Candy Ever After (Hot Candy Book 2)

by Jo Raven

  The worry buzzes inside my skull like a wasp. I drop a book, then I drop the electronic card reader, earning me a frown from Donna.

  Great.

  I jerk when a hand touches mine.

  “Take a break?” Candy asks.

  “What for? It’s almost closing time.”

  “I know. The store’s empty. Come on.”

  She’s pulling me outside before I remember that I shouldn’t. That it’s a fucking bad idea. My brain’s fuzzy with the headache, and a bad night’s sleep and a long day worrying aren’t helping. My reactions are slow.

  Has to be why I let her drag me to a bench down the street and push me down on it, then proceed to clasp my hand between her smaller ones.

  It was a moment of weakness, okay? Won’t fucking happen again.

  In fact, I pull my hand free and start to get up, when she throws her arms around me, all but climbing onto my lap.

  My brain starts to short-circuit.

  “Candy…” She’s pressed against me, soft curves and sweet smell, and thin arms snug around my shoulders, and I can’t remember what am I supposed to say, and why I was trying to pull away. “Hell.”

  “Tell me,” she demands, holding me down with her slight weight, and Christ, it feels damn good.

  “Tell you what?” I breathe, my eyes glued to her lips and the way her tits are mashed to my side.

  “What happened yesterday? Was it Donna asking for the diploma? Was that a problem? I was worried, Jethro. And so was Joel.”

  My brows draw together. “He shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. I’m okay.”

  Her hand drifts to the back of my neck, and it’s like electric currents connect that spot to my dick. I shudder when she squeezes. “Let me help.”

  “You can’t.”

  “You don’t know that. You only have to tell me why—”

  “You can’t.” I shake myself out of my daze, hard dick or not. “You just can’t.”

  “What happened? Why did you leave? If it’s something I said, I’ll—”

  “Goddammit, Candy, I never finished school.”

  It’s quiet, except for a few cars driving by. My head aches, a dull pain beating on the back of my eyes, in my temples.

  I can hear her soft gasp as my words sink in, as they sink into my consciousness, too, and fuck, did I really say them out loud? I’m panting, my lungs working overtime. There’s not enough oxygen.

  Fucking shit.

  She doesn’t ask me if I’m kidding. She has to see I’m serious. Hell, my jaw is clenched so tight my teeth ache.

  She’s silent for a while, resting her cheek on my shoulder, and gradually I relax in her hold. My hands slide up her back, crushing her to me, until we’re meshed together, holding on to each other.

  My breathing eases out.

  “I’m working on my GED,” I say against her neck—fighting the urge to lick her skin, taste her—“but I’m not ready. Need some more time. Didn’t think anyone would ask for it so soon.”

  “Need any help with anything?” she asks, and I draw a breath, aware my mind is about to rebel at this show of concern. That I’ll push her away and start kicking at things.

  But nothing happens. Another breath, and she’s still holding me, and it’s like a drug, her warmth, her body touching mine.

  “I’m good at math and science. But I…” I close my eyes. “I have some trouble with English. Literature.” I snort softly, suddenly amused at how fucking ridiculous this sounds. “Books. I have trouble with books. Hell.”

  “You have trouble with what—reading?” She lifts her head to give me a wide-eyed stare. “You serious?”

  “Deadly.” I fight the heat about to flood my face. “Fuck, I’m sorry.”

  “What for?”

  “I should never have applied for this job.”

  “Why did you?”

  I shake my head. Tell myself to shut up. But I can’t. “To see you again.”

  Her hand lifts to my face, trails over my jaw, my mouth. My dick hardens, the jeans too restrictive. “It’s my fault.”

  “No, it’s not, dammit.” I breathe against her fingers, and she shivers. She rubs them over my mouth, covers it with her palm. “It’s just…too many changes these past days. And Joel…” Fuck. Fuck.

  “What about Joel?”

  “Nothing.” I want him. I want you. And I don’t know what he really wants.

  “I will help you.” My brows arch, but she won’t let me speak. “With your lessons. With the reading. With the books. And I’ll talk to Donna. Keep her off your back.”

  I shift on the bench, my trapped cock aching. I could use some help there, too, especially when she slips her thumb between my lips, stroking the inside. I suck on her smooth flesh, groan around it.

  She pulls it out, her eyes round like saucers behind her glasses. A flush has spread on her neck and chest, and her nipples are so hard they poke through her clothes, drawing my gaze.

  What is she doing to me? I never thought I’d want anyone the way I want Joel, but she’s gaining another foothold in my thoughts every day, and her face and voice fill my fantasies at night.

  “You don’t have to do this,” I tell her, breathless. What is this game she’s playing with me? If she touches me again, I might just come in my pants. Or I may tell her more, tell her everything.

  Fuck, no.

  “Have you considered that I may want to help you?” Her hand hovers over my chest, and has she realized how hard I’m panting, how hard I am?

  “Why?”

  “Because.” She gets up, leaving me hard and aching and confused. The darkness in her eyes is shocking. It matches the darkness writhing inside me, and her voice is so low I barely hear it as she turns to go. “I want you.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  CANDY

  Title: Heavenly Promises

  From Candy Boys (Blog serial)

  “I want you,” I tell J-One, straddling his strong thighs and grinding myself on his cock, so hard and hot through his pants. “Now.”

  “Then you’ll have me,” he says with a smirk and kisses me, then grabs J-Two and hauls him closer. “You’ll have both of us.”

  Sounds like heaven.

  I shouldn’t have said that. Shouldn’t have done that, offered to help. Touched his face. Seen how turned-on he was, how he fought not to touch me back.

  This is turning into a constant. And next time I’m not sure I will be able to stop myself from climbing on his lap and going at it.

  I’m so worked up, I’m glad we’re about to close shop and go home. I need relief, and if the two hunks I’m lusting over won’t give it to me, I’ll have to take things into my own hands.

  Again.

  Depressing as the thought might be, a tiny spark of warmth blooms in my chest. Jethro is opening up to me. Telling me truths about him. It was a shock to find out he hasn’t finished school, and somehow even worse to find out he has problems with reading—but it fits. With his black clothes, his tattoos, his unreadable gaze, his mystery.

  It’s like his past is an invisible thorn tearing him apart, and although I know that people fail school for various reasons, I trust my gut.

  There’s so much more behind those dark eyes than he lets on.

  And he’s fighting it. Fighting to move on, to get ahead. Before I even digested the fact he never finished school, he’s telling me he’s preparing for his GED.

  And before I finish offering to help, he tells me he took this job to see me again.

  If only he knew… if he knew I approached him aware of who he is. Of the fantasies I’ve entertained over the years with him and Joel starring…

  Donna waves goodbye—she has a charity event to attend, and Jethro and I are closing shop tonight—and walks out quickly. I make a mental note to talk to her about Jethro and convince her that he lost his diploma, to give him some time to locate it.

  Then I start when the door of the shop opens again, and he stalks inside, his face set in impassive line
s once more.

  Not impassive, I realize when I take a better look. He’s frowning. He rubs a hand over his eyes, pressing into the sockets, as he staggers toward the back of the shop.

  I’m walking after him before I can stop myself. Crap, I should hold back, give him space, after dragging him out for that little talk during which he told me things he may have regretted. But he looks like he’s in pain.

  “Jethro?” I walk among tall rows of books, promising myself this is the last time I’m pushing my way into his privacy. That if he as much as glares at me for seeking him out again, I’m done and won’t bother him again. “Are you okay?”

  No reply, and I glance cautiously around a row.

  “Sorry if I pushed you to tell me stuff,” I try again, and maybe it’s time I took a hint and left him alone. “Listen, I’ll just—”

  He’s leaning back against a shelf, a hand splayed over his face. It drops as I approach him and he blinks, his brow creased. Does he look pale or is it the light in the shop?

  “What’s wrong?” I hesitate.

  “Just a headache.”

  I nod, worry my lip between my teeth. “Get them often?”

  “Sometimes.” He winces, eyes fluttering closed. “When I’m tense.”

  “Is it because of what you told me? Or did I do something?”

  “What?” He blinks at me again. “S’not you. I hit my head last night. Joel startled me. I fell.”

  “Holy crap. How did that happen?” I take a step closer. “Are you dizzy?”

  He starts to shake his head and winces. “Not much.”

  Man… “Tell me Joel is driving you home tonight?”

  “Nah. I don’t know. He didn’t say.” Something like sadness passes over his features, and it makes my own heart heavy. “It’s fucking complicated.”

  “What is?”

  “Joel and me.”

  My pulse is deafening in my ears. What does he mean? I approach him, and he grabs my hand, pulls me to him.

  “He wants you, Candy,” he whispers. “And so do I. Question is, what do you want?”

  He’s leaning back, holding me against him, and my body is heating up, pressed up to his. He lowers his head, his mouth seeking mine, kissing me.

  “I told you.” I gulp. “I… Jet…”

  He tilts my head up, dark eyes flashing, making me gasp. “Can’t keep away any longer,” he whispers, his mouth an inch from mine. “I don’t care. Can’t have it all. Can’t stop—Fuck.”

  His hands are on my face, gripping tight, and I slide my arms around his strong back. His mouth brushes over mine, a wash of wildfire. He tastes salty, and his spicy scent fills my senses. He pants softly against my lips. “You’re driving me crazy, girl. I know you said you want Joel—”

  I kiss him back to stop him from talking. I can’t deal with this right now, with the fact he’s kissing me, wanting me—even if I want Joel, too. I’m drunk on his taste, his scent, the desperate need in his eyes.

  “You want Joel,” he whispers against my mouth. “He’s hot, isn’t he?”

  “You’re hot, too,” I gasp.

  “He likes to direct,” he whispers, eyes so dark they look black. “To control. He’d totally get off watching us right now.”

  “What?” I pull back, shock radiating from my middle to every part of my body, chased by a wave of heat. I’m aware of my face heating to the point of combustion. “Holy crap.”

  Can’t deny that’s making me all wet and hot down under.

  His eyes search my face. “You told me at the concert when I met you that you’re not light. There’s some darkness in you. Come on, Candy girl. Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me you wouldn’t like Joel watching as I make you come.”

  I’m so close to confessing, to telling him that yes, that is my secret fantasy—one of the tamer ones, at least—but when I open my mouth, nothing comes out.

  His gaze shutters. “Fuck, I was wrong, wasn’t I? I’m sorry. Forget I said anything.” He reaches up and rubs his forehead, a wince passing over his features. “I’ve done enough damage for a day. I’ll just head off home.”

  Worry for him slams back into me. Christ, how could I forget he was in pain?

  Must be all that hot kissing and groping and talking.

  “I’ll drive you. Come on.” I reach for his hand, and like every time he lets me, his bigger fingers wrapping around mine, warm.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Humor me. I’ll sleep better tonight knowing you made it home safe.”

  He shakes his head, looks like he’ll refuse again, but doesn’t.

  In fact, he follows me out, waits as I lock up the shop, and slides into the passenger seat of my car without another comment.

  I’m so set on this mission of closing up the shop, getting Jethro into my car and driving toward the address he gives me, of not thinking about Jethro kissing me and Joel’s hot voyeuristic kink, that I don’t realize until I’ve parked in front of a sober building that this is where my fantasy boyfriends live.

  Hey, now I can send them post cards if I want.

  Get a grip, Candy.

  Hey, I’m a fangirl. Losing grip is my job.

  ***

  “Here we are,” I chirp brightly, unable to contain my excitement as I look up the building, trying to guess which window is theirs.

  Trying in vain not to think of Jet’s lips on mine, of the possibility of something more between us. Between me and him. Me and Joel. All three of us.

  Oh my God. I’m sitting outside my fantasy boyfriends’ home. Be still my heart. I might just circle this day with a red marker on my calendar. And add little hearts to it.

  I can’t tell the address to Connie. She’ll camp outside. Hysterical laughter bubbles up in my throat, and I turn to grin at Jethro.

  The laughter dies in my throat.

  He still hasn’t moved to get out of the car. His forehead is creased in lines of pain, his lips white.

  “Crap, you don’t look so good.” I fight the worry inside me. It’s a losing battle. “Is the headache worse? What can I do?”

  “I’ll be fine.” But his hand shakes as he tries to open the door, and his breathing sounds ragged. “Shit. It’s stuck.”

  Can the pain be so bad? The thought twists something inside my chest.

  “Here, let me.” I reach over him and jiggle the handle. “It’s a trick.” The car door swings open with a screech of rusty hinges, and I gather my courage as he nods and turns to get out. “Jet…”

  He doesn’t turn to look at me. Doesn’t get out, either. He’s holding on to the back of the seat like a drowning man.

  “Is Joel home? Hey.” I put a hand on his shoulder, and the muscles in his back are coiled like steel ropes. “Is he upstairs in case you need something?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Jethro…” My courage is about to fail me, again.

  “Call me Jet.”

  I lick my lips, nod, and go for honesty. “Jet, you don’t look so hot right now. I’m worried.”

  There’s a huge, soft beat of silence.

  “Come up with me,” he says.

  His words hang between us like Christmas lights, suspended in darkness.

  I don’t need to be asked again. I nod, kill the engine and step outside, into the cool night.

  He follows me out and grabs my hand, and I let him tug me toward the building. We ride up the elevator to the fourth floor in silence.

  He unlocks the door and draws me inside.

  He lets go to close the door and switch on a floor lamp. It illuminates a somber living room with a black sofa and an armchair, a long coffee table and shelves full of books.

  Someone living in this apartment likes books, and if it’s not Jethro, then it must be Joel.

  Interesting.

  He drops onto the couch, running his hands over his face, and I sink down beside him, ignoring the urge to explore the apartment I’ve imagined a million times. The scene where my two fantasy boyfriends co
me together to love each other—and me.

  Worry is gnawing at me. “What do you need?” I pull his hands down, turn his face toward me. “What can I do for you?”

  “Hold me.”

  It’s the last thing I expect to hear from a guy like Jethro. I have a second to think that he never said anything like this in the story I’m writing—never once showed a more vulnerable side. He’s the wild card, the dark joker, the hyper-sexual part of the equation.

  Then he leans back, opens his arms, and I burrow into them. A shiver goes through him when I slip my hands around him and rest my head on his shoulder.

  “Like this?” I whisper, looking up.

  In the low light of the lamp, his dark eyes glimmer like wet pools at night. “Yeah.”

  I slide my hand up his chest, rest it on his left pec. “God. Your heart is racing as if you’ve run ten miles.”

  “Feels like it, too,” he rumbles.

  “Why?”

  He hesitates, his hand drawing circles on my back. His thick lashes lower. “I can’t manage stress. It fucks me up. Here.” He lifts a hand to tap the side of his head, then lowers it to his chest, his fingers tangling with mine. “And here.”

  “Why? I mean…” Damn, I love how he’s holding my hand pressed to his chest, over his heart. “Were you always this way? Must be hard.”

  He’s gazing down at our tangled fingers. His heartbeat has started to slow down. His breathing has eased out. “Not always. Just the last few years.”

  It’s on the tip of my tongue to ask if something happened to cause this. Joel’s words echo in my mind—about Jethro having gone through a lot and deserving a happy life.

  “I fucking love how you feel in my arms,” he whispers, and I hum in agreement. He feels amazing, too—his chest padded, his arms so strong around me, his scent making my mouth water.

  “You like me?” I smile up at him.

  One side of his mouth quirks. “Like? That word doesn’t come anywhere near how much I fucking want you.” And before I have a chance to digest this much, he goes on, “I know. You want Joel. Forget I said that. Fuck.”

  “Can’t I like both of you?”