by Selena Kitt
Table of Contents
BOOK DESCRIPTION
Little Brats: Sara
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BOOK DESCRIPTION
Curvy little brat Sara keeps late hours at the bakery with the man of the house, much to his wife’s annoyance. She thinks the bakery is making Sara chubby, but the man of the house appreciates the younger woman’s curves.
The man of the house decides to give BBW Sara what they both want—hot, hard and unprotected—so she can finally prove her talents, in more ways than one.
And Sara’s big, juicy, sweet buns turn out to be some of the best he’s ever tasted!
Little Brats: Sara
By Selena Kitt
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The bakery was magical. Sara sniffed the air, which held the intoxicating smells of sugar, mixed with flour and butter. That was magic too. It made her skin tingle, an electric current that ran right through her, sending her stomach fluttering.
It was as if, every time she entered Olde O’Brien’s Bakery, with its old world feel, she stepped back in time, to simpler days when dough was kneaded by hand, marriages lasted forever, and nobody asked, “Is this gluten free?”
The far brick wall, lined with rich, mahogany wooden shelves, were complimented by the blacks and hunter green trimmings of curtains and chairs, and even an old chalkboard menu. A big sack of flour, a replica of those used in days gone by, sat in one corner, well-used grinding stones in the other. The empty shelves in between, the ones she had come in to bake and fill, put a smile on her face. Whoever had said that chocolate was better than sex had never tasted O’Brien’s sweet buns.
A customer had once said that to her, and it had been the biggest compliment of her career. She really couldn’t love the place more than she already did. While it sat in Philadelphia rather than Dublin, where her stepfather’s grandparents had come from, it still had Irish charm dripping from it like the icing on her sweet buns. It made her feel as if she’d actually gotten to visit the land of her ancestors.
At least her stepfather, Daniel, shared her love of the place. Her mother, Maeve, who now called herself Eve, didn’t care about it one bit, at least not anymore. All she wanted was her share of the money it provided.
When Maeve had married Daniel years ago, they’d enthusiastically bought this bakery together, and worked in it happily, side by side. Sara had always been eager to help. In the past few years, though, her mother barely stepped foot in the place—a newly converted health nut, she no longer saw the value in feeding people refined anything.
As Sara turned on a few lights, heading to the back where they kept the big ovens and mixers, she counted her blessing, as usual. Her mother’s loss was her gain, and she didn’t even care if daily indulgences put a few more pounds on her fuller figure. She was pleased with her life—she loved what she did.
With long brown hair, green eyes, and full cheeks, she never looked in a mirror and saw anything but a beautiful, blessed woman. Having a smattering of flour on her face, a glob of icing staining her baker’s coat, only enhanced her image, as far as she was concerned.
Going to hang her winter coat in her stepfather’s office, exchanging it for the white, double breasted chef’s jacket he’d bought her as a gift when she graduated high school, she stopped short, heart skipping a beat, to see her stepfather asleep on the couch.
She knew her mother had probably said something nasty to make him leave the house. While he loved the bakery, no one wanted to spend the night on a couch in a small office. He shouldn’t have to either. He worked hard all day, had made this business a success while her mother only complained about it as she ran off for another Zumba class, or whatever she was aerobically into these days.
One diet club meeting—originally just a way for Maeve to drop a few pounds—and before they knew it, Eve had emerged, skinny as a rail, vegan, eating only non-GMO whole grains and off sugar for good, claiming it was some damn drug more dangerous than heroine.
“Eve” had turned in her chef’s jacket for yoga pants and had never looked back. Although, sadly, her father had preserved it. The jacket hung, unused, in the back room he now slept in.
When her mother had first gone off the rails, Sara had been more than happy to put in the hours her mother used to. Even when Sara was in high school, she just worked around her classes. When she’d graduated, she’d more than rose to the occasion, eager to take on a full-time position.
At least, when she was here, she didn’t have to go home and hear Eve and Daniel fight about everything—the bakery, their opposing lifestyles, the quality of the flour used, changing the entire menu or keeping it the same.
They had loyal customers, many who came in several times a week for her stepfather’s sweet buns. The bakery was known for them, and had been able to create a side catering business because of them. They’d had a customer who asked them to cater a party based on the sweet buns alone.
Sitting on the wooden table in front of the couch, she picked up an empty bottle of honey mead. The man did like his sweet things, she mused, looking at the handmade label. Sniffing the sharp, honey aroma of Daniel’s favorite drink put a sad, sympathetic smile on her face. He loved the stuff, always had. He often made it himself just like his ancestors did, pure honey, vine fruits, herbs, yeast and water. He liked to quote his grandmother when he had a bottle in his hand, calling mead a mystical drink of sunshine and rain—legendary, extraordinary. He often gave a drunken ramble on the stuff.
Setting the bottle back down, she noticed it was
sitting on divorce papers. That explained a lot. Seemed her mother had finally made the break she obviously wanted. Well, it was what “Eve” wanted. So she’d never have to step foot into this “glutton’s den,” as she often referred to it now. Eve liked to go on about her own daughter being one of those gluttons, but Sara ignored her.
Sara put her hand on Daniel’s shoulder and shook it lightly, whispering his name.
“Come on, Daniel. You need to get up and get to work,” she encouraged gently, smiling. “Time to make the sweet buns.”
“She wants half of everything,” he mumbled in response, blinking at her in the dim light of the room.
Sara winced, looking into his deep blue eyes—they didn’t shine like they usually did. He ran a hand through his sleep-rumpled curls—brown with red highlights. He was a handsome man, even like this, scrubbing reddish whiskers with his palm and frowning. In spite of the fact he worked in a bakery, he hadn’t put on any extra pounds. Probably due to the fact that he ran two miles every morning before work.
“What am I going to do?” He looked up at her, shrugging helplessly.
She wanted to tell him that they didn’t need her. Wasn’t it Daniel who told her they should go to Ireland and visit his ancestors and their bakeries? He often daydreamed aloud to Sara about coming back with authentic new recipes. His sweet buns had been his own take on his grandmother’s recipe, one passed down through the generations. Sara now dreamed of that day—wanted to actually experience the country, taste the delicacies it had to offer.
“It’ll be okay,” she coaxed, trying to get him up by putting on a pot of coffee in the mini machine he had in the corner of the office. “We’ll work it out. We have this place, don’t we?”
“You don’t understand.” He sat, his voice hoarse, hanging his head in his hands. “The only way I could buy out her half is to sell the place—building and all the equipment. I wouldn’t have enough left to start again.”
“What?” She gaped at him.
“She’s drained us buying her organic this and that,” he explained, lifting his bloodshot eyes to look at her. “Clothes and food—and everything else she had to have.”
“You can’t be serious.” Sara blinked at him, too stunned to speak in more than a whisper. The realization dawned and her knees felt weak. “She’s only asking for half to shut you down.”
“Exactly.” He grimaced. “She wants to shut me down. Doesn’t want this place to exist anymore. I offered her a fifty-percent partnership but she doesn’t want to be associated with Olde O’Brien’s.”
“No. No!” Sara protested.
“Sorry, cupcake,” he said, shaking his head ruefully, using the nickname he’d given her long ago when the bakery had first opened. “I don’t have any choice.”
Daniel attempted to stand, but he stumbled back onto the couch with a groan, holding his head. If his slurred words were any indication, the man was likely still drunk. Not that she could blame him for it, under the circumstances.
Maybe it was the way he’d used her childhood nickname, or maybe it was the distraught look on his face, but Sara went to him. She lowered herself into his lap, putting her arms around his neck, just like she used to do when she was a little girl. Daniel gave a pained groan, wrapping his arms around her waist. She comforted him, fingers moving through his reddish curls, tears stinging her eyes.
“Let’s toast the end.” He picked up the bottle of mead, raising it. “Say goodbye to a beautiful dream. I’m sure you’ll get another job.”
But, I don’t want another job, she thought. Instead, she took the bottle before he could put it to his lips, setting it aside, and said, “I don’t think you need any more. What you need is coffee—and a clear head to think about how to save the place.”
“I’ve looked at it from every angle, Sara.” He looked morosely at the bottle she set on the table, then back at her. “There’s no way. We have to face facts. We have to say goodbye.”
“Well, we still have customers today.” She sighed, moving to get up, but only managed to wiggle in his tight grasp. Daniel held her fast.
“Don’t leave me.” He held her closer, rubbing his stubbly cheek against her cleavage, eyes closed, a sensation that sent little lightning bolts tingling through her. “Please, Sara. Don’t go.”
“Okay,” she breathed, brushing hair away from his forehead, rubbing her hand slowly over the bristles on his face. “I won’t…”
“Ever.” He kissed the top of her breasts, exposed in the V of her blouse, and Sara gasped. She could feel his hard cock against her ass. What was happening?
“Daniel…” She swallowed hard.
“I just want someone who appreciates me.” His mouth was hot against her skin. Sara whimpered when his cheek rubbed against her hardening nipple. “And I’ve never felt more for a woman than I do for you…”
“Daniel, no,” she murmured, shaking her head, trying to deny it. “You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“I know exactly what I’m saying.” His gaze lifted, hot and full of lust, to meet hers. “You’re everything I’ve ever wanted, cupcake. I was just too afraid to tell you.”
“What?” she whispered, but his words couldn’t be mistaken when his hand moved up from her waist to cup the heavy weight of her breast in his hand.
“I love you, Sara.” He sighed, absently thumbing her nipple, making her whimper and wiggle in his lap. “You were so eager to help me in the bakery at first, and I thought it would be good for both of us. I never dreamed…”
“I love working with you,” she confessed. “Because of you, I’ve found my real passion.”
“Passion.” Their eyes locked and Sara’s belly clenched at the dark look she saw in his. “Yes, you do have that, don’t you?”
She didn’t know what to say, sitting there, face flushed, holding back the urge to wiggle over him, to feel the ridges of his erection.
“You’re so beautiful.” His gaze dropped to her chest, lower to her waist, her generous thighs. “All these fucking curves. You drive me crazy.”
“I do?” She blinked at him in surprise.
“Hell yes.” He chuckled at the shocked look on her face. “Do you think men want women like your mother? All those hard angles now, her flat chest—might as well be fucking a man. But you… all this gorgeous flesh…”
“Oh…” she breathed, his thumb stroking her nipple to full hardness now. She was embarrassed by his praise, finding herself looking away, studying his shirt, a pale denim with a mead stain that smelled of honey, like his breath.
“You don’t believe me?” He cocked an eyebrow at her incredulous expression. “Can’t you feel what you’re doing to me?”
He shifted on the sofa so she couldn’t mistake the press of his erection against her bottom. Sara made a small noise in her throat when he did that. Everything between her own legs felt swollen and hot, flushed and moist.
“I feel it,” she whispered, nodding as his hand kneaded the soft, supple flesh of her breast.
“Do you want to really feel it?” he asked, his blue eyes dark with lust.
“Yes,” she confessed with a low moan as his captured her nipple between thumb and finger through both blouse and bra and tugged gently.
He grabbed her hand then, moving it under her bottom so her fingers formed around his erection. Oh God, he was so hard. Was this happening? How often had she thought about it, dreamed of it, touched herself until she brought herself to a shuddering, aching climax fantasizing about this very thing?
“Feel it now?” he whispered, smelling of alcohol, a scent that intoxicated her. His inhibitions were gone, and now, so were hers. They’d crossed a barrier that had never been broken before, and she had a feeling they were about to cross another.
“Yes.” She licked her lips, her assent giving him permission.
Daniel moaned as she squeezed him, and he slid a hand behind her head, bringing her mouth to his. The kiss was soft, hot, and she tasted the ho
ney mead on his tongue as it slipped between her lips.
He looked at her when they parted, and she couldn’t help the lust that glazed her own eyes. Daniel saw it and responded to it, moving her off his lap to the sofa beside him, He stretched her out beneath him as they kissed and fondled each other through their clothes, and Sara thought she must be dreaming. She was still at home in her bed, thrashing and twisting the sheet between her wet thighs, dreaming of her stepfather’s touch.
But this was real. She was turned sideways on the sofa with him. They were belly to belly and his hand moved over her full hip, his gaze raking over her.
“You’re so beautiful, Sara.” He leaned in to kiss her then, his stubble tickling her skin. She wanted to feel the press of his erection against her bottom again, wanted to put her hand there, but she hesitated.
“Are you sure… ?” she managed, breathing out the words against his lips still so close to hers. “This is the mead talking.”
“No, cupcake, it isn’t,” he assured her. “You’re the most beautiful woman I know. Will you let me show you?”
“How?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, the one word catching in her throat.
“Let me see you, and then I’ll show you.”
“See me?”
“Yes. Let me see those beautiful curves, without your clothes on. Let me worship your body, knead you, eat you.”
His words made her flush all over.
“I, well, I don’t know. What if…”
“Let me see you, Sara. All of you. Please,” he begged, getting up off the couch to grab a bottle of mead from his own private stock he kept in a wine shelf in the office.
He opened the bottle and took a few long swallows before offering it to her.
“Here, sweetness, maybe this will help.”
She took the bottle with a shaky hand, took a few hits herself, let the sweet burn take her throat, before she stood as well, right up in front of him.
“Are you sure?” she asked him again, while in her mind she begged for him to say yes.
