On a Midnight Clear is a Christmas themed story but I think it would be perfect to read any time of the year. It’s one of the most charming stories I’ve read in quite a while. I love the way that Lily Morton blended this contemporary story into a magical world. I can’t exactly put my finger on why, but it also felt a bit like a historical romance and I mean that as a compliment. (I love historical MM romances. 😊)

As has been with the other books I’ve read by Lily Morton, this story was filled with rich, descriptive language as well as a good bit of humor. I literally LOL’d more than once and my husband wanted to know what was so funny. One of my favorite parts was where Barnaby was giving Cosmos his first blowjob:

But first, let me show you what a blowjob is.”
“A blowjob.” He shudders. “That sounds very fascinating.”
“It’s where I suck you until you come.”
“Then why is it called blowjob if you are sucking? That is rather confusing. Should it not be called a suck job?”
“Would you like to debate this further, or would you prefer me to suck you until you come?”
He swallows hard. “And come is the emission of sperm from my penis?” I nod slowly, and he gives me a happy grin. “Excellent. I think I will probably like that very much.”
“I bet it rivals roast beef,” I say slyly and bend back to my task. I lick a stripe up his big cock and then down again, paying attention to the engorged vein along his length. Then I bury my nose in his pubes.”

I really can’t say enough good things about this sweet and sexy story. I loved everything about it.

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I stare at the builder who is sitting opposite me. His florid face glows in the light, and even as I watch, he runs his handkerchief over his forehead, mopping up the sheen of sweat. Then he folds his arms and directs a belligerent glare at me.

“Listen, Lord Greenwood. I have the utmost respect for you, but the time’s come to stop playing silly games.”

I wonder idly why people always say they have respect for you and then go on to prove the direct opposite but put a polite smile on my face as he carries on with his tirade.

“I want King’s Wood, and I mean to have it.”

I spread my hands and lean back in my chair at my desk. The leather creaks warningly, but like so much about my house, it just squeaks through. “Then we have a problem, Mr Thompson, because I own that wood, and I have no intention of selling it to you. You want to bulldoze it and build housing on the land.”

He glowers. “So? Is there something wrong with building new houses for people who need them?”

“Not at all,” I say mildly. “Only the people you build them for don’t need them, per se, as they are all rather rich. You build mansions and not social housing. Roughly translated, they’ll be clogging up the country lanes with their huge cars, speeding everywhere, and being appallingly rude to the local people as if the simple act of possessing three cars and holidaying in the Maldives automatically puts them out of the reach of politeness.”

He scoffs. “It’s not exactly your business.”

I wrinkle my nose. “It sort of is, Mr Thompson. That wood has been in my family’s possession for hundreds of years. It directly abuts my gardens. My father entrusted it to me with a solemn undertaking to keep it safe. Do you know anything about King’s Wood?” He shakes his head crossly, but I continue. “Druids worshipped there. There is still a circle of ancient stones in the centre about which we know very little.”

“Druids,” he says in a tone of disgust. “Are they those funny folks who run around in their nighties?”

“I’m so glad you could sum up our ancient pagan history in just a few words.”

He blows his nose belligerently. “I don’t hold with any of that London nonsense.”

I blink. “Well, it’s actually local business. King’s Wood is sacred land.”

“Bloody ridiculous. It’s prime building land, Lord Greenwood, and I want it.”

“Well, as my old nanny used to say, we can’t always get what we want.” I pause. “It was either her or Mick Jagger.” I smile politely at him. “I feel we are at an impasse.”

A smile crosses his face that instantly makes me nervous. “Well, we’ll see about that.”

“What do you mean by that, Mr Thompson?”

He shrugs, standing up and pulling on his coat. “It means that Mr Watson and I play golf together.”

“You play golf with my bank manager? I’m unsure why that was said in such a threatening manner unless he cheats or steals your balls.” Despite my flippancy, anxiousness stirs in me, and by his smug smile, he knows it.

“Him and me, we’ve had some very interesting chats.”

I sigh. “Spit it out, Mr Thompson. I think we’re finally coming to the point after months of these chats of ours.”

“Mr Watson says that you’re in danger of losing all this.”

He waves his hand to encompass the room, and anger boils inside me at his careless gesture.

“Oh really?” I say silkily.