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

by Cathryn Cade

  “Dima, heel,” Pete ordered.

  With a regretful sigh, the dog backed away, leaving Lesa crouched alone. She held up one hand to shield her eyes from the glare of the big flashlight, doing her best not to give into the humiliation that burned through her—again.

  “Could you turn that thing off?”

  “Of course.” The deep voice was heavy with irony. The flashlight flicked off, and an overhead light sprang on.

  Swiping her wet face with the long sleeve of her turquoise T-shirt, Lesa peered cautiously around her arm.

  Peter Vanko stood, one hand on the high wooden bed-rail of his truck, the other holding a big flashlight. He was tall and broad, filling the narrow space with an expanse of muscle and brawn, encased in faded jeans and a soft, brown corduroy shirt, the tails hanging loose. His feet were bare, his blond hair straying from his customary man-bun.

  He was regarding her with a dark, indecipherable look. She flinched as he moved, but he merely bent toward her, and held out one hand. “Come on. You can’t sit out here all night.”

  She gave one hunted look over her shoulders at the dark night beckoning beyond the circle of light, and discarded with deep regret the idea of making a run for it. He’d catch her in only a few steps, and that would be even more humiliating, if possible.

  Ignoring the large, capable hand held out to her, she scrambled to her feet.

  His mouth quirked in derision. Her cheeks burning even hotter, Lesa looked down as she stepped toward him. His hand, palm up, barred her way. She hesitated and then dropped the cheap, stamped key into his palm. It glinted in the light, ugly proof of her intent.

  His hand closed around it, and he turned away, walking ahead of her toward the lights of the big house across the short walkway. “Why didn’t you do it?” he asked over his shoulder. His words were abrupt, but his tone was mild.

  She stared at the wide, green painted steps as she walked up onto the broad, covered porch. “I decided I wasn’t angry at your truck.”

  He snorted. “As if a woman would let that stop her.”

  “Yeah, maybe you’ve been hanging out with the wrong women,” she muttered. She knew for a fact he had.

  He held the screen door open for her, and she walked through the open door, trying not to breathe as she passed him. Too late, as his scent, spicy, musky, quintessentially male filled her nostrils.

  Dima trotted past them, and off on a mission of her own in the depths of the house.

  “Why didn’t you do it, Lesa?” The screen door thudded quietly behind them, and then the heavy oak door closed as well, the lock sNikking with finality.

  She whirled, eyes wide. A confrontation, yes, she was prepared for that. But being locked in with him … that was a new twist. Was he going to—to punish her in some way?

  He stepped forward, looming over her, the soft lamplight glinting off his blonde hair. “Answer me.”

  She stared at the vee of his shirt collar, anywhere but his face. “Because … I know how hard you worked to restore it,” she admitted. “And it’s beautiful.”

  “Sure it wasn’t because I caught you before you got started?” he goaded, his deep voice silky with innuendo.

  She lifted her chin at this, glaring up at him. His eyes gleamed under his heavy brows, mouth quirking.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I was—I was out there for nearly twenty minutes, and anyway, you didn’t catch me, Dima did.” Okay, that was super lame. As if it mattered.

  Grimacing, she looked away, only to have a warm, calloused thumb and forefinger grasp her chin and tip her head up, forcing her to meet his gaze. Her skin seemed to burn under his touch, sending heat flowing deep into her center.

  She’d dreamed about his touch … but not like this.

  “I know exactly how long you were out there,” he told her grimly, those light blue eyes boring into hers. “Dima and I watched you stop your car out by that patch of pine trees, walk the rest of the way here, and into my shed.”

  She blinked. “Y-you spied on me?”

  His eyes narrowed, and he shook his head once. “Spied on you? On my own property? Hardly, bezrassudnyy. And you’re lucky you didn’t do anything to my truck.”

  Lesa quailed as he let go her chin and grasped her upper arms, his big hands closing around her as if to test the heft and strength of her biceps. She flushed again, knowing that while fit, neither her arms nor the rest of her were slender. Also, even through the thin knit of her tee, his grip was hot.

  “I didn’t key your truck,” she said defiantly. “And I didn’t steal money from your brewery, either—which you’d know, if you bothered to get your head out of Marta’s panties. She’s the one who’d know how to do it without getting caught. But no, you had to look for the nearest scapegoat—the new bookkeeper. And you already fired me, so what else can you do to me? Let me go!”

  “That was quite a speech,” he said. His gaze flicked down over her, his thick, gold tipped lashes shielding his eyes, although it seemed to her his gaze lingered on her breasts, round and full under the snug T-shirt. Heat traveled down through her, and to her horror she felt her breasts react to his gaze, her skin prickling as if he’d touched her, her nipples tightening under her thin bra.

  Lesa pushed at him, twisting in his grip. He held her easily, even pulled her closer to his heat and hardness.

  “What else can I do to you,” he repeated, almost to himself. He considered her question with mocking thoroughness, as alarm sent her heart pounding madly and arousal worked its way on her treacherous body. It didn’t seem to know she hated him now, and feared him a little.

  He let go of her right arm, but only to grasp a thick lock of hair, lying over her breast in a sleek, brown comma. He let it slip through his fingers, watching as if the motion fascinated him, and Lesa tried to swallow, her throat suddenly dry.

  Then he looked up into her eyes, and she froze, like a doe in the grasp of a large predator.

  “I can make you pay me back. I can use your talents,” he said lazily. “You can … please me. And then I’ll let you go.”

  Lesa blinked. “P-please you?” she repeated faintly.

  Did that mean what she thought it meant? And why did the idea of pleasing him make her pussy clench? She may have had a crush on him—a stupid, knee-weakening, panty-melting crush—but he’d killed it today. Crushed it under the heel of one of his big boots and ground it into the dust.

  Her helpless arousal was just because she hadn’t had sex in months, that was all. Or, more like a year. Her life had not exactly been conducive to dating since she dropped out of college.

  His mouth quirked again, this time amusement clear in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, even as he moved closer, crowding her back against the smooth marble edge of his kitchen island. How had he moved them here without her noticing?

  “Da, pyshnyye moye. You can please me. Less than an hour of your time, and you can be on your way, free as a bird.” He planted his hands on the counter on either side of her, caging her in heated, virile, oh-so-tempting male. “What do you say?”

  For one crazy moment, Lesa actually hesitated.

  She’d wanted him from the first moment she saw him, and it had only grown stronger over the months she’d worked for him, waiting tables, sometimes bar-tending and finally in her dream job as bookkeeper.

  She wet her dry lips with her tongue, her breath freezing in her throat as his gaze followed the motion intently. The corners of his mouth turned up, creases appearing at the corners.

  With the reappearance of his trademark smirk, sanity reasserted itself. Pete Vanko didn’t care about her. He had fired her without even a hearing, hadn’t listened to her protestations of innocence, and now he wanted to do her? What kind of a doormat would agree to that?

  Rage swept up through her, so hot she was vaguely surprised she didn’t burst into flames and singe his big, Russian self. She fisted her hands and thumped them on his chest—hard. It felt good.

  “You big butt-hol
e,” she managed, nearly choking on her rage. “You actually think I’m going to h-have sex with you after the way you’ve treated me?”

  His eyebrows lifted, and he gave her a chiding look. “‘Butt-hole’? You kiss your mama with that mouth, Ms Bruer?”

  She glared up at him. “I don’t have a mother. But my dad would have a few things to say to you. So don’t act all innocent with me.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Such accusations. And all I asked you to do was bake cookies for me.”

  “Cookies?” Either she’d taken leave of her senses or he had. “You want me to … bake cookies?” That was his big punishment, his ‘pleasure’?

  “Sure,” he said with that look of mock innocence, the predator toying with his prey. “Those chocolate chip kind that you bring to The Hangar. Pico and Joe and Sylvie rave about them, but I never seem to get any.”

  Lesa flushed. So maybe she did bring her special cookies in when she knew he’d be gone on one of his frequent trips, off on his big Harley, or in his truck. When he drove his truck, he sometimes took Marta with him.

  So, although Lesa would have loved to see the look of rapt pleasure on his face that her co-workers, and Streak, the amiable, young biker who tended bar when Pete was gone, wore as they chewed and swallowed her moist, gooey cookies, she’d hardened her heart. All it took was knowing he was probably wearing that very look as he reared over Marta’s naked body.

  “Yeah, the guys even named your cookies,” her tormentor said, lifting one finger to stroke it lazily down her cheek, pleasure shivering from his touch.

  Lesa held onto the thread of the conversation with an effort as her knees weakened, and her pussy tightened with yearning. “Th-they did?”

  “Uh-huh.” His voice turned husky. “Chocolate Cum.”

  She gaped at the graphic word, and he grinned slowly, showing his white, strong teeth. “Can’t blame me for wanting some of that.”

  “They’re not—they’re called Chocolate Orgasms,” she corrected. Then she cursed herself as the gleam of amusement deepened in his gaze. Smooth, Lesa—as if orgasm was a better choice than his sex slang.

  “That works too,” he said amiably. “How about it? You gonna make me—“

  “Don’t!” She pressed her fingers over his mouth, stopping his words. “Don’t say it.”

  They stared at each other, as she registered the texture of his warm skin beneath her fingertips, the softness of his lips contrasting with the prickling texture of the whiskers that gleamed a faint red-gold in the lamplight. His lips moved, and she snatched her hand away, as if he’d burned it.

  But he was speaking, not kissing her fingers as she’d assumed. Her cheeks flamed as his eyes twinkled—damn him, he knew what she’d thought.

  “—cookies?” he finished innocently.

  Lesa looked into his handsome face and the riveting pale blue of his eyes. She took a breath, breathing in all that was sexy, virile male, and savored the feel of his hard chest under her palms. Then she huffed a long breath out, forcing the last remnants of her yearning out with it.

  She straightened to her full five-foot-six, and looked him in the eye.

  “I only make those cookies for people who are nice to me. As for you? Not if you begged me on your hands and knees, you big, Russian svolochny.”

  His eyes flared at her use of his native language. But then he made a deep noise in his throat—not quite a laugh, not quite a growl “If I ever get on my knees before you, pyshnyye moye, it won’t be to beg. It will be to make you beg.”

  Lesa wanted to know what ‘peeshnyeh moh-ya’ meant. She'd learned a few Russian words since beginning work at The Hangar, but not this one. She also wanted to know exactly how he would make her beg. But since she was never, ever going to ask either question, only one thing left to say.

  “Since that’s not happening, you need to let me go. I have to get up early, remember … and start looking for another job.”

  And wasn’t that going to be fun, with no references? Maybe she should whack him in his impressive package while she had the chance—see if that put him on his knees.

  Pete shook his head slowly, that unreadable turbulence back in his gaze. “No. You can get up early as you like, but only to have coffee, maybe make me breakfast if you’re in the mood to be sweet. After that ... you won’t be leaving here.”

  Lesa blinked. “Um … what? Why on earth would you want me to stay here? You fired me—unjustly, but you still did it. I’d think you’d want to see the back of me, as I do you.”

  “Oh, I want to see the back of you,” he said, smirking again. “And the front. But first, I need you out of my way, and out of trouble while I do what I need to do. And after this stupid fucking stunt of yours tonight, I’m thinking the only way is to keep you here. So that’s what I’ll do.”

  Her heart was pounding so hard she felt light-headed, almost dizzy. “You can’t keep me here.”

  “You don’t think so?” Pete Vanko put his big, powerful hand on the small of her back and forced her to walk with him through the kitchen, through a dining area and around to the foot of stairs that led upward into the darkness.

  Since it was either skitter along with him, or fall, Lesa found herself at the top before she knew it, and being pushed into a room, empty except for a queen bed, a bureau and a chair.

  He leaned close, his lips against her ear, his warm breath tickling. “See how easy that was?” he asked. “And I can make the rest of your stay easy on you, or hard. Depending on how sweet you are to me, pyshnyye moye. So you better be a good girl, da?”

  Lesa shrugged off his touch, and backed slowly away, keeping her eye on him.

  For the first time in weeks, she remembered the day his brother and several of his men had thundered up to The Hangar on their big, loud motorcycles, how they’d stormed into the place in their leather and denim, with beards and long hair and loud voices. They’d taken over the place with their raunchy jokes and rough laughter.

  And Pete had been relaxed and genial—happy to have them there. He’d served them pitchers of his best brew, and had his staff hustle to make sure their portions were huge, and their food perfectly prepared.

  “You’re—you’re just a criminal,” she breathed now, falling back against the support of the bedroom wall, her legs shaking. “You’re not just a friend of theirs, you're one of them. The Devil's Flyers.”

  His face hardened, his nostrils flared, high cheekbones sharply etched, his mouth set in a ruthless line. His eyes were pure ice.

  “Da. And the better you remember that, the better you’ll do here. And in case you're planning to call someone to rescue you …” He held up her cell phone and waggled it.

  "No!" Lesa reached for it, then drew her hand back at his warning glower. "Don’t … don't break it. I can't afford a new one."

  "Don't give me a reason to, then. Now get to bed."

  And with that, he closed the door with a solid thunk. Something rattled outside it, then his footsteps faded along the hall.

  When he was gone, Lesa rushed to the door and turned the knob. He’d locked her in.

  An open door led into a tiny, old-fashioned bathroom, with a toilet, narrow tub and sink, one towel and one washcloth. No help there.

  A few moments later she’d ascertained that she wouldn’t be escaping through the bedroom window, because it was a long way to the ground, and she couldn’t see any shrubbery below to break her fall. Also, there was only a comforter & pillow on the bed, so making a rope of sheets Girl Scout fashion was out. And she couldn’t scream for help, because the only lights out here were in the distance.

  And, just when it seemed her plight could get no worse, the rumble of big motorcycles penetrated the night. A group of lights appeared, and grew steadily larger, as several bikers rode into the lighted gravel sweep below. She could see their leather vests and jackets gleaming in the headlights.

  Lesa ducked away from the window and hugged her arms around her middle, chilled despite the
stuffiness of the upstairs room. She looked around the small bedroom and into the tiny bathroom, and shivered.

  Well, she wouldn’t die of thirst, but she was trapped, at the mercy of a ruthless man who looked at her as if she was his next meal. And no one else knew where she was. Not that she thought Pete was going to murder and hide her body--probably--but he could certainly leave her to suffer while he ‘did what he needed to do’, whatever the hell that was.

  Or worse, he could send one or more of his scary MC brothers up here to take care of her. Had he called them here to do just that? Were they going to make her disappear, like the bikers did their enemies on SOA?

  Oh, God. Please, please, not that. Once again, her stupid impulses had gotten her into trouble. This time, it was worse than ever. This time, she might be trapped in biker hell.

  * * *

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  Book One

  Show Me the Honey

  featuring Jack and Lindi

  When a small town cafe owner is grabbed by a rambling biker looking for stolen cash, she must convince him to let her go. But learning he has the wrong woman only makes him more determined to hang onto her ... this time for all the right reasons.

  Book Two

  Honey for Nothin’

  featuring Keys, Kit and Remi in a red hot ménage romance

  Kit hates making choices--life has taught her she makes all the wrong ones. So what’s a BBW redhead to do when she must choose between two hot bikers, except grab both of them.

  Book Three

  The Man With All the Honey

  featuring Stick and Sara

  He can have any woman he wants … but all he wants is another taste of her.

  She’s a cool, BBW blonde who works for law & order. He’s the hot, dangerous president of the Devil’s Flyers MC. When they end up neighbors for the hottest nights of summer, what could possibly go wrong?