Saddles and Snowfall

Book 0: Crimson Ridge

by Elliott Rose

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Western Romance; Workplace Romance

Synopsis

Complete with ugly Christmas sweaters and a steamy, forbidden M/M cowboy romance, the new novella featured in A Crimson Ridge Christmas is exactly what fans of Lyla Sage, Bailey Hanna, Elsie Silver, and Heated Rivalry need to jingle their bells this holiday season!

I’m at a college party to celebrate the festive season—ugly Christmas sweaters, festively decorated holiday cookies in shape of ‘appendages’ and all—when news breaks of my ex-girlfriend’s extracurricular activities. That leaves a bitter taste that not even too many tequila shots can chase away.

In strolls an offer to get very naughty indeed. In this mood, I’ll agree to anything. A drunken three-way is the perfect cure to forget about cheating exes, right?

Only problem, the hot cowboy who just walked in is the last person I should be putting my hands, or anything else, on.

My ex-girlfriend's brother…

Release date: November 24, 2026

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 148

Sample

“I’m telling you, her donut has been glazed by him all year.”

“Noooo. You can’t be serious?”

Two blond freshmen in matching Santa hats giggle loudly from the kitchen, wearing not much more than a garland of flashing lights, red bikinis, and faux fur boots between them. They stumbled in here after me, already far too merry to even notice my presence or the December chill.

I’m hidden away, ransacking the pantry like a swaying Christmas racoon, hunting for the stash of solo cups I was assured would be in here. The first task in my quest to reign supreme at beer pong and enjoy a blow out, now that college is done and I’m officially graduated.

That’s right, this cowboy has officially leveled up. Art major, motherfuckers.

Although, distinguishing my Monets from my Manets is worth fuck all at this particular moment. I squint and search through the chaos of this student kitchen, relying solely on the flashlight from my phone. Typical frat house vibes abound. The light bulb overhead has blown, everything is covered in crumbs, and nothing has a hope in hell of living where it should.

Doesn’t matter—my buzz is starting to settle nicely in my veins, and midway through my intrepid search, I discover a jar stuffed full of Christmas cookies. Not just any old cookies, either. These are all shaped like cocks, complete with jaunty little Santa hats made out of red and white icing. Decorated dongs. Frosted frenulums. Sugared shafts.

Why, yes, please and thank you. It’s been far too long on a diet of pussy this year, and now that I’m single again, I’m not gonna lie … my horniness for getting with a guy has reached peak bisexual disaster mode.

Music thumps through the walls as I smirk and chomp down on a very well-endowed holiday johnson and his Jacob’s Ladder, continuing in my quest for the elusive stack of cups.

Can anyone blame me? There’s a cute guy out there with “fuck me” eyes who was interested in a party game where the point is getting sloppy drunk in record time. The shots I’ve already knocked back with him have set the tone just nicely for a night of being on Santa’s naughty list. Or bouncing in his lap.

From just around the corner, the two girls are still gossiping and shrieking with laughter, their overly loud, drunk voices floating across the room easily.

“I swear on my Louboutins. Saw her getting out of his car and everything. No college student is in a professor’s ride at five a.m. unless there’s been wiener-in-bun action.”

Snorting to myself, I take another chomp of my Frosty the Pierced Schlong and smirk. That is absolutely the truth. Everyone on campus knows the rules … Something about too many past scandals, professors being unable to keep it in their pants, blah blah. Academic policy gets damn near tattooed on the inside of your eyelids during freshman orientation. The staff are here for one thing and one thing only.

Sounds like whoever their friend is forgot to give her pussy the memo.

“Girl, that’s so scandalous. You’d be kicked out for even sniffing around one of the faculty members. The D must be premium if Izzie would risk her whole graduation.”

I pause midway through shoving stacks of reused takeout containers to one side.

Did she just say Izzie?

As in the same name as my extremely recently ex-girlfriend? A person who I’d tolerated being in frankly the shittiest relationship I could have ended up stuck in with, for months on end. Izzie, who I should really have ended things with way earlier in the year but kept giving second chances to, because I’m a bleeding fucking heart … That Izzie?

Drunk girl number one hiccups and then drops the bomb. “Oh my god, and it gets worse. She’s just outside, and I know I’ve had one too many Jell-O shots, but I swear I saw Brad here tonight. How’s that gonna be for awkward if they run into each other … Bet he doesn’t know Iz has been putting in extra credit all year, and that’s why she broke things off with him … if you know what I’m saying.”

Oh, hell no.

What the fuck?

The lying, cheating … Ughhhhh.

I shove the rest of the cookie in my mouth and can’t even be fucked with coming up with a creative way to scathingly curse my ex out. She’s old news, and any tiny lingering fragments of worry about whether I didn’t make enough effort, about whether I was the problem, just shriveled up.

Tequila and recklessness have the reins when I spy the stack of red cups jammed in the furthest corner of the topmost shelf.

I’ve already made my decision.

Tonight, I’m gonna have myself a game of beer pong and secure a sweaty, X-rated night with someone who is down for the idea of no-strings-attached fucking merriment.

Happy Christmas orgasm cornucopia to me.

With all the swagger of a sailor at sea, including a brief bounce off the doorframe when my shoulder collides with solid wood, I reemerge into the kitchen. The gossip queens have disappeared—thank god.

Before I can go on the hunt for Blue Eyes, my phone pings in my hand.

My best friend since middle school is the lucky recipient of a blurry selfie. One where I’m biting down on another dick cookie, with the balls still clearly visible at the base.

“Oh my god, you’re taking forever, Rhodes.” A girl’s voice interrupts me before my best friend’s reply rolls in. Blinking at her, I realize she was part of the group who wanted to play beer pong. Shit. Forgot about her.

“Did you miss me?” I flash a grin and wiggle the last piece of cookie before chomping down on the last bite. Yeah, I’m definitely not gonna pump the brakes where my search for a hot guy and his package are concerned.

She gives me a coy little look in return and reaches out to lift the stack of cups from my hold. “I think more than one of us was missing your pretty face.” Her thick lashes flutter, accentuating the glitter coating her cheekbones and eyelids. With a little swish of her head to one side, the Santa hat she’s wearing bobs.

I know that look.

I’m in the mood for that look.

Reaching forward, I tug gently on the white tuft on the end of her hat. “More than one of you, huh?”

She runs her tongue over bright red lipstick and nods. “My friend thinks you’re hot.”

“And what do you think?” I’m still holding onto the end of her hat, and I roll the furry bobble beneath my fingertips.

Her cheeks flush a little as her lips twist. “I’d say if anyone can look as sexy as you while wearing a Christmas sweater … then I’m extremely invested in seeing what they look like without it.”

I let my eyes drop down her body appreciatively, taking in the sight of a bright crimson corset and matching frilly skirt. She kinda looks like a figure skater who booked a taxi straight from the North Pole.

“And you’d want your friend to be there too? He’d be interested in seeing what’s under both this slutty excuse for a skirt and my silly little sweater?”

“Mmmhmm.” She bites down on the swell of her bottom lip. Nodding slowly.

Right now, I don’t give a shit that I can’t remember her name. I don’t even care if who she’s talking about is the guy with blue eyes or not. I’m very much into the idea of whatever depravity this is, even if it’s an unexpected proposition in the middle of a party in a random student house’s kitchen.

I mean, threesomes don’t turn up and flutter their eyelashes at you every day.

“Wanna play a game first?” I let my fingers drift down to the plastic cups and give them a flick.

“How about we go upstairs and play a private game?” she counters.

“Deal.” I’m not even gonna pretend to be uninterested in that idea.

“I’ll get my friend. You grab a bottle …” She jerks her head in the direction of a selection of liquor sitting out on the kitchen counter. “And meet us upstairs. Second room on the left.” A wink and a cute little kiss blown my way are her last promises before she disappears.

Fuck yes.

I shove my phone in my back pocket and grab more tequila. Let me get obliterated and enjoy both a guy and a girl for a whole lot of no-strings-attached fun.

Thank you, Santa. I’ve obviously been a very good boy this year after all.

I smirk and take another sip of tequila straight from the bottle as I sway just inside the open doorway to the darkened bedroom. A bitter burn races down my throat, and I clench my teeth then let out a hiss while liquid fire tracks straight down to my stomach.

Second room on the left. Here I am.

Horny, tick. Festive, tick. Veins lit up with alcohol and anticipation like the Rockefeller tree, oh yeah. I’m more than ready to be extra nasty tonight.

The others aren’t here yet, so I continue bugging Sky over text—and okay, maybe gloating just a little about this unexpected turn of events while I’m at it—since she’s being booooring and studying and all.

And boring sounds a lot like sensible.

Squinting, I make an attempt to re-read her words written on the screen. As I do so and hover in place, a moment of far-too-sober clarity descends on me. Crap. Maybe this is too reckless? Am I seriously planning to jump into bed with a pair of total strangers just because I found out my ex-girlfriend is a cheat and a liar a few minutes ago?

I’m not that guy.

I’m a hopeless romantic.

I fucking love romance.

That’s the way I’m wired and probably explains everything about why I stuck around in a relationship that was going nowhere.

I love the idea of love, okay? Sue me.

A soft light flicks on, bathing this unfamiliar bedroom in a warm glow.

“Uhh. Hi—” From across the room, a deep voice is followed by a clearing of a throat.

I nearly drop my phone at the sight of the absolute smoke show filling the doorway. He has a beer in hand, a slight furrow on his brow, and I do a rapid-fire inhale of everything about him.

He’s insanely hot. Stupidly so. The sort of solid build that screams football scholarship, except he’s too old for college. Nor is he dressed like a typical jock. In fact, the Wranglers clinging to his muscled thighs and flannel shirt he’s wearing scream country boy. He’s even wearing scuffed boots that aren’t too dissimilar to my own.

Add in the tousled blond hair and strong stubbled jaw presenting themselves and, well, there’s no stopping my eyes from raking hungrily over him from head to toe. The prospect of this is goddamn mouthwatering.

Well, shit. All thoughts of that other dude from downstairs fly straight out my head.

Goodbye. See you never. Instant upgrade alert.

I’m gonna owe a massive thank-you to my brazen friend in the frilly skirt for finding a third member for this party who is exactly the type of man I go weak at the knees for.

It all happens in a blink.

One second, I’m eye-fucking him into next week, and the next I’ve successfully lost the tequila, tossed my phone on the bed, and launched myself at him … all before I could say, “Hey there, cowboy.”

My fists curl into the front of his shirt, and oh my god, the warmth of him seeping through the worn fabric beneath my fingers is so damn magnetic. He smells like the night air … fresh … masculine … sending a coil winding tight and low in my stomach.

“Fuck, you’re hot,” I murmur, spellbound, eyes locked on his mouth, before I simply just take.

Sky’s advice rings in my ears, giving me a surge of unbridled confidence to slam our mouths together as I drag him further into the room.

Get a whole lot of slutty.

He might be wider and broader and thicker set than me, but his powerful frame follows my lead all too easily. I continue tasting his lips, with glimpses of hops from his beer and mint lingering there, as I shove him backward against the wall.

Something rattles with the force of the two of us stumbling together. And it makes me let out a small growl of satisfaction that he’s allowing me to immediately take the upper hand.

Lapping my tongue against his, I press forward, demanding entry into his mouth. To my horny delight, he fucking lets me, allowing me past the seam of his lips. The second I give that silent request, our tongues slide together.

Kissing him, a total stranger, somehow doesn’t feel weird. In fact my entire body lights up at the feeling of his broad chest beneath my curled knuckles. I’m soaking in every tiny detail of the way his shirt feels softened from repeated wear, and the woodsy scent of him crawls into my brain.

He tastes so good and smells amazing, and my dick is absolutely aching. Blood rapidly flows south and I’m lengthening inside my jeans, eager as fuck.

The tequila is in control.

My hands have their own agenda.

Lust fuels me to go harder, to be entirely uninhibited, to be completely reckless.

I’m racing forward without pause, spurred on by how desperate I am. Fixated on wanting to know exactly what he’s got going on beneath that tightly fitted denim.

Wi. . .