THE MAN WITH ALL THE HONEY: Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance #3

by Cathryn Cade

A glint in his dark eyes said he was thinking of someone else too. But Rocker hadn't gotten to be Stick's Vice President by blurting every thought in his head, so he said no more, merely squatted to help Bouncer, and then hoisted their unconscious prisoner to his broad shoulder to carry him out.

  "Thanks, brothers," Stick said, his voice rough.

  They looked back and nodded. "Anything, man," Rocker said.

  Bouncer nodded. "Nobody threatens Flyer family and gets away with it,"

  Unsaid was what they all knew—the boys likely would not have survived being kidnapped, and Sara would have died horribly at Twig's hand, after he'd raped and tormented her.

  Since Stick didn't trust himself to speak again without losing control, he merely lifted his chin to them. He walked back out into the clean, bright prairie sunshine, locked up and went home to his boys.

  Since Kick, Dash and Marta were all snoozing in front of the TV—evidently this flu took a few days of rest to recover from—he crossed the drive to Sara's house and knocked on her back door.

  His blood was up, fired with the triumph of a warrior who’d bested a foul enemy. Now he wanted his woman to celebrate with him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It took Sara a few moments to answer his knock.

  When she opened her back door, Stick looked her over critically. She looked better, but then women hid a lot behind their cosmetics. Her hair definitely looked better, a silky swathe around her face and shoulders. She'd made up her eyes smoky and sexy, and her pouty lips were a deep pink that matched her snug top, a sort of crinkled wrap-front knit that revealed the top inch of her cleavage. Under the top, she wore a pair of snug jeans that made his palms itch to cup her ass. Her feet were bare, her nails a deep pink.

  She was clean, fixed up and safe in her little house. And he would rain down the fires of hell on anyone who dared to try and touch her again. Except him--he planned to touch her all over.

  "You're feeling better?" he asked, stepping in so she had no option but to back up and let him into her kitchen.

  She backed away much farther than needed, coming up against her kitchen counter with a bump. "I'm fine," she said. "A little bit of a headache. Um, did you want something?"

  He smiled at her, not wasting a motion as he moved in, sliding both hands around the back of her ass and lifting her up onto the counter behind her. Her eyes going wide, her mouth a round 'o' of shock, she grabbed his shoulders for support.

  "I want something," he agreed. "This."

  He kissed her, making sure to keep it slow and gentle to start, although his blood boiled to dive in and take what was his, hard and fast and hot. Her mouth was sweet and wet and soft. She tasted of coffee and her own sweetness, a combination he liked very much.

  "How's your head this morning?" he murmured, nipping at her full, bottom lip.

  She blinked, and her fingers worked in his cut, caressing the smooth edges of the leather over his shoulders. "My head? It hurts, but with painkiller, it's okay. Why are you kissing me? I thought ..."

  "That's good your head feels better," he approved. "Sorry that happened to you, milaya moya. And inside, how are you? Okay?"

  She frowned, but nodded. "I'm okay."

  "Bullshit," he said, narrowing his eyes as her gaze skittered away. "You wanna be okay. You've been living in a safe world, where men don't attack women like that, don't try to take children for collateral. What he did to you, hiding in the dark, threatening to do bad things to you—da, you see I know that part without you telling me, because that's the kind of little shit he is—that doesn't happen in your world. Only it did happen, and now you have to deal with it. It's not going to be easy, milaya. It's gonna take some time."

  While she was processing this, he kissed her again. She tasted even better this time. So much his body reacted predictably, need surging in his groin, his cock hardening, want fogging his brain.

  "But I'm here," he crooned to her, savoring her scent and her sweet, damp breath mingling with his. "When you're scared in the dark of night, you'll reach out, and I'll be there, yeah?"

  He waited until she'd nodded, just once. Then he moved closer, and snugged her against him, her breasts against his chest, the sweet vee of her thighs cradling his cock. He deepened the kiss, enjoying the wet cavern of her mouth and the way she sucked on his tongue as if she was starving for the taste of him.

  "M-mm. You taste my cock like that, blazhinka, you'll make me a happy man," he told her, nuzzling her ear as he gave her ass a squeeze. Christ, she smelled good, clean woman and some flowery scent as if she'd rolled in a meadow.

  She stiffened in his arms. And not being a complete idiot, he realized instantly he'd fucked up. Badly.

  He moved back far enough to meet her gaze. "Guess not yet, huh?"

  She gave him a blistering look, and then drew back one hand and slapped him, hard. It stung, and pissed him off, but for the first time in his memory, he stood still and took it, along with the words she flung at him like blades.

  "No need to guess, Stick Vanko. The answer is no—hell to the no! You may have saved my brother, but I am not one of your little club whores who will drop to her knees when you crook your finger, on your porch in broad daylight, where you knew I'd see you with her!"

  Her cheeks flushed, and her voice rose to a pitch hazardous to male ears. Hell, the dog was probably cowering in the bushes outside too.

  But she reined herself in, pursing her quivering lips tightly. "Now let me go, and get out of my house. Or I'll—I'll sic my dog on you."

  Processing the misery in her blue eyes, he backed up a step. "You're right, that was a shit thing to do, Sara. It won't happen again."

  "I don't care if it happens again," she spat. "You just keep right on whoring your way through all the women you want! That's what you do, and everyone knows it. I can't say I wasn't warned, I just didn't listen. But hard to argue with what I had to see with my own eyes—the day after you were with me."

  That had burned her deeply. Guilt speared in his chest, and he felt his own cheeks flush, for the first time in years. He frowned, and she shook her head in disgust, and shoved at his hands, which he tightened reflexively, holding her gaze.

  "You do care, and it won't happen again," he told her. “You have my word on this." And all his brothers and everyone else knew—when Stick Vanko gave his word, it was solid as steel.

  Unfortunately, she wasn't one of his brothers, and she wasn't everyone else.

  She leaned forward until their noses nearly touched, her blue eyes hot with fury. "Too late. I can't un-see what I saw—it's burned into my brain. But you know what, Stick? No matter how it burns, that's good, because it's a reminder of how little I mean to you. I'm sorry what happened to you with your wife, but I'm not your safe target to keep working that out of your system. I want a man who wants me, not just the nearest piece of—of ass."

  He glared back at her, his jaw working as he fought to hold back the emotions boiling inside him. This shit was not gonna fly, no way in hell. But she’d been traumatized, and hurt, and now was not the time to force his way in. This situation called for finesse. And he could do that too, even if every fiber of his body roared at him to hold onto her and claim her, sink himself so deeply in her she would feel him for days.

  "You have no idea how I see you," he growled. “So don't fill your brain with this bullshit. You mean something to me. But I see that words aren't getting through to you, so I'll have to show you, won't I?"

  He forced himself to let go of her, and stepped back, reaching up to push a silky lock of her hair back from her cheek. "And I will show you, Sara Cannon. Not now, because you've been through enough. But soon. So be ready, da?"

  She still looked furious, but now it was tinged with wariness. This pleased him in a purely selfish, masculine way.

  "Be ready for what?" she snapped, crossing her arms. This he liked, as it plumped her pretty tits up, and deepened her cleavage.

  "For what's coming," he said, giving her a wolfish
smile that made her eyes widen even more. “Good things, Sara. Good things for you and me.”

  Then he turned and walked out. Let her wait, and worry a little, in a good way.

  He was back at his house before he realized he'd forgotten to thank her for keeping his boys safe. So, instead of telling her, he would show her that too.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  When Stick's phone burred just as he walked back into his own yard, it was Dare, asking him to meet in the woods between Coeur d'Alene and Sandpoint to the north. Stick was not thrilled.

  "Just got home from being on the road," he pointed out. "Need a good reason to head out again."

  "You've got a good one," Dare assured him. "The best."

  "All right. What time?"

  Dare gave him a time, and a location.

  When Dare pulled his pickup truck into the shaded area at the side of a graveled road near Sandpoint, Stick was waiting. He stayed where he was, straddling the seat of his Harley, until Dare got out and came around the truck. Stick could see a woman in the passenger seat, through the shaded windows.

  Stick walked to meet Dare. "Who you got there?"

  "I'll let her tell you."

  The truck door opened, and a slim Native American woman stepped down. Her dark hair was caught back on one side with a silver barrette, but hung down over her face on the other. She wore jeans, boots and a red tank top, and she was beautiful in a hard way, with high cheekbones, a hawk nose and big, liquid dark eyes—at least the one he could see.

  She looked up at Stick, and nodded. "I'm Colie George."

  Stick cocked his head. "I know you?"

  She shrugged. "Maybe. I used to party in Sandpoint. Knew your ex."

  Stick’s muscles tightened. He narrowed his eyes at Dare, then back to her. "Contessa? She’s why we're meeting out here in the woods?"

  Colie George nodded. "I heard she's up for parole. And that you and Dare are worried she might make it out. I don't want her out either."

  "Ah." He was beginning to get why Dare had called this meet. "You mind sharin' why?"

  She tossed her head, flinging her hair back from the side of her face. Stick stiffened. Three scars slashed down over her pale brown skin, from brow to ear, from brow to mid-cheek and from temple to ear. The corner of her eye was puckered with scar tissue, and her eye was milky.

  "She did this to me," she told him, her nostrils flared like an angry mare's. "Back then, I was drinking and using. We got in a fight over a man, and it turned into scratching and slapping. Until she pulled a knife on me. I was drunk, so my reflexes were slow. By the time I took her down, she'd already cut me."

  "Why didn't you finish her?" Stick asked.

  She gave him a crooked smile. "She was visibly pregnant—with your boys. Couldn't stomach doing anything that would hurt a baby."

  He shook his head. "Fuck me, I'm sorry. Wish I'd known at the time. You didn't go to the cops?"

  She snorted, and looked to Dare.

  "Sheriff at the time knew Colie," Dare said. "When she drank, she fought. His deputies had to lock her up a few times."

  "And I may have caused a few injuries myself. But Dare was good to me," she said, with a private smile for the lawyer. "He looks out for his people. Helped me make bail more than once."

  "So, Contessa was carryin' my boys and fuckin' around behind my back with your man," Stick said. "Sorry he was stupid enough to look away from you, and see her."

  "No loss. He's still a drunk, I have nothing to do with him. I work for the tribe now, in counseling."

  "That's good." Stick waited, because he was sure they were not done here yet. The hair on the back of his neck stood up as Colie George faced him, her gaze intense.

  "If you want your ex to stay where she is," she told him, holding out a note on folded, yellow-lined paper. "Give her this message. Go ahead and read it, if you want. Just make sure she gets it—she's from around here, so she knows my tribal name, and she'll know what it means.'

  Her mouth twisted in a half-smile. "When I'm sober, I'm better with a knife than she ever thought of being. And if I ever get my chance, I will carve her up into something no man will ever wanna look at."

  A little wind swirled down from the tall conifers lining the road, like icy fingers trailing down the back of Stick's neck, despite the baking heat of the afternoon.

  "Met a lot of dangerous men in my time," he told her. "And a few badass motorcycle mamas. Woman, I'd put you up against any of 'em, and bet on you."

  She lifted her head, facing him like a warrior woman of old. The wind flipped her long hair around her like a mantle. “And I’d win.”

  "I'll pass on your message, with pleasure," Stick said, giving her a nod of respect. "And you ever need anything, you let Dare know, and me and my brothers will ride to take your back."

  She slanted a look at Dare, and back to him. "The wolves on the ground, and the Flyers in the air. I'm honored."

  She turned away, climbed back in Dare's truck and shut the door.

  Dare followed Stick to his Harley. "She meant every word. Native Americans take vengeance seriously, and don't swear it lightly."

  "I see that," Stick said. "Fuck, I'm glad she ain't after me. Contessa's got any sense at all, she'll stop trying to get out, and beg 'em to keep her locked up."

  He held out his hand, and Dare took it.

  "Thanks, man," Stick said.

  Dare nodded, a wolfish gleam in his gray eyes. "Glad I could connect the two of you. Justice comes in many forms."

  That was God’s honest truth.

  * * *

  Two days later, Contessa Bartz received a note passed through the bars of her cell by one of the trusties, a woman given the run of the cell block to do chores. She opened it quickly, pleased that her old friends hadn't forgotten her.

  Then she read the words printed on the small notepaper, and paled. She smashed the paper in her fingers, as if a spider had crawled from the unfolded page. Then she threw it in the trash can.

  Returning to her bunk, she curled up with her back to the room.

  Her cell-mate, who by now hated Contessa with a passion heretofore reserved for the abusive husband she'd killed with his own gun, waited till Contessa was asleep. Then she retrieved the paper, smoothed it out, and read it.

  'Dancing Woman waits. When she's through with her blade, you won't be so pretty either. Sure you want out?'

  The note was un-signed.

  The next day, when the parole board convened, they worked their way through a few cases. Then the acting chair called for the case of Contessa Bartz.

  The young attorney from the Women's Defense Fund rose, her face flushed, her shoulders stiff. "My client has decided to withdraw her request for parole at this time."

  The members of the board stared, surprised. The chairwoman frowned. "That's unexpected. Would you care to clarify why our time has been wasted in reviewing her case if this was going to happen?"

  "I believe my client has been threatened," the attorney said stiffly.

  "Really? Can you present any evidence to support this claim?"

  "No. She received a note, but it was destroyed, possibly by her cell mate."

  The chair shook her head. "Well, I'm sorry. But unless you can offer proof of this threat, we have no choice but to accept the withdrawal."

  She looked at her fellow board members. They shook their heads.

  The chairwoman set aside Contessa's parole paperwork, and folded her hands. "All right, then. Next case?"

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  A week later, Sara was not sure what her neighbor was up to, but she was flustered, aggravated and—darn it to heck—unwillingly charmed.

  The afternoon after the attack and failed kidnapping, Kit and Lindi showed up at her house with a huge bouquet of flowers, the makings for margaritas and takeout supper from the BeeHive.

  They enveloped Sara in hugs, and then settled in the back yard on her new loungers, because the house was too hot. Blackie, who had let
Sara pet him and rub his ears earlier that day, took up watch near the hedge.

  Sara told them the details of the attack, although she needed a second margarita to do so.

  Her friends gazed at her in anger, sorrow and awe. "You were so brave," Lindi said.

  "I wasn't brave," Sara said. "I was terrified out of my mind. I'm surprised I didn't pee my pants."

  "But you did what had to be done," Kit said, and grinned. "The brothers told Keys and Jack all about how you took Twig down with a leather tool—believe me, they're gonna be telling that story around the club house for a long time."

  "And your new friend here came to your rescue," Lindi added, turning to smile at Blackie. "Amazing."

  "The guys think he's an ex-police dog," Sara said. "He took that, uh, Twig down and guarded him like a fleeing criminal."

  "Which he was," Lindi snapped. "Wish I'd been here to see him all messed up, after what he did to me."

  Sara shuddered. "I wish I hadn't been here. The first thing I did afterward was throw up."

  "I get that," Kit said. "You must have been dizzy from hitting your head, too. That will make you sick. Add the blood and gore, and any girl would blow!"

  "We both may have gotten off easy," Lindi said, her face troubled. "Twig was accused of rape in California, although it was never proven. And murder."

  Sara heard again the filthy threats Twig had poured in her ear after she cut him, and drained her glass for a second time. "I believe it. Let's not talk about him anymore."

  "Right." Kit jumped to her feet. "I almost forgot. We brought you gifts!"

  She disappeared out to Lindi's SUV and returned carrying a large shopping bag with the logo of a local Harley Davidson store. This she set in Sara's lap. "For you."

  Sara peered into the stuffed bag. "You two ... you shouldn't have."

  "Yes, we should have. You need something fun as a pick-me-up, and nothing does that like some new Harley wear," Lindi said.

  Sara reached in and pulled out a black tee with a silver-winged Harley logo on the front, and peek-a-boo sleeves. Next came a pair of butter-soft jeans with silver trim, and then something made of silky black leather—a woman's motorcycle jacket.