His Little Vixen
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Lulu Waters
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She heads home for Thanksgiving expecting the usual—turkey, family drama, maybe a nap on the couch. What she doesn’t expect? Braxton. Her dad’s best friend. Divorced. Smoldering. And absolutely off-limits... or so she thought. She’s crushed on him for years, but now she’s not just looking—she’s taking. Sparks fly, rules break, and their secret? Too hot to hide. She’s got one goal this holiday season: turn a lifelong fantasy into a very real, very delicious reality. No more waiting. No more pretending. It’s time to go after what she wants—and she’s not taking no for an answer.
Chapter 1
PAYTON
I slide into my usual chair at the dining table, inhaling the rich aroma of Mom’s roasted turkey.
“Is this really it? Just us three?” I ask, watching Mom set down the gravy boat without meeting Dad’s eyes. Something’s off there—a tension I haven’t seen before.
Outside, the winter storm batters the windows, wind shrieking against the glass.
“In this weather? We’ll be lucky if the power stays on,” Dad mutters, absently tapping his empty glass.
The doorbell cuts through the silence, startling all of us. Thank God. Another person might dilute whatever’s brewing between my parents.
Mom’s chair scrapes against the floor. “I’ve got it,” she says, almost too eagerly.
From the hallway, I catch low murmurs, a deep voice mixing with Mom’s lighter tones. My heart starts to race. It’s familiar somehow, but I can’t place it.
But when I catch the faintest whiff of aftershave—crisp, peppery, expensive—my stomach somersaults with dread. There’s only one person in the world who wears that scent, and I haven’t seen him since…well, since I stopped being a child.
He appears in the doorway, larger than life, shoulders so broad he barely fits in the frame. My heart skips, embarrassingly, and I have to remind myself that I’m a grown woman and not a hormonal teenager.
His hair is longer than I remember, streaked with silver at the temples, and he carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly how much space he takes up in the universe. And it’s sexy as hell.
Braxton Saunders.
My dad’s best friend.
Practically my uncle growing up, though not by blood or marriage.
He was always just “Brax,” a fixture at every birthday, picnic, and major family event. He’s the reason I know how to change a tire, the reason I can drink whiskey without making a face.
But he’s also, since I turned eighteen, the reason my most inappropriate daydreams of him have gotten… creatively dirty.
He grins when he spots me, a slow, dangerous smile that starts in his eyes and works its way down to the scar at the edge of his lip. I feel my face flush, my body betraying me in a hundred ways.
“Hey there, killer,” he says, voice low and scratchy and intimate in a way that makes me want to look away but also never break eye contact again.
“Brax,” I whisper as he crosses the room in three strides and opens his arms, not in the fatherly way he used to but with a genuine hunger that feels like an invitation and a dare at the same time.
I hesitate for exactly one heartbeat, then stand from my seat and fling myself at him, not caring that my parents are watching, not caring that I might combust from the thrill of it.
Braxton keeps his arms around me a beat too long, then releases me as his blue eyes drag over my body in a sweep so deliberate it makes my knees tremble.
Then he does that thing he always used to do—bites his bottom lip as if he’s debating whether to laugh or devour me whole.
“Damn, kid, you’ve grown up. You’re a woman now,” he says, and it’s not just a compliment.
You have no idea, I want to say, but my mouth stays sealed. Instead, I just grin at him, cheeky, feral, and a little hungry, hoping he can read the rest of my face.
My parents are grinning while they watch our reunion. I can practically feel the pride radiating off them, but all I can think about is how much I want to drag Braxton into the guest bathroom and drop to my knees. The man has aged like fine wine.
We haven’t crossed paths since I graduated high school over three years ago.
Back then, I dreamed about giving my virginity to Braxton, a man who I knew would be patient and giving, but I lost my nerve and ended up sleeping with a guy named Jeff instead—something I regretted instantly.
But the true regret was not pursuing the man standing before me now.
Braxton’s tattoos snake up his arms and vanish beneath his shirt. I can’t take my eyes off of him. With his five-o’clock shadow, striking aqua-blue eyes, and deep, raspy voice, he embodies the essence of masculinity.
“Didn’t think you’d brave this weather,” Dad says, his voice cutting through the electricity between us as he rises to grip Braxton’s hand in greeting.
Braxton settles into the chair beside mine, close enough that I catch another hint of that aftershave. My pulse skips as I sink back into my seat.
“A hurricane couldn’t keep me away,” he says, eyeing the spread of food with appreciation. “Been living off takeout since the divorce finalized.”
I don’t miss the way he looks at me for my reaction. My heart gives a lurch. Divorced, as in, he’s available.
“What a treat to have you both here,” Mom chirps from the far end of the table, her smile tight as she studiously focuses anywhere but on Dad. “Our two favorite people back at the same time. Surely something to be grateful for this Thanksgiving.”
Braxton cocks his head, that signature half grin creeping up. “You haven’t been home in a long time, Payton,” he says, his eyes lifting to gauge our audience. “Your family sure has missed you.”
I shrug, trying to play it cool, but my cheeks are already warm. “I’ve been busy with school.”
“Busy with that handsome boy Matthew, you mean,” Mom teases, turning my mortification up to eleven. I shoot her a look that could kill, but she just laughs.
I risk a glance at Braxton, where I see a flicker of something sharp and possessive that wasn’t there before. His jaw tightens, and my pulse jumps.
“We broke up. I told you that,” I say, my voice harsher than intended.
The truth is I’ve been fucking my way through the city since the break-up, school the least of my concerns. It beats staying up all night thinking about the man who hurt me, and the other man I can never have.
“How have you been, Braxton?” I ask, changing the subject.
He shrugs. “Still running the dealership in Seattle. Nothing too exciting.”
Dad pours himself a glass of whiskey so full that I wonder if he’s trying to prove a point. Mom sips her sparkling water, eyes glued to his movements.
The energy in the room has shifted. I feel my shoulders tensing in response to it, so I pour myself two fingers of whiskey and tip the crystal back to take a savoring sip of the aged liquor.
Dad raises an eyebrow as I let the smoky burn roll across my tongue. “What do you think you’re doing, young lady?”
I dab the corner of my mouth and shrug. “Dad, I’m twenty-one now. This certainly isn’t my first glass of whiskey,” I say, then mumble under my breath, “In fact, you’d probably be appalled if you knew how much drinking I was doing at school. Along with all the other grown-up things I’ve been doing.” I toss that last part toward Braxton, whose gaze lingers.
“Don’t make Braxton and me come out east to put some little boys in their place,” Dad grumbles, trying to sound like he actually gives a shit about what I’m doing with my life all of a sudden.
“Oh, please,” I shoot back, smiling widely. “If it weren’t for Mom, you’d have screwed your way through college.”
This time, the silence is absolute. Dad’s face goes slack, and Mom blanches, her grip on her glass turning her knuckles white.
There’s something brittle in the way Mom clears her throat, excusing herself from the table. And when I look at Dad, there’s something performative in the way he smiles and tries to continue conversation with Braxton.
But a crash from the kitchen pulls him away from the table, leaving Braxton and me alone, the silence hanging heavy.
I watch him, the way his hands curl around his glass, the way his gaze always flickers in my direction. There’s an instant ease to his posture when he turns toward me. His eyes dial in on mine, pupils wide and dark.
“I can’t believe how grown up you are, Pay,” he says in his deep, rich voice.
I smile, teeth and all. “So have you, old man,” I shoot back, and he laughs, low and throaty, the sound vibrating through my entire body. “Have you come by to teach me some new life lessons?”
He leans in, voice pitched so only I can hear. “Depends what kind of lessons you’re referring to, because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’re covered.”
“Mm…,” I murmur, leaning in closer. “There are plenty of things I haven’t learned yet.”
He studies me for a long beat, eyes gleaming with something unreadable, something that makes my stomach twist in a way I don’t want to name. The tension between us is a living thing, growing, coiling, waiting for one of us to break it.
“Careful,” he says finally, voice rough. “Saying things like that might give a man ideas.”
I blink. “Maybe I’m counting on that.”
His jaw flexes. He leans back just slightly, like putting space between us will cool something down, but it doesn’t.
“You always this reckless?” he asks.
I tilt my head. “Only around older men.”
Braxton’s smile is slow, knowing. “Then, I better watch myself.”
“Or don’t…” I lean toward him, the neckline of my shirt slipping open, my glowing skin catching the light from the centerpiece candles. I watch him struggle, see the muscle in his jaw jump as he tries and fails not to look.
His gaze drops, tracing the line of my jaw to my mouth, lingering there like a question. Then lower to the expanse of skin at my collarbone.
In the years since I grew into my curves, I’ve become a professional on tension. I know how to wind a man as tight as a piano wire, how to keep a man balanced on the edge of want and regret.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re trying to flirt with me,” he says.
I shrug, feigning indifference. “And what if I am?”
He opens his mouth as if to retort, but nothing comes out. I reach for my whiskey, and as I do, I let the backs of my fingers brush his knuckles. He flinches, but his hand stays put.
I slide my pinky along his, the way I might have when I was younger and wanted him to soothe me, and he loops his pinky back around mine.
It’s a nothing gesture and an everything gesture. My heart beats thunderously behind my ribs.
“Payton…,” he half whispers.
“Relax. It’s just me,” I whisper back, too softly for anyone but him to hear.
He tries to grunt in warning, but there’s a plea in it too, a hunger that years of self-control can’t quite leash.
Then there’s a flash, a split second, where I think he’s going to do it. Where I think he’ll lean across, cradle my face in those impossibly large hands, and kiss me so hard it would make any other kiss pale in comparison.
And I want him to.
I want him to ruin me for everyone else.
But instead, he just looks at me, his stare hot enough to char my skin, and when Mom reenters the room with a steaming plate of fresh dinner rolls, we snap away like two kids caught passing notes in school.
***
The storm hammers against the windows, and sleep evades me completely. Every time I close my eyes, I see him—the man just across the hall in our guest room.
My rational side whispers to roll over and count sheep, but my body remembers the electric jolt when his pinky linked with mine. That tiny touch awakened something primal that now pulses between my thighs.
I slip into my silk robe and ease my door open, only to discover his door ajar and his room empty. A quick glance confirms my parents’ door remains shut, no light seeping underneath.
The sound of keyboard clicks drifts up from the dining room as I descend the stairs.
My pulse races. I’d planned to be bold and direct, but now hesitation creeps in. Better to play this carefully—I need him to crave me with the same desperate hunger that’s driving me toward him now.
I keep my face neutral as I pad barefoot across the kitchen. Braxton’s presence in the next room is palpable, the faint blue-white glow of his monitor throwing his features into a spotlight.
To make noise, I wrench open the refrigerator and stand in the chilly light, surveying the neat rows of leftovers from dinner. The cold raises goosebumps along my thighs as I reach for a bottle of beer tucked behind a carton of oat milk.
Slowly, I pivot to face the dining room, bottle in hand, and let my gaze fall on Braxton.
He sits rigid, perched on the edge of his chair, one hand still poised over the keyboard as if caught midword.
His eyes are wide, pupils dilated, the blue almost eclipsed by black, and I can’t help but wonder if he’s every bit as drunk on this forbidden heat as I am.
