Man Candy: A Real Love Novel

by Jessica Lemmon

  Then the fun begins.

  Chapter 14

  Dax

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  Fuck.

  I stopped saying it aloud since I can’t enunciate at the moment. Not with Becca between my legs licking me like her favorite ice cream cone.

  She’s not in a hurry, either. She’s going so slow that my brains have melted and oozed out of my ears. There’s nothing rattling around in my head. My body’s just a mangle of sensations. Her hot, wet mouth, the attention her tongue pays to the ridge around the tip of my cock, the way her hands massage my balls.

  She takes me deep, then lets up. Cool air chills my damp flesh before she takes me all the way in again, until the tip of my cock hits the back of her throat.

  “Fuuuuuck.” It’s strangled, but I manage one more. Hands on her head, I attempt to lift her off—I’m seriously close to going over—but she’s not stopping. Her fingers continue dancing around my sack as she picks up the pace.

  And now I can’t breathe.

  “Princess,” I pant. “Babe.”

  She continues her work as my balls pull up, and a tingle at the head of my dick warns me I have few precious seconds left to stop her.

  “Becca.”

  She doesn’t even slow down.

  I’ve never thought of myself as possessing superhuman strength, but that’s exactly what it takes to put my hands on her shoulders, pry her off my hard-on, and get my knees working well enough to stand. As I’m ripping my jeans off my legs, Becca sits on her knees, prettily swiping the corners of her mouth with her delicate fingers, and I swear to God I nearly blow right then.

  I blink. Hard. Then open my eyes to find her still on her knees, looking up at me and biting her lip like every fucking fantasy I’ve ever had.

  “On the couch, Princess. Ass in the air.”

  Her eyes widen with interest and I fish a condom out of the pocket of my jeans. As I roll it on, I watch as she strips out of her dressy clothes, but I only let her get as far as her underwear before I wrap my hand around her thong and pull her back against my front.

  Pressing my erection into her butt, I put my lips to her ear.

  “Say it.”

  “Yes,” she breathes.

  I rip her panties free, toss them aside, and the moment she rests one knee on the couch, I join her and enter from behind in one long, smooth, mind-melting thrust.

  She grips the arm of the couch, and I let her get one more knee beneath her before I stroke again. I free her of her bra next, reaching around to stroke her rose-tipped nipples with one hand while I brace her hip with the other and slide in again.

  And again.

  She cries out in pleasure and utters another “yes” for me before her breathy request of “faster” almost floors me. I can go faster.

  “Harder?” I ask.

  “Harder. Faster.” She drops her head, arches her back deeper.

  “Hang on, gorgeous,” I warn, but she turns her face to the side to make sure I see her smile.

  Absolutely. Missed. That smile.

  I do as she requests. Harder, faster. When I’ve pushed myself to the brink and notice she’s not there yet, I find her clit and massage with my fingertips until she gives me another barrage of “yeses.” I’d love a “Yes, Dax,” but beggars can’t be choosers.

  She’s squeezing me from within, her fists clawing at the cushions but unable to get a grip on the leather. She knocks off pillows and writhes amid her own shouts of pleasure.

  Only then do I give in. I come hard, embedded deep, the slap of her ass against the fronts of my thighs making my release that much better and last a helluva lot longer than I thought possible. I finish us off and slide my hand around to her breasts, giving each nipple a gentle tweak.

  When I pull out, it’s to the tune of Becca’s sated exhale before she slides from ass in the air to flat on her belly on the couch.

  “Wow,” comes her muffled statement.

  No shit.

  “Don’t move.”

  “Don’t worry,” I hear her say as I pace to the bathroom. “I can’t.”

  —

  “So this is becoming a habit.” Becca’s draped over my body. My back is flat on the couch and I’m wearing her like a blanket. She’s naked, and I didn’t bother with clothes either, so she’s wearing an actual blanket she yanked off the bed.

  “That didn’t sound like a complaint.” I smooth my hands over her back and hug her tight against me. I like her here. Right here. I mean, yeah, I like the sex. The BJ is enough of a reason to beg her to stay, but this—her in my arms and the soft scent of her perfume in my nostrils—is somehow better.

  Which is unbelievable, because that was some blow job.

  “It’s not a complaint.” She doesn’t say any more, and for a long while we lie here, my hands stroking her back, until our hearts beat in sync.

  My cellphone buzzes. Then buzzes again. Then once more. I turn my head in the direction of the phone, face down and half out of one of the pockets of my jeans.

  “Need to get that?”

  “I don’t know what I could do for whoever that is.”

  Becca slides off me and drags the blanket with her, grabbing my cell and cradling it in her hand as I sit upright.

  “Peggy,” she says, handing over my phone. “She’s insistent.”

  I take the phone from Becca as it buzzes with two more texts from my mom. “What can I say? She’s been on my ass since birth. Can’t get her to leave me alone.”

  “Your mom.” Becca guesses as I swipe the screen.

  “Yes, she is.” I scroll through the texts. The first one says, Forgot to send you the pics from earlier today, and the following five—now six—texts are photos of her flowers. I hand the phone to Becca.

  “They’re beautiful. She’s got quite the green thumb.”

  “I’m glad she has hobbies.”

  “What was your dad like?”

  I train my gaze on her, but all she does is wait for my response. I guess getting personal and talking pasts is a thing we do now.

  “He was outdoorsy. Loved to fish, hunt, camp, and take care of the acres of land my parents live on. He had a stroke last year and slid downhill from there.”

  She doesn’t say she’s sorry, but she doesn’t have to. She snuggles close and covers me with the blanket, cocooning me with her. I wrap my arm around her shoulders.

  “How old was your dad?”

  “Sixty.”

  “Young.”

  “Too soon,” I mutter. Because it was.

  “Did he play football too?”

  “Not like I did. He played a little in high school, so he could throw a ball. Graduated OSU, which meant he was a huge Buckeyes fan.”

  “I bet he loved when you were on the team.”

  Warmth floods my chest at the memory. “He came to every game. And those were Saturdays he could’ve been hunting, fishing, and camping.”

  She hums while I tell her a story about the time my friend Barrett and I teamed up to score a winning touchdown against Michigan State.

  “I bet you were one sexy linebacker.”

  “Tight end.”

  “I have evidence that you have one fine tight end,” she says with a giggle.

  I trap her beneath me, a mountain of comforter between us.

  “Where are you going tonight, Becca Stone?” Home, I’m guessing. I don’t want her to. I can’t think of a single reason for her to leave. She swipes her fingers along my cheek and loses her smile. If there was a line, I just overstepped it.

  “Back to my brother’s. I have my own room now, so that’s a plus.” She touches my bottom lip, flicking her eyes to my mouth. “I’m not the staying type, Dax.”

  “I’m not the ask-you-to-stay type,” I admit.

  Frozen in that span of seconds, fear captures her expression. Not what a guy wants to see when he invites a woman to stay.

  I sit up, pull her up by the blanket, and wrap her tight. I grab the remot
e, because if the other option is that I keep talking about myself and she offers nothing in return, I’d rather not talk at all. Hell, what is there to talk about if she’s on her way out again?

  “Hate to point this out, Princess, but someone needs to.”

  She stiffens next to me like I just confessed I was a serial killer and my ax was under the couch.

  “If this is sex and pancakes”—I toss the remote aside without turning on the TV—“or showers and quesadillas, then there aren’t a lot of conversations that need to happen.” I turn my head to find her chewing on her cheek in thought. “Right?”

  “Right.”

  “You want to get to know me, or do you want to fuck me and then leave? Pick one.”

  Heat seeps into her gaze, and it’s not the sexy kind that will end with us sharing a bed tonight. She’s pissed.

  I, for one, don’t care if she’s pissed. I’m glad to see her committing to an emotion. The ambivalence isn’t just lazy; it’s disingenuous.

  “I can guess what you’d choose.” She tosses the blanket off her shoulders but isn’t able to disentangle herself from it before I catch her up in the folds and hold her hostage.

  “No. You don’t know what I choose. You never asked.”

  Her nostrils flare as she sucks in an irritated breath.

  “I’m guessing you don’t want me to ask you what you want,” I tell her. “I don’t think you know.”

  She shakes out of my grip and, still partially concealed by the blanket, drags on her clothes in jerky motions. “Yeah, well, I do know, but you don’t want to hear it. And like every guy who came before you, you want me to promise that I’ll be loyal, but it’s not like you’ll give me the same assurance. She stands and pulls on a sandal and wobbles while she pulls on the second. Then she throws my jeans at me.

  I catch them an inch from my face and stuff my legs into them while she angrily throws ingredients into the shopping bag she brought.

  “I came over to spend time with you because I wanted to see you and I hoped you wanted to see me,” she says.

  “I did. I do,” I say, buttoning my jeans.

  She storms past me.

  “I don’t know what you expect from me! Isn’t pancakes and a blow job enough?”

  Her question shocks me into silence. Because, God in heaven, shouldn’t it be? My life is in Ohio and hers is here. I’m visiting for a limited time, and she’s been here for months and isn’t willing to put down roots. A no-strings fling during vacation should be utopia. Ask any guy if he wants pancakes and a blow job and I promise you he’ll say yes to both. Simultaneously.

  Becca’s eyebrows draw over her nose and her mouth flattens into an angry line. She doesn’t want my honest answer. Trepidation shakes her arm as she jerks the bag onto her shoulder.

  She’s getting an answer anyway.

  “You bet your sweet ass it isn’t enough, Princess. Question is, are you brave enough to do something about it?”

  Chapter 15

  Becca

  If my brain had a transcript, it would read something like “Uhhhh . . . .” When it comes to guys demanding more from me, I don’t have a lot of experience.

  “We don’t have to have a natural disaster for you to admit you want to hang,” Dax says, standing sentinel over me while my tongue is tied in a double knot. When he puts it that way, it does sound ridiculous. What am I hiding from?

  “You leaving?”

  It’s a dare. I can hear it in the gruffness of his tone. And yet I don’t feel the least bit threatened. I’m challenged, though. By his words as much as by what’s behind them. Am I brave enough to step up and take what I want?

  “I’m leaving.” When his stubborn jaw goes rigid, I explain. “I’ve had a long day. My bed is waiting for me. My fancy face soap is waiting for me.”

  He tilts his head. I can tell he’s smiling on the inside, even if his signature smirk hasn’t made an appearance yet.

  “But if this is a sincere invitation,” I say, wrapping my fingers around the bag’s straps and stepping closer to him, “then I won’t say no to coming back.”

  He uncrosses his arms, which I take as a sign that he’s no longer upset with me. He confirms that suspicion with “Tomorrow—do you work?”

  I nod.

  “Bring a bag. Your fancy face stuff. Clothes you can wear in the wilderness.” His gaze rakes appreciatively over my nine-to-five outfit. “You’re welcome here as long as you want.”

  A surge of excitement engulfs me. I’m coming back. I’m staying as long as I want. I know I shouldn’t be excited but I can’t help it.

  “No longer interested in your alone time?” I tease.

  “No, Princess, you seem to have changed that.” Finally his smirk arrives. It’s gone in a blink.

  “I’ll cook.”

  “Won’t argue with you there.”

  “Why do you want me here, Dax?” I can’t help asking.

  “Because I’ve felt like dog shit for the last year. Hell, the last couple of years. No one has clicked with me. No one wanted to. You make me feel good. Great. Epic. Phenomenal. I’m trying my damnedest to make you feel the same way.”

  Is it me, or did a trickle of hurt seep into the hard planes of his face?

  “You do.” I don’t hesitate to tell him that—he absolutely makes me feel all of those things.

  “I brought you home for night one, Becca, but you were the one who came to me on night two.”

  “Dax—”

  “Tomorrow.” The word ends our conversation. He ducks his head and places a kiss on my forehead. “Tomorrow you’re coming back to me.”

  Then he opens the door for me to leave.

  I guess that’s that.

  For now.

  —

  Wednesday

  I slowly pull down cabin 7’s driveway the next morning and spot Dax immediately. He’s standing on the front porch, a steaming cup of coffee resting in front of him on the railing’s edge.

  I’m on a similar edge—I want to go over, cozy up, and stay here with him until he heads back, but on the other hand I’m also tempted to cut and run.

  The battle waged on in my head after I left his cabin, which made for a sleepless night. Indecision also tormented me for a good part of my morning while I packed an overnight bag. I hesitated before adding two extra outfits, zipping the bag closed, and accepting my fate.

  I want to be here.

  I admire Dax’s strong forearms leading down to hands braced on the railing of the porch. He’s wearing jeans and a tee with an open flannel over top, and I have to laugh, because I packed a similar wardrobe. Such is life in the sticks.

  I climb out of my car, which I parked beside his Jeep, and move to the back door to gather my stuff. A moment later, my host is at my side, hand extended.

  I give him my overnight bag and a shopping bag full of food, since I planned a few meals. No questions asked, he takes the straps of both bags in one hand and holds out the other, his eyes surveying with sharp approval the number of bags I have with me.

  I packed for the week. It’s obvious.

  “That it, Princess?” he asks when I fill his other hand. I pull my purse over my shoulder and grab my makeup bag.

  “That’s everything.”

  He hefts the load inside, holding the screen door for me even though I’m the one carrying the lightest bags.

  “Only one bedroom, babe,” he says when he walks in to find me frozen in the center of the living room. “That’s where you go.”

  He moves past me to plunk down the groceries on the counter before walking into the bedroom and depositing my other bags on the bed. When he turns to the doorway, I’m across the hall in the bathroom divesting myself of the makeup bag.

  I step into the bedroom and hang my purse on the doorknob. This room’s smaller than the previous bedroom we shared at cabin 13. “Cozy” is the way our website phrases it. “Stifling” might be a better adjective for this gun-shy girl who’s staying with a guy
she was only supposed to know for a few hours.

  My eyes survey the king bed. At least we have plenty of real estate on the mattress.

  “You okay?” The gentle but rough quality of Dax’s voice puts me at ease. I trust him. I really do.

  “I’m okay,” I answer with a smile.

  “Wanna be more okay?” He sticks a finger in my belt loop and hauls me close. I come, resting both my hands on his cotton-covered chest, and catch his kiss with eager lips.

  My eyes are still closed when he pulls away. “You’re making it hard to regret my decision.”

  “Good.”

  I follow him to the kitchen, where we start unloading groceries. He holds up the plastic pack of fresh mint leaves and shoots me a dubious look.

  “It’s for my mojito fish tacos. Assuming you didn’t cook your fresh fish yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  I point to the coffeepot, where there’s one cup left. “Are you done, or should I make a new pot?”

  “I’m good. Help yourself.”

  I pause my grocery divvying to pour myself a cup of coffee to sip on while we work. We do so in silence, until the last of the bags is emptied.

  “What’s on your agenda today?” I rest my hip on the countertop and curl my coffee mug close to my nose.

  Dax opens the fridge and pulls out a container of half-and-half I left there when I brought stuff for pancakes. I accept, giving him a smile after I cream my coffee.

  “Better?”

  “Perfect,” I admit.

  “When are you gonna learn you don’t have to compromise, Princess?”

  It sounds so good when he says it. If only the world worked the way Dax decided it did.

  “Thanks,” I say, but the sentiment seems small for what his gesture meant to me. I was sipping my coffee black and bitter simply because he was in the way of the fridge while I filled the cabinets. He never lets me settle for less than “perfect.”“Camping tonight. Fishing tomorrow. Hiking in between.” His eyes go to my flat white tennies and skinny jeans, then up to my loose gray shirt with a screen print of a glitter-dusted unicorn on the front. “You bring clothes that might aid in those pursuits?”