He went back to working on the jacket, undoing the second button—the third and fourth—revealing the tank top collar, which stopped just above the space between her breasts.
He bit her ear lobe—a live wire dipping into a pool. Internally, something sparked—a white flare in her center, and she reacted with a hiss. Cade pulled his head away, biting the edge of his lower lip, so he could watch her brow ruffle.
He wasn’t getting away with that, not with the grin he was giving her, like he could do anything he wanted. He thought he was in control—that he could disarm her. That couldn’t be allowed. She attacked his shirt with one hand, undoing two buttons in less than a second. She was moving onto the third, while carefully sliding her hand down through the narrow gap between their chests and stomachs/
He was spreading kisses down past her neckline. She knew he wouldn’t notice what she was doing. Her hand was already past his bellybutton, and his cock was sticking up, the head barely concealed by his waistline.
She was about to grab it when he latched onto her wrist with a laugh and pinned her hand behind her head. He was kissing her lips in a second, and she was left with one hand to undo his buttons.
It was worth the effort. She needed something to stay centered. He was moving so fast, and he was already about to undo the last button on her jacket. With a hand braced against the back of her shoulder, he lifted her and tugged on the jacket sleeve. He pulled it away easily and threw it behind them. It had barely hit the ground when he threw the shredded strips of her tank top back with it.
The force of the cold and the friction—the sound of the fabric tearing—they were catalysts for a rising instinct—something vicious and determined. She wanted to experience him, his flesh and soul, and she’d claw—she’d fight and break through anything—if that’s what she needed to do to get what she wanted.
Unclasping her bra was a simple act. She saw it falling down before she felt it release. He did it with the hand he was using now to support her. His other hand was being put to use on her right breast.
He lifted it, inspected the ridges and pores. Then he locked his lips around and the nipple, and she let her head sink back, drawing in a long breath of air. Her lids slammed shut, and a tense moan rolled out.
His tongue was moving around her nipple, creating a flaming pinwheel that shot sparks down her stomach, adding to the original flare. It had been absorbing all of the energy—the momentum—and it was growing with every touch.
It was pulsing now, and he controlled the rhythm—where sparks flew and the burn travelled. He was moving on, her nipple sliding out from between his lips, so they could pay homage to the other.
He was the master of storms, the tempest. He could slide his hands down her side, like a boat sliding through glassy waters—only it didn’t leave behind a little ripple. He was summoning tidal waves and hurricanes with his lips, his breath, and now his teeth.
She couldn’t breathe. It happened so suddenly, and it was so simple—just enamel on skin, but it rippled through her, under her arms and across her belly, and lower still, where her skin was tightening and pulsing—begging for something it just didn’t have.
He didn’t even have to touch her, just the button on her slacks, and it began to burn. She pushed her hips up, trying to keep him from going any further. She tried to push his head away, but he grabbed both of her hands, and bit down on her zipper, meeting her eyes with a snarl.
He ripped it down, let her go, and before she could react to her hands being free, unbuttoned her pants. He was going to take control, and she hated him for it. Just once, she wanted to tease him and watch him, but he was unbreakable. He was the dominant one, and that’s what she liked.
When they made love, he wasn’t a calming force; he reserved all of his energy until it was too much, and he just had to be an animal. But unlike an animal, he was intelligent. Behind his movements, there was a determination and a level of skill. She knew that if he touched her—if he moved inside her, he would conquer wherever he went, and he wouldn’t stop until he had taken her fully.
She allowed that, as her gift to him. There was never a second that she even thought of holding back. He deserved the pure white dove of a marriage that she promised him when they were wed. She was going to give it to him and bask in every second of the act.
She experienced a thousand sensations from subtle to extreme, but nothing like this. It was like lightning raining down from the heavens in a columns, injecting themselves into her center. He tugged her pants down to her thighs, and he was still tugging now that he was starting to stand.
It flared out at the shoulders, giving him an imposing form. His cock was a sword waiting to be unsheathed; the tip was sticking out, and the shaft was weighing down his fly. She would have ripped it out, had she not been caught by the sight of him throwing her slacks and panties behind her and taking her by the ankle.
He kissed the tip of her toe, and let his hand slide up her calf, with her other leg under his arm. He stopped at her knee, gripped onto the other and pressed forward, his lips pursed into a plump ‘O,’ and his bulge scraping her already flaming lips.
Another flare, hotter than the first ignited—sweet and magnificent, and she felt herself starting to throb, over and over, in time with his kisses. He ground his cock in, and she met his tongue in her mouth.
He twisted his around it, and her eyes darted down to his hand, not the one he had braced on the mattress behind her head; it was the one he was using to finger his fly. She tore it down, and his cock came plopping out, resting on her glistening opening.
He pulled his hips away before she could swallow it fully and let his cock dangle above. She could almost feel it swinging. Her body was being pulled to it, her mind, her core—all screaming to be filled, tested and taken. But she couldn’t reach it. He was swinging his hips, a hand resting on her side to keep her from moving.
He gripped the base, and met her eyes before he struck, making the columns of lightning seem like static bursts. It happened so fast that she didn’t realize it until he was resting on her g-spot, and she felt like she was going to melt into the mattress.
There was no thought so riveting it could distract her from the feeling of the tip of his cock pressing up against that place, retracting and pounding against it again. He was injecting her with potential—energy that would grow and collect inside her until it had reached a zenith, and she couldn’t contain it any longer. It would wash through her, robbing her of her senses.
When he moved, he transferred great bursts of power, pushing it as deep as it could go, and back—quick, never stopping, never relenting. He couldn’t. He was encased in sweet fire, fueled by movement and her violent kiss.
Her tongue dove deep, and he pushed against it, while he sunk himself inside and hastened the pace of his hips. Every thrust was another column of lightning grander than the last, until it seemed as though she were in the middle of a field of them, and the energy was passing through the air around her. It was starting to a grow beyond its confines, spreading into her stomach and thighs.
He grunted and his balls slapped. His chest was pressed against her own, and his hands were sliding underneath her. He wrapped them around her stomach and lifted her as he drove himself in.
She lifted her hips and slammed into his pelvis. There were sweat trails on his abdomen, and his chest, melding with her own. Their combined body heat had grown into an aura. It became a part of the storm, mingling with the sound of skin meshing, lips parting and their struggle to breathe between kisses.
He had fueled the hurricane, and now it was too big, nothing could hold it. Rather than hesitate, or give her time to recover, he was steering her directly towards it as fast as he could. She wasn’t sure if he had any other choice; he was already caught inside it himself. He was just doing what his body told him to do.
Their lips parted, leaving an afterglow when she felt her whole body falling. She was being crushed by a tsunami, taking over every single mo
lecule, every atom.
It had obliterated all conscious thought, leaving her only with the sensation of perfect bliss—a true gift that only he could give her. She felt a hint of it when they were together in their blanket fort, talking. It was his purity and youthful innocence, and the ball of happiness that she felt there.
This was a holy experience, thick and pervasive. It had her writhing and crying out without realizing it. When it started to subside, it washed down her face, her neck, arms and stomach, tingling like an opiate sunrise. It began to roll down in waves that steadily grew further and further apart.
As this was happening, a fiery jet was streaming into her. When he was done, Cade let himself slip out naturally and fall to her side. It was the moments when she could see him naked, study his arms and chest, and really inspect him fully, that she enjoyed the most.
She wanted to remind herself of what she had—the best man a woman could ever find. She wanted to cherish him, stroke him, kiss him—and let him do the same. He missed that, he told her, more than anything, and so did she. They promised to spend as much time as they could having those moments.
The End
About the Author
Andy Wayne is a strong-willed woman who loves writing her equally challenging alpha male characters. She loves to make the pages sizzle, adding a little flare to her readers' lives one alluring book at a time.
She enjoys writing about all the many lovely varieties of men, from dark and brooding, the light and funny, to mysterious and quietly demanding. But she makes sure that each of her men have eyes for only their contemporary woman.
Sugar & Spice
Phoebe Alexander
Sugar & Spice © 2019 Phoebe Alexander
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Copyright notice: All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Warning: the unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in prison and a fine of $250,000.
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Sugar & Spice
Temptation never looked so sweet…
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I’d always been the black sheep of the family. No wonder they picked me to play undercover boss at Sweetopia, the theme park my family owned. While they lounged in the lap of luxury, I’d be donning an apron to serve pastries at Cotton Candy Castle, one of our most popular attractions.
* * *
But I was tempted to blow my cover when I met The Red Velvet Queen. She was wearing a costume and a fake jeweled crown, but this woman was absolutely breathtaking. I invented a baker’s dozen reasons to talk to her every day, quickly becoming addicted to her sweet, sugary goodness.
* * *
She thought I was just seasonal help. Too bad I was actually her boss. It could never be more than a fling…a fleeting one at that. Flings were what I lived for, so why couldn’t I settle for just one slice instead of wanting the whole damn pie?
1
Cy
“And that’s why you’re our first choice for going undercover in the park,” my dad announced, pinning his dark gaze on me.
“What? No, I’m going to Greece next month to study sculpture with Kristoph Kostopoulos,” I protested in a voice seemingly borrowed from my first-grade self. Damn it, I sounded whiny.
“Greece? You just went to Tahiti two months ago,” my oldest brother, Carson, piped up from across the table. He turned toward our parents. “Cy hasn’t done anything to support the business since he got out of college—which has been two years now!”
My middle brother, Clem, was quick to add his two cents: “It’s about time you start pulling your weight around here, Cy. Last time I checked, we’re all due to inherit an equal share of Sweet Enterprises, so it’s time for you to step up.”
My mother laid a soft hand on top of mine, forcing my eyes to snap to hers. “They’re right, Cy. It’s time for you to step up. I know you’re the youngest, and we’ve given you some time to ‘find yourself,’ or whatever you want to call it, but if you want to be part of this family business, you have to do your fair share.”
A dramatic sigh huffed out of my mouth as I resigned myself to whatever this stupid plan was, but I wasn’t done arguing my point just yet. “I don’t think studying art is a bad excuse,” I offered. “After all, maybe my newfound knowledge of sculpture could benefit the park in some way.”
My oldest brother rolled his eyes so hard, it hurt to watch.
“Is there any chance I can wrap this up quickly and still make it to Greece next month?” My eyes darted between my parents, begging for their blessing.
“Tell you what,” my father said, leaning toward me with his hands clasped together, fingers entwined, “you infiltrate the employee clique and identify the ringleader who is threatening to organize a strike, and you’ll not only get to Greece on time, but we’ll give you a twenty-five thousand dollar bonus. Sound good?”
Oh, it did sound good. Very good indeed!
This is where I confess I’ve never had a manual labor-type job, and I’ve never had to wear a uniform. My parents have owned a kiddie theme park my entire life, and when I came of age, I got some sort of cushy summer job in the park, usually in “security.” My brothers and I would sit high up in the control center at the top of Cotton Candy Castle and monitor all the cameras surveilling different areas of the park. A lot of times that simply meant zooming in on all the MILFs with spectacular cleavage. Nice work if you can get it, eh?
That is why, as you might imagine, I was particularly mortified to look at myself in the mirror before heading into the park for my first day undercover. I stood there, trying to look as tough and businesslike as possible in my cheesy pink polo shirt with its white collar and the Sweetopia logo on the breast. Even worse, when I arrived for my orientation, I would be assigned a pink and white candy-striped apron to go over the entire disgusting ensemble. I looked like a Ken reject in the bargain Barbie bin at the local toy store.
No one knew who I was, either. The bakery manager who would be my boss thought she was getting a new seasonal employee. The only people who knew about my undercover boss assignment were the ones in the boardroom when the decision was made: my mother, father, and my two older brothers, Carson and Clem.
I had to physically walk from the employee parking lot into the park. Walk! We had our own golf carts to carry us around the grounds, which, of course, I wasn’t allowed to use. I rolled my eyes at the absurdity of it all as I made the trek from my beat-up Dodge truck—my parents wouldn’t even let me drive my classic ’69 Camaro—toward the huge fuchsia, purple and teal arch that read SWEETOPIA in gigantic curly-cue letters.
I stopped at the gate with my hat pulled down low on my face. My parents insisted I disguise my identity, so I grew out my facial hair and found a pair of black plastic-framed glasses. They didn’t want anyone to have a single inkling that I could be Cyrus Sweet, the owners’ youngest son, but now I looked like a douchebag hipster.
“Hi, I’m Marcus Young, reporting for duty,” I chirped in a British accent, giving the Sweetopia employee a mock salute. Where the fuck did that accent come from? I’m not British. Shit.
Getting through this without my typical brand of sarcasm was going to be an Olympic-caliber feat.
The employee, a skinny chap with huge gray-blue eyes looked down at a clipboard. “Got ya,” he said, barely looking up. “You’re assigned to
The Bard’s Bakery in the—”
“I know where it is,” I retorted, trying not to sound like an asshole, but very much sounding like an asshole. A British one at that. The skinny dude gave me a shrug, and I was on my merry way to Cotton Candy Castle, the spires of which were gleaming silver in the morning sun.
The bakery was just inside the front entrance of the castle, which was where little girls and their families congregated to see The Red Velvet Queen. There was also a ride inside, one of those where you got on a boat and went through a tunnel with piped-in music and animatronic characters. This particular ride showed how The Red Velvet Queen and her friend Donut Dragon had defeated an evil sorceress to claim the throne of Sweetopia. #Girlpower and all that.
I began to head straight to the bakery when I remembered that my oldest brother, who was in charge of casting for the park’s costumed characters, had hired a new Red Velvet Queen six months or so ago. The one we’d had for years had, frankly, aged out of the role. Once the makeup could no longer conceal her wrinkles, she was asked to retire. Tough luck, right?
Anyway, I had an insatiable curiosity about what the new queen looked like because both Carson and Clem had agreed she was hot—and they had notoriously different tastes. It was early, and I didn’t know if the queen would be out of makeup and perched on her throne, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to steal a glance to see if my brothers’ story could be corroborated. If she was a dog, I thoroughly planned to give them hell about it. My oldest brother was married, so I was sure his wife would love to hear Carson’s thoughts on the matter.
Sweetest Obsessions - Anthology Page 44
