probably looked like a grimace, and shuffled to the side to wait. Nobody made eye contact. Everyone thumbed their phones, pretending this was just another workday and not the emotional minefield of the pre-holiday lunch rush.