FOLLOW THE HONEY (Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance Book 4)

by Cathryn Cade

  “Now why,” drawled a deep voice from behind her, “Would I want her to let you out?”

  Lesa gasped, horror stiffening her shoulders. As her hands went lax, Dima seized the chance to lick her other cheek, panting happily as if she couldn't believe her luck in having Lesa down on her level.

  A light shone into Lesa’s eyes, blinding her. She winced away from it, pushing at the dog’s big head as she gave Lesa’s cheek another wet swipe.

  “Dima, heel,” Pete ordered.

  With a regretful whine, the big 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 all over again. “Could you turn that thing off?”

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

  Swiping her wet face with the end of her sweater sleeve, Lesa peered cautiously around her arm.

  Peter Vanko stood, one hand on the high wooden bed-rail of his truck, the other holding his flashlight. He filled 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 hair was messy, as if he'd been running his hands through it.

  He regarded her with a dark, indecipherable look on his bearded face, then moved. She flinched, but he merely bent toward her and held out one hand. “Come on. You can’t sit out here all night—you'll freeze.”

  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 her car. He’d catch her in only a few steps, and that would be even more humiliating, if possible.

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

  His mouth quirked, in derision or regret. Her cheeks burning even hotter, Lesa looked down as she sidled toward him.

  His hand, palm up, still 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. Ice and gravel crunched beneath their feet.

  “Why didn’t you do it?” he asked over his shoulder.

  She kept her head down as she followed him and the dog up onto the broad, covered porch. “Decided I wasn’t angry at your truck.”

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

  “Don’t call me a bitch.” It might be the common way for bikers to refer to women, but she didn't like it

  “Don’t act like one, and I won’t.” He held his house door open for her, and she walked through it, trying not to breathe as she passed him. Too late, as his scent, spicy, musky, quintessentially male filled her nostrils.

  She stepped into his house, sighing in relief as warmth and light enveloped her. Her lonely, night trek along his road, with coyotes howling in the distance, had been scary as heck.

  They were in a big, country kitchen, lamplight soft on a big granite island and surrounding cupboards and counters.

  The heavy oak door closed behind them, the lock snicking into place with finality.

  “Why didn’t you do it, Lesa? A few strokes of your pretty hands and you could’ve trashed my custom paint, cost me hundreds of dollars to get it re-done.”

  She whirled, eyes wide. A confrontation, yes, she was prepared for that. But being locked in with him … that was a new twist. Did he intend to—to punish her in some way? She’d heard bikers didn’t mind getting physical with women.

  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.” God, that was 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. “Dima and I watched you stop your car out by the trees, walk the rest of the way here, and into my shed.”

  She blinked. “Y-you spied on me?”

  His heavy brows flew up. “Spied on you? On my own property? Hardly, bezrassudnyy. And you have no fuckin’ idea how lucky you are that 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. She flushed again, knowing that while fit, neither her arms nor the rest of her was exactly slender.

  “You’re right, 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 look at your brewery’s books before I arrived. The stealing didn’t start just when I showed up, or I would’ve noticed the difference. Maybe I should have a forensic accountant come and audit your books.”

  “That's quite a speech.” 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 even under her layers of clothing. 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.

  He smirked again, as if he knew, even though he couldn’t possibly see through her jacket. Lesa pushed at him, twisting in his grip.

  He held her easily, even pulled her closer to his heat and hardness. She needed to get away, now, because she couldn’t think clearly when he was this close.

  “You need to let me go,” she told him. “I mean, what else can you do to me? You’ve already fired me.”

  “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 dark magic on her treacherous body.

  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 it sounded like? And why did the idea of pleasing him excite the hell out of her? 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 reaction to his nearness was just because she hadn’t had sex in months, that was all. Okay, more like a year. Her life had not exactly been conducive to dating since things started going downhill in the Tri-Cities.

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

  “Da, pyshnyye moye. You can please me. An hour—or so—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?”

  An hour or more? For one crazy moment, Lesa hesitated. She’d wanted him from the first moment she saw him, and it had only grown stronger over the weeks she’d worked for him, waiting tables and finally in her dream job as bookkeeper.

  Also, it had been months since she had sex with anyone other than Big V, her vibrator.

  And she'd certainly never had sex with a guy like him.

  CHAPTER THREE

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

  With the reappearance of his trademark smirk, Lesa’s 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?

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

  “You big butt-hole,” 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, Miss Boggs?”

  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 double chocolate chip things that you bring to the Hangar. Pico, Joe, Streak 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—at least she had the last time. Because he’d been gone with Marta.

  So, although Lesa would have loved to see the look of rapt pleasure on his face that her co-workers, and Streak, the amiable, man-bunned biker who bar-tended with Pete, all wore as they chewed 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, doing dirty things to her, things that a woman would love. He was getting Marta’s goodies, he wasn’t getting hers too.

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

  Lesa held onto the thread of the conversation with an effort as pleasure shivered out from his touch. Her knees weakened, and her breasts and 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 that—they’re called Chocolate Orgasms.” Then she cursed herself as the gleam of amusement deepened in his gaze. Smooth, Lesa—as if talking about orgasm in any way with him was going to be less embarrassing.

  “That works too,” he said amiably. “How about it? You gonna give me some of your fantastic—"

  “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 his short beard and ‘stache, the individual whiskers gleaming a faint red-gold in the lamplight. His lips moved, and she snatched her hand away, as if burned.

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

  “—cookies?” he finished innocently.

  Lesa gazed 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 breath out, forcing the last remnants of her yearning out with it.

  She dropped her hands, straightening to her full five-foot-seven, and looked him in the eye, even if she still had to look up several inches to do so.

  “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 hands and knees before you—or over you, pyshnyye moye, it won’t be to beg. It’ll 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 she was never, ever going to ask either question, thus there was 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.”

  In another town. Somewhere far away from here, where no one knew or cared about a motorcycle club called the Devil’s Flyers, or the Hangar. Probably in some greasy fry pit where they were so desperate for good help that no one would care enough to check with her last boss.

  She’d already packed up her belongings and loaded them in her car, then turned in the keys to her rental. She’d lost out on a few weeks of rent too, but she could hardly expect the owner to refund her when she was leaving so abruptly.

  But without references, what choice did she have? Pete had taken this shining opportunity from her when he accused her of being a thief. Maybe she should kick 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 eat breakfast. Because you won’t be leaving here.”

  Lesa blinked. “Um … what? Why on God’s 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 much as I do you.”

  “Oh, I want to see the back of you,” he said. “And the front. But not now. For now, I want you out of trouble while I do what I need to do—which I would have explained if you’d answered your phone this afternoon.”

  “Explained?” she repeated. “How could you possibly…?” What explanation was there for the way he’d treated her? Explain how he’d humiliated her by making false accusations of her, and then firing her and telling her to get out, right in front of everyone?

  “Da, explain.” He scowled down at her.

  “Right,” she said bitterly. “Explain that you’d know I didn’t steal from you, if you didn’t still have your head in Marta’s panties. She’s the only one who could 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? Just let me go.”

  “I can’t let you go,” he repeated, slowly as if she were a child or hard of hearing. “I need you out of the way and safe. And after this stupid fucking stunt of yours tonight, I’m thinking the only way to keep track of you is to keep you here. So that’s what I’ll do.”

  Her heart pounded in a swift tattoo of alarm, and she felt light-headed, almost dizzy. She shook her head, waiting for him to smirk and say he was just teasing her some more.

  “No. You can’t keep me here.” She had things to do, places to go.

  “You don’t think so?” Pete Vanko put his big, powerful hand on the small of her back
and forced her to move.

  Unable to resist the firm press of that hand, she was forced to walk with him through the kitchen, through a dining area and around to the foot of stairs that led upward into the darkness.

  Lesa grabbed the stair rail and hung on. “Stop,” she said. “I’m not going up there.” There were bedrooms and—and God knew what else up there.

  He let go of her arm and smacked her ass, hard enough to sting. “Da, you are. Unless you want more of that.”

  “Ow!” She flinched away, which meant moving up a step. “Stop it, you jackass. I can hit back, you know.”

  He laughed, and smacked her bottom again, on the other cheek. “Try it, and see what happens.”

  “You bastard!” Lesa kicked at him, catching him on the thigh with her heavy, winter boot. He merely bared his teeth at her, and lifted his hand again. She scuttled up two more steps, and he followed her.

  Lesa found herself at the top before she knew it, and being pushed into a bedroom, sure enough. But at least it wasn’t his—this room was empty except for a double bed with an old iron bedstead, a bureau and a chair.

  Strangely, there was a discarded toy car peeking out from under the bed.

  Her captor leaned close, his lips against her ear, his warm breath tickling. “See how easy that was? 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 start being a good girl, da?”

  Lesa shrugged off his touch, and backed slowly away, keeping her gaze on him. His eyes glittered in the light from the lone fixture, and he looked pleased with himself, as if everything was going just the way he wanted. Like a—a blond Viking, or Russian marauder, who’d pillaged and captured a victim.

  For the first time in weeks, she remembered the day his brother Stick 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.

  And their matching vests of black leather. On the back, a cackling devil rode an old-fashioned airplane down, smoke billowing from the tail, guns firing from the nose. The top rocker read 'DEVIL'S FLYERS MC' the bottom, 'E. WASHINGTON'.