“Are you happy working here?” I proceeded with my investigation. I couldn’t exactly take notes, so I would need to commit all of this to memory. Maybe I needed to get a recording app for my phone?
She let out a sigh as she grabbed the rolling pin off the flour-dusted counter. “It was better when I first started.”
“Oh yeah? Why is that?” I pushed a little harder.
“Can you quit gawking at me and put that tray in the oven?” She nudged her head to the commercial ovens stacked in the corner at the end of the counter.
“Oh, yeah, of course.” I grabbed the tray and moseyed down to the oven. I assumed the one with the orange light on was the one it needed to go in. I couldn’t recall ever putting anything in an oven, nor taking anything out, for that matter. Here goes nothing! I gritted my teeth and pulled down the door, sliding the tray neatly inside. I don’t know why I was surprised to be hit with a blast of heat. I mean, ovens are supposed to be hot. Duh.
My face was still on fire when I noticed The Red Velvet Queen herself had entered the bakery. I whirled to find her staring at...my ass, I think? Since I had to bend over to use the oven.
Naturally that reminded me of seeing her bend over the day before.
And then not only was my face on fire, but a warm, tingly sensation crept down into my more southerly regions as well. When I met her gaze, a cool, lavender frost, my dick sprang to life. What was it about this woman? She seemed to have a command over my manhood like no other woman I’d ever encountered.
“Hi,” I choked out, remembering my accent right after the word left my mouth. “Cheerio,” I corrected myself. That’s British, right?
A gorgeous crystalline laugh spilled out of her mouth as she threw her head back. Her raven curls rustled around her shoulders as she continued to giggle. Then she shot a look at Colleen, who had begun to join in her amusement.
I’d nearly forgotten the conversation I was having with Colleen—or that Colleen was even in the room—until she brought the queen up to speed on our conversation, “Marcus was just asking me what I thought of working for Sweet Enterprises.”
I detected more than a little sarcasm in her voice.
“How should I answer that for the newbie?” Colleen continued, her head tilted to the side and her lips pursed.
“You know what they say,” the queen brushed a wide swath of her hair off her shoulders, letting it fall against her smooth, bare back, “honesty is the best policy.”
Oh yes, now I was getting somewhere. Maybe these two knew who was leading the revolt. It was apparent they had a beef or two with the company. Also, I desperately needed to know this siren’s name. I couldn’t keep calling her “queen.” Maybe “Red” for Red Velvet? But she has black hair. Okay, maybe “Velvet” then.
Maybe “Hot Stuff?” Or perhaps “The Cock Whisperer” since mine seemed to be completely under her control.
I was so engrossed in coming up with potential names for this beauty in front of me that I nearly missed Colleen’s answer to my question:
“Sweet Enterprises masquerades as a family company, but, in fact, they’re one of the worst companies in America for families. Their health insurance sucks; vacation packages and sick leave suck, and most of their employees make minimum wage.”
“Velvet” shot my boss a look. I couldn’t quite interpret it, but it appeared to be a mix of agreement and trepidation.
I gulped. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Be glad you’re a temp,” Colleen said. “And that you just got your college degree. I’m sure you’ll find a great job with your—” She looked me up and down before asking, “What kind of degree did you say you have?”
“Art history,” I choked out.
Now the two of them exchanged knowing looks, and it was perfectly clear what their thoughts on my chosen scholarship were.
“Never mind,” Colleen said with a laugh. “You may be here for a while, kid.” She finished pouring some coffee into a large cup, popped a lid on it, and slid it across the counter to the waiting queen.
Velvet’s frosty amethyst eyes were still dancing with amusement when she picked the coffee up from the counter and took a sip. She flashed them over to me, and apparently that jolt of caffeine was all it took to remove any traces of mirth from her exquisite face. I noticed her intense stare seemed to be spiked with something else...
I was struggling to put my finger on it, but when the corners of her lips pulled up seductively and her teeth sank into her bottom lip, I realized what it was:
Desire.
That guy in the bakery was a trip. I had coffee this morning before I left the apartment, but I fully admit I stopped by the bakery for another round just to see if Marcus was there. I didn’t know what it was about him—the glasses or the accent—but he was simply adorable in a way-too-young-for-me way.
I hadn’t been able to get the memory of his lips on mine out of my head since our kiss last night. He was so forward, so assertive. Definitely not what I would expect from someone still in his twenties, not to mention someone meeting me for the first time while I was decked out in my Red Velvet ensemble. Most men I met in general were a little standoffish, and the ones I met in costume—regrettably including the most dashing single dads—were even more intimidated. But not Marcus. After he got past the initial awe of my royal splendor, he went right after what he wanted. I had to admire that. And wonder if there was more where that came from...
The way his eyes lit up when he saw me proved thoughts of our kiss had been floating around his head as well. But now I needed to push those thoughts to the back of my mind so I could go about my day and be the queen my little subjects needed. I had to admit I was struggling, and seeing him again didn’t help. At least the extra caffeine seemed to be a small aid.
As I climbed onto my throne, arranging my bustling red velvet skirt around my legs, I wondered how I was going to muster up the enthusiasm I needed to get through another long-ass day of smiling and hugging children and acting all regal and shit.
I’m doing it for Reed and River, I reminded myself. My precious sons. My lifeblood. My everything.
With my renewed sense of purpose, the morning shift went faster than I expected. My assistant roped off the entrance to the throne room and announced to everyone in line that we would resume the meet and greets in an hour.
A month into my tenure at Sweetopia, I had to beg and plead with the owners for an hour lunch break. They only wanted to give me thirty minutes when I first started this job, with no other breaks throughout the day. I was pretty sure that was illegal, but the Sweets didn’t care much about labor laws. I was always working overtime, staying when the line to meet me was way out the door. I hated disappointing all those kids. Did I get paid time and a half for that? Hell to the no.
Trying not to let the rage spark inside me, as it tended to do when I thought of the Sweets, I lifted my sore ass off the throne and made my way behind the curtains to my dressing room. Imagine my surprise when I saw none other than Marcus from the bakery leaning against the counter, evidently waiting for me with a salacious grin on his face.
“What are you doing here?” My voice came out much higher-pitched than I was hoping for. What happened to my low, breathy regal voice I use in the throne room?
“You ran off last night without telling me your name,” he said, straightening to his full height, which looked to be a very solid six foot two.
I’d never seen a Sweetopia employee look sexy in their stupid candy-pink polo shirt, but Marcus obliterated that record. His biceps filled out the short sleeves, the cuffs tight around his firm, sculpted, bronze-colored muscles. And now, with his apron off, I could see the shirt was even a little tight across his pecs. I had a feeling he was one of those guys who had rock-hard abs lurking underneath that fabric.
Marcus was such a stark contrast to my clients, most of whom were pasty-white older men with small dicks and receding hairlines. They had money, though. So at least there was that. Th
at money was essential in filling the gaps my salary here at Sweetopia left when it came to caring for my special needs son.
“Sorry about that,” I answered him, dipping down to retrieve my lunch from the small refrigerator under the counter—another amenity I had to beg my bosses for. I could feel his eyes burning into my backside before I straightened. “Do you mind? I’m supposed to eat lunch now.”
“I’m hungry too,” he fired back, but it was obvious he wasn’t talking about food.
This guy was so completely ridiculous, I had to bite back my laughter. I was used to my subs. They were eager to please and so demure. I wasn’t used to interacting with a man who was so...assertive. Aggressive.
I hated to admit it.
I mean, really, really hated to admit it.
But I like it.
As much as I tried to deny it—hell, I worked as a dominatrix, for fuck’s sake—I liked an alpha male. And a smart, charming, glasses-wearing alpha male? With a fucking British accent, no less? Well, I was done for. Of course, that “type” was exactly what got me into so much trouble in the past. That’s why I had two sons and no man to show for my efforts. Both of their fathers skipped town before they were even born.
Assholes.
My tubes were tied now, though. There weren’t going to be any accidental pregnancies. Besides, I was a lot smarter now than I was when I was twenty-one and twenty-five respectively. I was now thirty-two, and I knew better than to let my heart out of its cage again. That ship had sailed.
Marcus must have taken my quizzical look as an invitation because he stepped closer to me. His dark eyes were aflame as he stroked a long finger down my cheek. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since last night.”
I stifled a giggle. “Is that so?”
Being thirty-two and completely opposed to any type of relationship didn’t mean I couldn’t have fun. Right?
“Yes, Your Highness, it is so,” he growled in that fucking panty-wetting British accent. Though he insisted it was, I doubted it was even real. Not that I cared. It was still sexy as fuck. “But I still don’t know your name.”
It wasn’t like he couldn’t find out my name from his boss or any other park employee. I rolled my eyes before settling them on his, which were dark and flickering with desire. “It’s Jolie.”
“Jolie,” he repeated. “What a beautiful name.”
“Well, yeah, it means ‘pretty’ in French,” I snapped back.
“I know.” His upper lip quirked up before he sank his teeth into his lower lip. “I know French.”
“You do?”
“Oui, madame.” He gave me his most charming smile and swept down into a bow.
He was too. Fucking. Much. I wanted those lips on me. I hadn’t had a summer fling in years. Not since college. I hadn’t even had real sex in a year.
No, I didn’t have intercourse with my clients. It was purely about discipline: spanking, whipping, restraints, orgasm denial. Fun stuff like that.
I knew I shouldn’t go any further. I should have just sent him away right then, should have waved him off dismissively. It was beyond stupid to get involved with someone at work—especially with everything I had on the line here. But he was a summer temp. If I could just make it through the next three months, he’d be out of my hair. And I could have a little fun in the meantime, a little distraction from my grueling life as a single mom with two jobs and two sons, one of whom had special needs.
“Come here,” I beckoned him with my index finger curled and wiggling.
He pointed to himself with an innocent grin, like, who me?
Yes, you. Get your ass over here, I said with my eyes.
In two steps, he closed the gap between us, and a heartbeat later his arms were wrapping around me. There was a strength there, a sense of control that set my nerves on fire. Even through all the layers of my costume, I felt my lady bits soaking my panties as his lips crashed into mine. His grip on the back of my corset was so tight, and my breasts heaved so frantically, I thought the entire bodice might burst open at any moment.
“Just a second.” I broke away, desperate to make sure my dressing room door was locked. It was. My mind swirled with all sorts of devious thoughts as he swept me up in his embrace again, his lips feverishly working against mine, against my neck and down to my cleavage. My makeup artist was going to have her work cut out for her restoring my face to its former regal glory at the end of my lunch hour.
He lifted me up onto the counter, not even slightly balking at my weight or the absurdity of so many flouncing layers of velvet and lace. I expected him to ask me how to gain access, but he was silent. He simply lifted and parted, and I felt the cool air from the vent above my head hit my pussy with a whoosh, causing an immediate lightning bolt to cascade through the raging inferno it had become.
“What are you doing?” I breathed out, my chest still heaving as I struggled to fill my restricted lungs with air. Damn, this corset is so fucking tight!
“Having lunch,” he murmured matter-of-factly as he hooked his fingers on the sides of my black satin panties and slid them down my legs.
There was no time for me to say anything else before his mouth attacked my dripping pussy lips, the scruff of his beard grazing against the delicate tissue and sending a series of brilliant tingles up and down my spine. My clit began to ache for his tongue as he spent what felt like hours lavishing the rest of my womanhood with attention. Threading my fingers through his dark hair, I bucked my hips against his face and heard his chuckle vibrate through me.
“Patience, my dear Queen,” his deep voice rumbled. “I want to savor every last drop.”
But I couldn’t think straight. My hips were involuntarily grinding into him, my grip tightening in his hair. Fuck...where did this man learn to eat pussy? It was like he’d taken a class. Like he could teach a class.
Sometimes I made my subs pleasure me, but it was rarely pleasurable. It was all for them. They wanted to be scolded, punished for not doing it adequately. They were sloppy and ineffectual. Marcus was a goddamn master.
“Fuck...” I was so close to the edge. I tried to remember the last orgasm I had—by my own hand, no doubt—and it was so fuzzy, I couldn’t remember any of the details. As if I wasn’t already teetering, he inserted one, then another finger into my tight channel and began to fuck me relentlessly with them.
He lifted his head up just enough to say, “Come for me, Jolie. Come all over my face.”
That did it.
A burst of ecstasy shot through me like a rocket, shattering the steadily rising walls of need his tongue had built within me. I felt a gush as each spasm clenched around his fingers, which had stilled to bear witness to my climax. I was off somewhere beyond the moon, then I slowly floated back down to earth.
The orgasm relinquished its command of my body, and my senses began to function again. I noticed for the first time that my fingers were nearly numb from gripping the edge of the countertop, and my lacy petticoats were itchy around my hips. I heard Marcus panting as he finished slurping up the mess I’d made.
“That was—” I started to eke out.
“No.” He lifted himself to standing, then he leaned over to press a finger to my lips. “Just go eat your lunch. You need to keep up your energy for your queenly duties.” He winked as he stepped back and offered me a hand to help me to my feet.
Is this guy even for real? “Don’t you want...?”
He shook his head. “Enjoy the rest of your afternoon.”
And in a flash, he was gone.
Four
I dutifully passed on the intel I’d gathered to my parents, who basically rolled their eyes and told me to push harder. The only thing I wanted to do was push my throbbing hard dick into Jolie’s wet pussy, but she ended up calling out the rest of the week.
I couldn’t get that woman out of my mind, and her not being there made my week that much longer and more grueling. Every time I thought about her, I pitched a tent in my
goddamn pants like a freaking teenager. I had never—EVER—been affected by a woman this way.
I had also never gone down on a woman not expecting anything in return. I just needed to see if she was as beautiful moaning and quivering in pleasure as she was just looking at me with those mesmerizing lavender-gray eyes.
The answer was that she was even more beautiful.
After a weekend spent mostly sleeping because a full forty-hour workweek kicked my ass, I parked my piece-of-shit truck in the employee parking lot at Sweetopia and began the long trek to the gates. Naturally, the sky opened up just as I made it far enough from the truck to make going back for an umbrella wildly impractical.
As my shirt soaked through, I thought about the possibility of stripping it off and venturing down to the throne room to prance around in front of Jolie in all my shirtless glory. Maybe I could have my way with her before the clock struck nine and we were inundated by zillions of rambunctious, sugar-fueled kids.
If not, maybe we at least had time for her to reciprocate the oral I gave her last week? I mean, I would be okay with that. Equality and all that.
I headed for the back of the park where Cotton Candy Castle loomed into the cloud-layered sky. A momentary worry about lightning striking one of the spires flashed through my mind, but it faded when I noticed the throne room door was open today.
That was another thing my parents were livid about: The Red Velvet Queen being off work for three days.
“We need to hire an understudy,” my mother insisted. “She’s the most popular costumed character. Do you know how disappointed every single little girl in the park has been the past three days?”
My father just grumbled something about how expensive it would be to keep an understudy on staff. Then my mother followed up with some rant about how maybe they should just fire the current queen and find someone more reliable.
The way they were talking about her made me so angry, but I couldn’t say anything. And I knew I couldn’t say anything to Jolie either, or I’d blow my cover. I assumed she was back, however, because the throne room doors had been shut the past three days with a huge sign expressing Sweetopia’s deepest apologies that the attraction was temporarily closed.
Sugar & Spice (Spicetopia Book 1) Page 3
