Book Title: North Star, Yule Lads 2
Author: TA Moore
Publisher: Rogue Firebird Press
Cover Artist: Tammy Moore
Release Date: December 15, 2024
Pairing: MM
Tense/POV: third person/alternating POV
Genres: Urban Fantasy
Tropes: Opposites attract, Secret lovers, Us against the World, Tough Guy in Soppy Love
Themes: Family is what you make it, Love Languages
Heat Rating: 4 flames
Length: 50 000 words/ 130 pages
It is the sequel to True North. It does not end on a cliffhanger.
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Dylan Hollie saved Christmas, not that he can tell anyone about it.
Blurb
Dylan Hollie saved Christmas, not that he can tell anyone about it.
Now all he has to worry about is finding out who killed the previous Santa and set everything in motion.
It should be easy enough. He’s got plenty of suspects. Between Santa’s ambitious relatives, who all think they could do a better job of filling out the red suit, and the impenetrable mire of Winter Court politics there were more people who wanted the jolly man dead than alive.
Right now the prime suspects are the Yule Lads. Santa’s magically contracted bodyguards; the Lads have been at this too many centuries to fail so comprehensively all at once.
Dropped into the middle of this, in a world he’d never believed in, Dylan has to try and work out who to trust, and that maybe the answer is no-one.
He’d also like to know if Santas ever retire. The benefits are good, and the health insurance is insane, but he definitely doesn’t want to be Santa this year!
Give Somerset enough time and he could probably come up with an explanation for why this—Santa shoved up against a door and Somerset’s hand twisted in his hair—wasn’t stupid.
Probably.
After all, it wasn’t like he’d throw away a year of careful political maneuvers and ruthless self-control a handful of days before Christmas Eve in exchange for immediate, eager gratification. That would be stupid. Even Stúfur would know better than that.
That explanation would have to wait, though. Right now all Somerset had was Dylan’s mouth under his and the hollow, aching cavity in his chest that had cracked open last night when he’d thought…
He shied away from the raw edges of that memory before he slid back down into the dark, salt-sharp space. His kind weren’t meant to feel like that. It was better to focus on the present, on the lean, willing body pressed against him and the dull ache of hunger that tugged at Somerset’s balls like a cold hand.
This was his.
Maybe fuck-all else could be, but this, here and now, was his.
Dylan groaned around Somerset’s tongue as he returned the kiss. He curled one hand over Somerset’s hip, his thumb warm as it grazed over the tight skin exposed where Somerset’s T-shirt had ridden up, and pulled him closer. Somerset could have ignored the insistent tug, but instead he complied. The nudge of Dylan’s cock, hard under well-worn denim, against his thigh scattered any sensible thoughts about “that’s enough” or “you’ve made your point” to the winds.
After all, the remnants of the rough boy who’d come down from the mountain to bend his knee to the first Nick asked, what the fuck was wrong with taking whatever you wanted? Whenever and wherever you wanted it.
Somerset knew he could answer that, but fuck it. He didn’t want to.
He caught Dylan’s lower lip between his teeth and bit down on it. Not quite hard enough to split the skin, but enough to make Dylan squirm. Somerset laved the spot with his tongue before he broke the kiss and trailed his mouth down. He ran his lips along the sharp, stubbled line of Dylan’s jaw and down to the pale, tight column of his throat. Blood pulsed against his lips.
Dylan’s skin tasted like the hospital, a bitter, antiseptic taste layered over the Yule magic and mortal flavor that Somerset was used to. Like candy dipped in hand sanitizer. Somerset cupped the back of Dylan’s head in his hand as he worked to scrape the taste off him with tongue and teeth.
“Somerset,” Dylan croaked out. His hands tightened on Somerset’s hips, fingers pinched around the bone as he tilted his head to the side. Somerset could feel the heat of the bruise he’d worked into pale skin against his lips as he lingered there. He pressed a wet kiss on the spot and then pursed his lips to breathe on it. Frost sparkled as it turned spit to ice, fractured crystalline fingers spreading out across the flushed red boundaries of the hickey. Dylan sucked in a startled breath as the cold pinched at him and let it out on a ragged, “Skellir.”
The sound of that name on Dylan’s mouth gave Somerset pause.
Until last year he’d not heard that name in decades. He’d heard it often enough in the months since—the Courts weren’t keen on change or kindness—but not from Dylan. It didn’t put Somerset’s back up the same way it did when his brothers mouthed it
Maybe because Dylan wasn’t trying to be an asshole.
TA Moore is a Northern Irish writer of romantic suspense, urban fantasy, and contemporary romance novels. A childhood in a rural, seaside town fostered in her a suspicious nature, a love of mystery, and a streak of black humour a mile wide.
Coffee, Doc Marten boots, and good friends are the essential things in life. Spiders, mayo, and heels are to be avoided.
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