Candy Ever After (Hot Candy Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  “Here you go.” I hand him the book, trying not to look at him as I do so, which results in some unexpected maneuvering—him reaching for the book, me handing it off toward the door, him bumping me with his backpack as he turns to grab it before it drops to the floor—and my eye catches on the big, curved banana on the cover.

  I groan inwardly.

  Because, let’s face it, no girl has ever had as many twisted erotic fantasies about a guy she’s never talked to before as I have, and I’m dying to ask if he likes bananas, too.

  Bananas, peaches, papayas, nuts, eggplants, zucchinis… Hey, how about some Candy?

  But before I ask—because yeah, I’m crazy like that, especially with a male specimen such as this one in close proximity, his musky boy-smell turning my brain to mush and my girly bits all excited and warm—his cell rings.

  He reaches for it in his back pocket, draws it out, and turns slightly away to answer. “Jet, you dickwad, where were you? We said four, not fucking six.”

  He turns his back to me completely and huffs, those broad shoulders rising and falling, and… his ass is spectacular. There’s no other word for it. Tight and pert, and those thick thighs encased in dark jeans, filling them out nicely…

  I check my chin for drool. My boobs tingle. My kitty purrs, asking for some petting.

  Later, pet.

  “Yeah. Just buying some stuff. No, Ellen was a no show. It was a misunderstanding. No, I’ll be fine. There’s a nerdy chick in glasses helping me out.”

  Boom.

  Crash.

  There goes the fantasy.

  “Douchebag,” I mutter under my breath and take off my glasses, then put them back on when everything turns blurry. “Nerdy chick? Seriously?”

  He glances back at me, blue eyes wide. “Did you say something?”

  I shake my head and worry at a fuchsia-painted nail. Almost rip it off, and still I keep chewing at it like a crazed hyena with a juicy bone. “Ellen, huh?”

  He blinks. “Yeah. Just a friend.”

  Uh-huh. And even if I ignored that, the “nerdy girl” comment still rattles.

  Nothing wrong with being nerdy, surely, I try to reassure myself. After all, it’s probably true—but that’s not the image I wanted to project, not to this guy. Not to the protagonist of my bedtime fantasies. He should find me pretty. Intriguing. Sexy.

  Also, did I need a reminder that this guy has been pining after Ellen Davenport, who’s pretty as a picture, the queen of the ball, since forever? Nope, I didn’t. Who would?

  Nobody ever figured out why she never went out with him, but he sure is still trying! He only came here hoping to find her, maybe chat her up.

  Ugh.

  “Hey.” He shoves his phone in his pocket and turns back to me. He lifts a thick, dark brow. “Wanna walk me to the cash register and ring this one up for me?”

  “Um, I should stay here.” I wave at the shelves. “These babies need a lot of maintenance.”

  Now his other brow goes up—and oh shit, what am I doing? Who wouldn’t want to walk JK to the register and ring up whatever he wants?

  “Right.” He lingers a moment longer, rubbing his chin, and my gaze keeps straying to the taut biceps bulging in his arm. “I’ll be on my way, then.”

  Because Ellen wasn’t here.

  “Have we met before?” he asks before he turns to go, and I’m sorely tempted to inform him about how long I’ve been observing him from near and far at college, of the long nights spent with my friends talking about him and his roommate, about my blog…

  Know what? Nope.

  “I don’t think we have,” I reply quickly.

  “My mistake then.” But his voice is smooth, deep. Unrepentant.

  Or maybe just polite and uninterested.

  He turns to go and I want to follow him. Or hide behind the shelves. Or scream.

  This is not how I imagined my meeting with Joel Kingsley would go.

  Okay, you know what else? Forget about that blog post. Forget about all this. I’ll just pretend this day never happened. I busy myself with a display, try to appear busy, anyway, while he chats up Donna at the counter.

  Though I do snap a pic of his amazing ass as he walks out of the shop, the banana book in his hand, his dark hair long enough to brush the back of his corded neck.

  Nerdy. He called me nerdy.

  I’ll show you nerdy. I’m more than you can handle, baby. I’m a sex bomb.

  I hate him.

  No, I don’t. I’m so confused.

  Just goes to show: handsome men are best watched and lusted over from a distance.

  ***

  “Whatcha doing?” my roommate Brylee asks, wandering into the living room of our small apartment, rubbing her ginger hair on a white, fluffy towel, the rest of her clad in a sexy little number.

  Brylee and I couldn’t be any different.

  Did you guess?

  “Blog.” I delete the line I’d written and start again. My latest post got me hundreds of thousands of views, and happy comments. I am a blog goddess, as it turns out. Girls love reading about my imaginary adventures with my two fantasy boyfriends. I just hope to God nobody, and especially not said boyfriends, ever finds out.

  I reread what I wrote, frowning. He gave me a smoldering look as I handed him the book about bananas…

  “Bananas?” Brylee wrinkles her tiny nose, until it looks like a wrinkled white grape. It does, I swear. Those white seedless ones.

  “I know, Bry.” I sigh. “I swear to God.”

  “Wait, is this real? He came to the shop?”

  I point at the pic I’d uploaded. “I gots Proof. With a capital P.”

  “Are those… buns?”

  “His buns,” I clarify and enlarge the pic, which, granted, is a little blurry, but still presenting Joel’s ass in all its muscular glory. “In jeans. Unfortunately. There should be a law preventing hot guys from wearing clothes inside stores. I have been thinking about this,” I say, warming up to my topic. “Maybe put some lockers there, with a sign, We only serve those in Bare Hot Buns.”

  “You took a pic of his butt.”

  “Yeah, okay. I totally did. And if I could get away with taking one of his front, I would have.”

  “Right.” She straightens, pats my head. “I see you’re back to writing about your imaginary life with two boyfriends. I thought you were over that.”

  “Why would you think that?” Seriously. “A good fantasy is hard to find.”

  “I mean the blog.”

  “What’s wrong with my blog, huh? People love it.” And that’s a huge understatement. I mean, I was approached by companies to advertise their stuff in my stories, for a good price, too, and I’m thinking of saying yes. Why the heck not, right?

  “I just don’t get it, is all. Half the time you review books, and the other half you talk about these two guys as if they’re real.”

  “They are real, Bry.”

  “Yeah, well, not in the way you describe them.” She leans over my shoulder again, scrolling back to previous posts of mine and reading out loud: “He reaches for J-Two’s shirt, yanks it open and whispers, I need you to touch me, need you to blow my—”

  “Hey.” I shove her back and snap my laptop shut. “Cut it out.”

  “Why?”

  “You’re too young for this.”

  Truth is, having someone I know read my words out loud is awful. Anonymous readers reading my words far, far away from me is a completely different thing.

  “What if they read it? Those two guys? And what if they realize it’s about them? What if they find out you want to do them both? Christ, aren’t you embarrassed for wanting two guys to do you?” Brylee says.

  “I’m not. Why would I be? Nothing wrong with that. Why are you trying to shame me for what I want?”

  My mom raised me to accept myself. I owe her for that, I guess. Even if she thinks we’re best buddies and she can tell me things about her sex life with my dad I really don’t want to know
.

  “I’m not.”

  “Sure you are. It’s just a fantasy, anyway.” And I’m getting defensive, because I want this too badly, and if this is the only way I’ll get it… I mean, I don’t know these guys, apart from their appearance and the fact they live together. As friends. Apparently.

  They may be assholes. Arrogant dicks, as Joel’s comment at the store seems to indicate— sadly.

  Big dicks. Big, hard, thick—

  “Getting a guy, babe, needs work,” Brylee mutters, and I duck before she pats my head again like I’m her poodle. “Hard work. Hours at the gym. Hours agonizing on what to wear. Relentless pursuit. Imagine chasing after two. Unless you want this story to remain fiction.”

  I shake my head.

  “You know there’s no way this could become reality,” I mutter. “You know it, Bry. Even if they were interested in me, which they’re not, they would never…” Never do a threesome, never touch and kiss each other, never want… What I want. “They’re like brothers!”

  Everyone knows that. My friends use it as a running expression at college, and that’s long after Joel graduated and left to get a job: Friends like J & J. The Twins. The Bros. Best friends, practically family. It’s the way they are together, that closeness and familiarity you can’t fake.

  And although finding out stuff about Joel was pretty easy—good family, a sister who works for the National Runaway Safeline, bunch of friends at a local gym he apparently spars with—his other half, so to say, Jethro, is a total mystery.

  A sexy, badass mystery with spiky black hair and a wide grin and scruff and tattoos and…

  “You need a makeover!” Brylee declares as she marches out to prepare for another night out, while I open my laptop again and stare at my unfinished post. “And then pursuit!”

  A makeover. Yeah… so I may be somewhat nerdy. So what? Is that so bad?

  I wish my buddy, Connie, were online, to tell her all about what happened and fangirl and rant and sigh together. Connie gets me, unlike Brylee, who mostly wants to fix me.

  Brylee doesn’t know me.

  You know nothing, Jon Snow.

  Pushing my glasses up my nose, I type two words in my post, delete them, and finally smile as I launch into my steamy, improved encounter with J-One. On screen, he can be whatever I want him to be—do whatever I want him to do. He can be loving and wild and forceful and into me, and into J-Two, and make us both come and then spoon us in bed while a fire burns in the fireplace and a storm rages outside.

  Yeah, perfect, I think, sitting back and surveying my post before I hit “publish.” Hey, what can I say? Can’t beat fictional boyfriends. They’re the best.

  ***

  “Good night,” Brylee mutters right behind me, almost giving me a frigging heart attack, and giggles. “Don’t overdo it with the boyfriends. Don’t want you worn out tomorrow.”

  “Why? What’s tomorrow?” I’m still trying to catch my breath while glaring at her perfectly made-up face, perfect dress, perfect—well, you get the picture.

  I mean, I do like Brylee, don’t get me wrong. I really, really do, even if she drives me nuts. She’s an amazing friend. But sometimes, when I’m being honest with myself in the dark hours of night, I wish she were a little bit less perfect, know what I mean?

  “You forgot. I knew you would.” Brylee wags a finger in my face. “Tomorrow. Park. Concert. With Ryan. Ring any bells?”

  Yep. Ringing all over the place. “I don’t know, Bry.”

  “It will be great. You need to get out more. Get over Liam.”

  “What? I don’t need to get over Liam.” Why are we even speaking about my ex-boyfriend? “There’s nothing to get over from.”

  Except I miss sex. I really do. This nerdy girl had some pretty wild times before Liam, but since him I seem to have… given up? Maybe. Given up on finding someone who can make me feel as good as my own fantasy can.

  “You’re coming to the concert with me,” Brylee says, cocky as you please—as cocky as Joel Kingsley. “And you will let me make you pretty,” she adds.

  “Yeah.” I blink. “What? No.”

  I turn to look at myself in the mirror nevertheless, in sudden doubt. With my hair caught in two braids, a long Indian dress and a T-shirt on top that says, “I Heart Vader,” don’t I look, I dunno, okay? I mean, this is my I’m-at-home-relaxing attire. Am I supposed to be in a dress and heels for that?

  “You will let me prettify you. If not for me, then for you. You will meet actual real guys. Living and breathing ones. Let go of your fantasy. Become the fantasy.”

  Wow. That was deep. I guess.

  And she goes, leaving me feeling vaguely offended and annoyed, her heels clacking on the floor, as I frown at my screen. I need prettifying?

  Being nerdy may not be the problem, after all. Maybe I’ve become rather… lax about my appearance.

  Happens when you don’t have a man in your life to dress for, okay? Why waste time when the only male staring under your skirt is the neighbor’s manic Chihuahua? Why wear lace and shave your legs for the crazy fluffy bastard, huh?

  Going to a concert by some unknown indie group from out of town doesn’t feel like reason enough, either. But Ryan is going, so of course Brylee wants to go.

  Brylee insists she’s in love. She works with Ryan, at the investment firm where she’s landed her first job as accountant. He likes rock music, and Brylee believes they are soulmates.

  Have I mentioned she hates rock music?

  But hey, who am I to judge? It’s not like I believe in love, not really. Wouldn’t know what it was if it bit me in the ass. I know lust, and Brylee is clearly a case of bad lust. I hope they hop into bed together soon, so she can get over it.

  The reason I can’t get over J & J, I decide as I open a new post in my browser and copy-paste the review I prepared for the last book I read and loved—Cora Brent’s latest—is that they are a fantasy.

  And a fantasy they shall remain. Our paths may have crossed briefly, but the chances of them crossing again are zilch. If nothing happened between us while Joel was still going to college with me, how the heck would it ever happen now?

  Except for his roommate being in urgent need of a book about bananas, that is. But I doubt he’ll need another one anytime soon.

  ***

  I put up my review, give myself a mental high-five for getting it done at last, and open Facebook to stalk my boys, as per usual. Don’t judge—this is the highlight of my day.

  Kinda overshadowed by the fact I actually met and talked to J-One today, but still.

  I click Joel’s profile. We’re “friends” online—see, I’m not a complete chicken. I friended him a year ago, and to my surprise he accepted. Of course, he probably accepts all friend requests. He’s always been a popular guy. An athlete, easy-going, handsome, successful with the ladies. Guys want to be like him. Girls crush on him.

  On par for any day.

  And Jethro… For some reason, he manages to always come out blurry in the photos with Joel. Always in motion, that one.

  And OMG, jackpot! There’s a new pic of the two of them, Jethro’s arm thrown over Joel’s shoulders, flipping the camera the bird. It’s some sort of pool party, because they’re both bare-chested, and woo. I’m feeling faint. And hot. Too hot.

  I lean closer, bumping my nose on the screen, and consider licking it. Licking them. God if this were real…

  I feel myself growing wet. I’m conditioned, after years of wanting them—not that any girl could possibly be immune to that level of hawtness. Not if their blood isn’t made of ice.

  Mine certainly isn’t.

  My hand steals down between my legs with a mind of its own. Bad, wicked hand. A brush over my soaked panties and I shiver. I imagine it’s Joel or Jethro touching me, moving my panties aside to slide rough fingers into me.

  God, I can imagine them, one behind me, his hands cupping my breasts, his breath on the back of my neck, while the other is pleasuring me with his han
d, crushing his mouth to mine, swallowing my moans.

  Oh yeah, do me, I want you… I slump back in my chair, biting my lip, letting my fantasy boyfriends take care of me. I know Jethro is the one kissing me, while Joel is sliding his hands over my ass, then down where Jethro is pleasuring me, his fingers joining his friend’s—

  And I shudder, coming hard, wishing… Wishing it were real.

  ***

  I’m still struggling to catch my breath, when a message pops up in my chat. It’s Connie, fellow admirer of the Twins, and contester for Jethro’s imaginary affections. According to her, she licked him first.

  Well, I licked both first, and the bitch knows that. Licked them from head to toe and shoulder to shoulder, not bypassing any part.

  So there.

  “Candix! Did u see the new pic?” she writes, adding an emoji of a dog, complete with lolling tongue. “I licked it, btw.”

  I huff as I type back. “I met J-One in the flesh, biatch.”

  “Joel? Did you, now?” I wait as three dots appear, indicating she’s still typing. “Did he do you behind the store shelves? Did J-Two join the party?”

  “Don’t I wish!” I add a crying emoji. “He bought a book for him, though.”

  “How thoughtful.” Jumping emoji. “Something like, How to Do your Sexy Roommate?”

  “Actually… bananas.”

  “He went bananas?”

  “He bought a book about bananas.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I’m serious!”

  “There’s something between them, I can feel it.”

  “A banana.”

  “Shut up, Candy.” Emoji sticking out its tongue and dancing. A banana emoji, no less, with legs and everything.

  I crack up. “Go away. I need to appreciate the new pic in peace.”

  Appreciate it a bit more. Maybe it’s time to break out my favorite dildo.

  “Girl, what you need is a piece of them.”

  “You have a specific piece in mind?”

  She vanishes from online for a bit, and I lean closer, taking in Joel’s grin, the twinkle in his eyes, his messy hair. The taut abs, the shorts hanging way too low on his narrow hips. Jethro’s body is a shadow beside his, his biceps impressive enough to show through the blurriness.