by Gaja J. Kos
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Cotton Candy
Foreword
Dedication
1. Reign of Night
2. Sorry Sod
3. Manners
4. Old Hollywood
5. Some Half-Assed Excuse
6. Mid-Life Crisis
7. Well and Utterly Fucked
8. Black Tights
9. A Quick Fuck-and-Run
10. Gentleman Enough
11. More than Good
12. Fiddle with your Equipment
13. The Handsomest Man
14. The Clusterfuck of Problems
15. Alley
16. Bastard
17. The Deepest Circle of Hell
18. Down on my Knees
Thank you for reading Cotton Candy!
Also by Gaja J. Kos
About the Author
Cotton Candy
Silver Fox Club
Gaja J. Kos
COTTON CANDY
Copyright © 2018 by Gaja J. Kos
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All rights reserved.
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No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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ISBN 978-961-94368-0-6
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Photography of Barrett S. by Wander Aguiar
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Published by Boris Kos
March 2018
Cotton Candy
For as long as she can remember, Lily Summers has been attracted to older men, but she never truly considered dating one. Not until William Charleston, anyway.
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The renowned photographer and eye-candy extraordinaire is threatening to slip under her skin as fast as her panties do down her thighs. Hell, those panties were probably gone the moment she heard him speak.
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After his last failed relationship, William has sworn to be a bachelor to his very grave. His body and mouth, however, seem to have a mind of their own whenever Lily’s nearby. Despite all odds and his own convictions to the contrary, the gorgeous young brunette seems like she might be the one…
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But with William’s life being a spectacular hot mess, how could he live with himself if he dragged Lily into it?
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Silver Fox Club is a series of standalone HEA May December romances. There is no ”daddy calling” here, just a deep appreciation for fine older men. That, and a lot of steam.
Foreword
A note on language use
I kept the spelling American, as is the norm for all my books, but used British expressions whenever they were directly tied to the characters’ speech or internal thoughts.
Martin L. Gore, thank you for writing Slow.
That’s one sexy motherfucker of a song.
1
Reign of Night
Lily Summers was bored to the point of tears.
Actually, she might have shed one about a quarter of an hour or so ago, when it became clear the custodian didn’t come to wrap up the evening, but simply brought the definitely-not-merry band of men some water. The reprieve lasted for about as long as it took for Janice Bartholomew to remove herself from the makeshift spotlight. Then torment reigned once more.
Gently nibbling on the inside of her lower lip, she scraped a rogue drop of polish off her nail bed.
Why the thought that coming to a press conference would be fun ever crossed Lily’s mind was beyond her…
Well, maybe not.
If she were being completely honest with herself, listening to a bunch of photographers discuss their exhibition at London’s new and trendy Equinox Biennials had its advantages. For one, it would give her a nice little piece to write for the local paper and consequently put a bit more credit to her name. That in itself was argument enough. But when the alternative for her evening plans was sitting through lectures at university, she hardly needed any more convincing.
While working on her master’s degree was an entertaining intellectual challenge, Rowell certainly wasn’t.
It must have been some cruel trick of fate that had snuck in another obligatory class instead of shifting more focus on their research—especially when the woman did nothing but praise her own work.
Unfortunately, the articles Rowell endlessly and fervently referred to were far more suited for gathering cobwebs than all those awards she kept on bragging about.
Really, what true effort was there in recapping what others had written numerous times before? That half-assed new spin Rowell had put on the theories wouldn’t make even the laziest person break a sweat.
Lily frowned, sighing inwardly. No, she truly shouldn’t have been surprised that she had latched on to the first solid excuse to skip Rowell’s lecture. But what she hadn’t counted on was that the photographers were hardly any better...
Pretentious seemed to be the common denominator here.
Snorting to herself, she shifted in her seat, hoping to find a position that wouldn’t make her butt ache—although, after god knows how long she’d been here already, that was little more than a far-fetched dream.
God, her back was killing her.
She moved again when a soft, purring snore filtered through to her ears.
“You’ve got to be kidding,” Lily whispered and glanced sideways.
Sure enough, there was Audrey, dozing off with an angelic expression on her face that didn’t match the sound coming from her in a steady rhythm.
She didn’t know whether she should laugh or roll her eyes, but one thing was clear. In that moment, Lily seriously envied her best friend’s ability to sleep wherever the fuck she wanted. While it might have made up for a couple of intriguing incidents at uni, she couldn’t deny it certainly was a spectacular means of self-preservation.
At least her ears weren’t on the verge of bleeding.
“Really?” a deep voice cut across the stuffy room. “Which exhibitions are you referring to? In the past year, specifically?”
Intrigued by the sudden, almost sharp change in atmosphere, Lily traced the sound to the photographer sitting on the far right, slightly separated from the others. His dark, silver-touched hair was swept back, revealing chiseled features and a killer look that had her panties indecently wet in a heartbeat.
Compared to the rest of them, he was practically dressed down. Black jeans and a white, V-neck tee, but shit, the whole casual thing worked.
Probably the only reason she hadn’t noticed him sooner was because his chair had still been empty when the first photographer started with his ramblings and induced the torture. She really hadn’t been paying the stage all that much attention since.
But now…
She could have kicked herself in the arse for wasting so much time.
The photographer crossed his toned, tattooed arms and arched an eyebrow at the man sitting in the second row. Lily nearly broke out into a laugh.
The misogynistic fart of a man who ran the newspaper she had first interned for gained a nice purple hue that reached all the way to his ears. Well, well, well, the evening was looking up after all.
“I—uh—the Reign of Night was one that—”
“Reign of Night opened two years ago,” the eye candy cut in with the same deep tone that made Lily thank god she’d chosen a well-padded bra given how hard her nipples were all of a sudden. “So which new wave was it?”
While it was more than amazing to watch Dirk Grayson sweat like the pig that he
was—it was the least he deserved for kicking her off the team when she refused to subject her arse to groping—her interest belonged entirely to the man who had called him out on his bullshit. She rummaged through her memory, filtering through every scrap of information she’d read on the Biennials until she could link his handsome face to a name.
William Charleston.
God, even his name rolled through her mind like an illicit caress.
From what she remembered, he’d worked mostly abroad, dividing his time between France and the States, and only returned to London three years earlier. She couldn’t recall why he relocated, but she was glad he had.
His exhibitions here were rare before his move. She remembered how lucky she’d felt to have visited one while still in college. Thinking about it now, though…
She should thank fuck the man himself hadn’t been there.
Or that she had been so focused on the stunning art she hadn’t bothered checking out any of his images.
Fuck.
She’d been teased on enough as it was for the massive crush she’d had on her former substitute math professor.
If her old classmates had caught wind that someone who had to be, what, twenty-five years her senior got her all hot and bothered, she would have never heard the end of it.
After the intriguing exchange, one of the other photographers took the reins once more, and the pompous monologues returned full force. Aside from Audrey, who remained sleeping soundly—and, at times, a bit loudly—the crowd seemed immersed in listening to endless streaks of large words that meant extremely little.
But Lily hardly heard a thing.
She kept watching William Charleston every chance she got, wondering how the fuck it was even possible for someone to be this hot. It was almost unnerving.
Everything about him was perfect.
The straight line of his nose, the eyes that couldn’t decide whether they were blue or green, framed by thick, long lashes. Not to mention the utterly kissable curve of his mouth and the magnificent trimmed black-and-silver beard that did wonders for his jaw and cheekbones.
Honestly, the man had to be a god of some sort.
Caught somewhere between daydreaming of those shapely arms of his and wondering what the hell was wrong with her to be attracted so deeply to a complete stranger, Lily failed to notice when the official part of the press conference came to a close. All she knew was that William Charleston strode off that ridiculous stage—his ass just as spectacular as the rest of him—and then she and Audrey were spilling through the double doors, following the narrow corridor leading outside.
Claustrophobia swept through her at the bubble of voices and bodies she found herself sandwiched in, but luckily the breath of night air that greeted her when they cleared the building swept away the unpleasant sensation. She inhaled deeply, then buttoned up her coat despite the protestation of her heated skin.
Clearly her body wanted to be covered with something, or rather someone, else.
“Well, that was intriguing,” Audrey said innocently beside her.
Lily took one glance at the drowsiness still lingering in the corners of her best friend’s eyes and chuckled. “Your snoring certainly was.”
“Bollocks.”
All Lily did was arch an eyebrow, then snickered at the grimace she received in return. She pulled Audrey into a quick hug, and whispered, “At least you didn’t drool this time, hon.”
Light, playful pain exploded in her arm where Audrey’s punch connected. “You’re never letting me forget that, are you?”
“Nope.”
Really, how could she? Audrey had fallen so fast asleep after a long night out that once Lily finally managed to wake her up at the end of their lecture, her notes had stuck to her face.
She grinned, remembering the paper falling off her like leaves in autumn. Priceless.
“Do you feel like having a glass of wine, darling?” Audrey asked in her Absolutely Fabulous voice, eager to divert attention.
Right on cue, the rich fragrance of cabernet sauvignon wafted over to them from the group of men tucked in a semicircle around the nearest table.
“You go on ahead.” Lily smiled. “I think I’ll have a smoke first. No, scratch that—I need a smoke first.”
Not to mention get away from all the chatter.
After listening to the photographers speak for—fucking hell, had it really been two and a half hours?—the people seemed more than happy to take matters into their own hands, make up for lost time and all that. Seriously, if she heard someone say phenomenal or synergy one more bloody time, she just might light them on fire instead of her Sobranie.
“The two aren’t exclusive, you know,” Audrey teased and shot her a look that settled everything.
Lily snorted, rolling her eyes. “Fine, Satan. But I really need to get away from all the quasi academic arses before my head explodes.”
Grinning and more than a little smug, Audrey spun around. Her heels clicked against the asphalt as she made her way to the flashy bar tucked against the gallery wall, her walk turning several heads. Well, it seemed the quasi academics weren’t so immune after all.
Lily watched the spill of sun-kissed blonde hair until the crowd that suddenly seemed a whole lot larger than it had been inside swallowed her friend up. Not wanting to stand there all awkward, she fumbled for her cigarette case which had, naturally, ended up at the bottom of her handbag. She stuck one between her lips as she stalked into the moderate darkness of the parking lot, lighting her Sobranie once the voices faded into the background. But as clarity returned to her mind, so did a whole lot of other thoughts.
“Well, that was a right bodge job,” she muttered to herself and blew out the smoke.
The only reason she ended up here in the first place was to get a proper piece for the paper. McKenna Weekly’s Arts & Culture section was seriously lacking materials even at the best of times with everybody fixed on either politics or social life. It was why they had taken her on despite her lack of credentials.
Sure, there was someone who covered literature and wrote the occasional review on plays, but the rest was grossly neglected.
At first, Lily had interned there because she still saw it as an easy job that would look good on her CV, but she quickly realized she sincerely enjoyed applying her theoretical knowledge to something a bit more practical.
And she wasn’t half bad at writing, either.
So yes, regardless of how close her brains had come to dying in there, she had truly wanted to cover the newly founded Biennials. Still did. Although she had to admit the behind-the-scenes stuff started to sound far more interesting than the exhibition itself. Highly, highly professional.
She snorted softly and shook her head.
Right. Like that was ever going to happen.
All the London-based photographers she knew either harbored a sense of self-importance so thick it basically created a repellant circle around them and prevented anyone who wasn’t top-level enough to truly step inside. Or they kept as little contact as possible with the outside world, preferring to linger behind the safety of the lens.
She didn’t know which one of those categories William Charleston belonged to, but it didn’t really matter, did it? Because it was never going to—
“Are you planning to come to the official opening?”
Happen.
2
Sorry Sod
He had no idea what madness had forced him to stop and open his bloody mouth. He was bent on going to the nearest pub, have a pint or two, then head back to his flat and call it a night.
Instead of making good on that very solid plan, William found himself standing in the shadows like some creep, the words spilling out before he could do the proper thing and stuff them down.
“Are you planning to come to the official opening?”
The brunette spun around, her pink Sobranie letting a trail of smoke to coil through the air. Her eyes widened, and William couldn’t help n
oticing they were the most entrancing shade of green he’d ever come across.
“I beg your pardon?”
“The opening of the Biennials tomorrow night. Do you intend to go? I saw you earlier at the press conference, so I thought I’d ask.”
Ah, balls, there he went again. Speaking instead of getting his ass out of here.
But unlike the beehive back on the gallery terrace, he actually felt like engaging in some conversation. However short it might be.
“The tickets sold out a while ago.” She flicked her cigarette, ash scattering across the asphalt, and batted her lashes as she shied away from his gaze. “I was thinking of coming another night. When the hype cools down a bit, you know?”
Her voice was melodic and sweet, but with just the right amount of husky around the edges to give off a serious air of sultriness. His cock twitched, and all of a sudden William was extremely grateful he’d gone for the long woolen coat rather than his trademark leather jacket. Getting a hard-on in the middle of a parking lot was bad enough. Flashing it around…
Fuck. That rank excuse of a pub he frequented seemed like a bloody brilliant idea.
He should go. Now. This was enough embarrassment for one evening.
The young woman clearly wasn’t interested—Christ, had he even been hoping she were?—and he’d taken up enough of her time as it was.
But, again, his mouth seemed determined to act without giving a rat’s ass about his wishes.
“I have a few spare tickets. I could leave one for you at the door, if you’d like to come. Your friend, too,” he added as he noticed a blonde making her way towards them, two glasses of wine in her hands.
