“We’ll see,” I tease.
“I love a good challenge, sugar.”
Brant rolls up to his knees, pulls his fingers out from inside me, and licks them. A growl rattles his throat.
He settles between my legs as he reaches for the nightstand. His teeth tear at the foil packet, then he rolls the condom down his cock. Our tongues collide, and he pushes my thighs further apart. When he rocks against me, I feel how big and hard he is—for me.
I twine my arms around him. “Brant, I need you.”
“I got you.”
When Brant’s gaze sweeps over me, my heart races. His lips press to mine, making my whole body tremble with need. He pushes into me and his fingers dig into my hips.
My eyes close and I take a few deep breaths and I relax at the sensation of him stretching me and filling me. “Oh my god,” I cry out.
Desire pumps through my veins. My hands claw at his back, urging him closer. I roll my hips and he fills me completely. His lips are everywhere—my lips, my cheeks, and my throat.
“You feel so good,” he groans against my skin.
I shift my hips, Brant pumps deeper making me arch and cry out. Tingles radiate and I can feel the deep ache of my orgasm take hold. The muscles in his neck and shoulders pull tight as he fucks into me harder.
His hips work a magnificent rhythm. Deep, unhurried strokes.
Mirroring his rhythm, I move my hips beneath him. My forehead presses to his collarbone, I feel his pulse thrum.
“Do you know how many times I’ve imagined fucking you here, right here in my bed?”
My teeth sink into my bottom lip. I can’t find my voice.
“This is better than any fantasy I’ve had. Sweeter. Hotter. Wetter. You’re fucking perfect.”
Oh my god, his dirty mouth.
“Brant, please,” I beg.
His name on my lips as he moves inside me is better than any kind of fantasy that I’ve had. Pure ecstasy.
“I’m so hard for you. You’re so wet and my cock is so deep inside you.”
My nails claw at his skin as I choke back cries.
More, more, more.
And the way he moves. Every deep hard thrust of his cock pushes me closer to the edge. And Brant’s strangled moans and ragged breaths tell me that he’s close too.
A breathless cry leaves my lips and I’m soaring. My orgasm is heightened by the realization that it’s Brant Cardwell . . . that this is happening with him.
Then he’s swearing into the pillow beneath my head. Muscles clenched, his hands grip my hair and I feel him pulsing inside me. I hold him close and kiss his cheek. We cling to one another gasping for breath.
Brant pulls out and falls onto his back next to me. He tugs me closer, and I curl into him while he grabs the blankets.
“Holy shit,” he breathes out. “You’re . . . that was amazing.”
My hand skates up his chest. “It was pretty amazing.”
It was perfect and magical. I hide my smile under the covers. Never thought that I’d be here like this with Brant.
My eyes grow heavy and we fall asleep tangled together.
Brant
The weekend passes by fast. Way too fast.
This day, however, is dragging on and on. It’s eleven a.m. and I feel like I’ve already put in a full day’s work. Probably because I’ve been up since five-thirty.
I won’t complain too much though. Caroline’s mouth around my cock just before daybreak was one of the best ways to rise for the day.
Pun intended.
I’m sitting in a production meeting and all I can think about is Caroline. I’ve never had a woman consume my every thought.
Not even Natalie did this to me. And I thought I’d marry her?
Caroline and Julep stayed with me all weekend. I made good on my promise and cooked dinner for Caroline on Saturday night. Then she returned the favor and made chocolate chip pancakes on Sunday morning. We took Julep on a long walk and then spent the rest of the day in bed.
Talking. Eating. Have great sex—mind-blowing sex. More talking. I love her body, but I’m just as crazy about her mind. She’s smart, sweet, and a wildcat in the sack.
“And that brings us to the holiday season. The marketing team chose a name, Old Sam Bourbon,” Laura mentions. “This will be fun.”
Old Sam, named after great-granddad. Haven, Sam, and great-grandma, Rosemary, all have bourbons named after them. Sam’s Straight Bourbon Whiskey is our best-seller followed by Rosemary’s Rye.
“Do we have any recipes?”
“Your daddy has some notes, but I think it should be up to you.”
My fingers rub at my temples. “Okay. Any tips?”
She smiles. “I’d start in the library. Go over all the recipes and notes from previous years. It’s all a matter of adjusting the mash, rye, corn, and wheat percentages.”
“Gotcha.”
She stands. “And when the un-proofed samples are ready, I’ll help you taste test.”
I laugh. “Sounds good to me. Have a good one, Laura.”
Laura leaves my office and I pull up my calendar. My meeting with Royston is in an hour. I’m going to get to the bottom of this Cranberry Ridge business.
“You’re in a good mood today,” Maybelle sings out as she hands me my lunch.
“I’m always in a good mood.” I walk over to the corner table in my office and take a seat.
“Uh huh. I think it’s because of a certain blonde who was spotted leaving your apartment this morning.”
I smirk. “Maybe it does.”
“How are things going with you two?”
I open the box that contains my chicken cordon bleu sandwich and fries.
“Are you always this nosey?”
“Fine, fine, don’t tell me. You don’t need to say anything. It’s written all over your face.” She takes a seat across from me. “We’ll talk about something else.”
I pop a few fries into my mouth. “Fine by me.”
“You’ve lasted a whole week behind the desk. I just can’t believe you’re not itching to get back to New York.”
“I told you, I’m here for the long haul. And I get to create a special holiday bourbon.”
She cocks a brow. “Wow, they’re just shoving you right into the deep end.”
I take a bite of my sandwich. Then it occurs to me that Maybelle might know something about the rumors about Cranberry Ridge.
Swallowing, I level my gaze to her. “Hey, can I ask you something?”
She studies her manicure. “Anything.”
I lean closer to her. “You heard anything about your dad wanting to buy Cranberry Ridge?”
Maybelle taps her finger to the table. “It’s been a dream of Daddy’s to have an inn. Get people to stay here instead of driving to Elliston or Lexington. But I haven’t heard him talk about Cranberry Ridge. Caroline’s mama’s place is huge, though. That big ole farmhouse—could be renovated and turned into quite the place.”
I let that information roll around in my head. Business wise, it’s a good move. And I’m sure that Caroline’s mom would get more than a fair price from Royston.
“Interesting, I mean it’s not a bad idea,” I admit.
She lifts a shoulder. “I think so too, but I think the idea kinda put some tension between your daddy and mine. I don’t think Uncle Beau is too keen on the idea. Daddy just wants to bring in more business. I think that’s why he was so agreeable to the restaurant idea.”
“Right, I get it.”
“Well, I guess I better get back to the kitchen. I gotta put in my orders for the week.”
“Bye, thanks for the food. It’s delicious.”
“Thanks. See ya around.”
Maybelle skirts out of my office and I finish my lunch. When I’m done, I walk to the executive lounge to get a cup of coffee. I’m gonna need lots of caffeine to make it through this meeting and the rest of the day.
My phone vibrates on top of my desk as I walk back in
to my office.
Caroline: Hey, sexy. How’s your day?
Me: Good. Although I’m pretty tired. Might need to go to bed early tonight.
Caroline: It’s important to get plenty of sleep.
Me: Hmm. I’ve got other important matters to attend to in bed.
Caroline: Do you?
Me: How does dinner and Netflix at my place sound?
Caroline: Sounds perfect. See you later.
I drop my phone back onto the desk and gather my notes for my meeting with Royston, then I head into the executive conference room. When I enter the room, I hear Royston ending a call.
“Right, well, Miss Becks, we’d be happy to accommodate the graduates of 2008. Our second-floor mezzanine and private dining room are all yours. I’ll have our events manager call you when she returns from lunch.”
“What’s happening?”
“Class reunion this weekend. A pipe burst at the community center and flooded the basement. It’s a disaster. Anyway, Maybelle offered up the mezzanine level.”
“We’ve never had events in there. We staffed for it?”
“Maybelle’s working on it. She knows a gal who has a catering staff.”
“Caroline Stratton.”
Royston meets my gaze. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“I know Caroline. Which brings up a question.”
“Okay, shoot.” He leans back in his chair.
“Any truth to the rumor that you’re trying to buy Cranberry Ridge?”
“I wanted to, yes,” he tells me and opens up his file folder. “I talked to Beverly Stratton about it a week or so ago. She turned me down flat.”
“What’d you offer her?”
“To buy the farmhouse, all the land, and the barn. And that I’d like her to stay on as manager and run the place once the remodel is complete. Even told her that Caroline could stay on as the events manager.”
My thumb strokes along my jawline. “Generous of you.”
He chuckles. “She didn’t think so, price wasn’t to her liking. But no matter, she’s coming to work here next week.”
“In what capacity?”
“She’s replacing Brenda in accounting. Her husband got a promotion and they’re moving to South Carolina. Apparently, Beverly has wanted to do something more challenging for a while.”
And finally, the mystery is solved.
“Well, good. I hope she likes working here.”
“I’m sure she will,” he says and taps a finger to the table. “Now, let’s get down to business. Last month’s financials . . .”
A strange sense of relief washes over me at Royston’s admission. I still like the inn idea. It would be extremely lucrative. In a strange way I kind of wish that Caroline’s mom had accepted Royston’s offer.
Part of me wonders what Caroline would do with her part of the money from the sale. Would she go after her dream and design athletic apparel?
Pulling my head out of the clouds, I focus on my meeting with Royston. After he fills me in on the previous month’s financials, we go over payroll. Since there are no adjustments needed, our meeting ends early.
I spend the rest of the afternoon powering through emails and reading through the company blog and latest newsletter. Kenny, the maintenance guy at my building, calls and tells me the elevator isn’t working. Luckily no one is stuck inside. I tell him to call the repair company and have them send someone out.
Before I know it, it’s after four-thirty and I’m flying out the door. I need to grab a few items from the grocery store for our dinner. Hopefully I’ll put a smile on Caroline’s face when I make stuffed shells. It’s my specialty.
Then I’ll give her more to smile about in bed.
Caroline
After a long run, I shower and make it to Brant’s place just after six. I hike up the stairs because the elevator is out of order.
And I feel like I need another shower. The boob sweat is real.
When I step up to the door, my heartrate kicks into overdrive. My knuckles rap on the door a few times and a heartbeat later, Brant opens it. The smell of tomatoes and basil hangs in the air.
“Hi,” he says, pushing the door open. “Where’s Julep?”
“Funny enough, Ma was grilling steaks for her and Ted when I left. Julep wouldn’t have anything to do with me.”
He kisses me and butterflies zip around my stomach.
What’s with my nerves?
“Hope you like stuffed shells.”
“Oh, for sure. I’ve never met a pasta I didn’t like.”
“So, I thought we’d start with some cocktails while I finish dinner.” Brant slings some ice into two tumblers.
“What’s the cocktail tonight?” I take a seat at the island and watch him as he gets to work in the kitchen.
My gaze sweeps over the long lines of his body, admiring his height and heft. He’s powerful and gorgeous at the same time. He’s wearing a black t-shirt and dark denim jeans that hug his ass very well.
“Here ya go. One Manhattan.”
“Thank you, bartender.” I take a drink and it warms my belly. “That’s really good. I always thought a Manhattan was a drink enjoyed by older people. Serious drinkers, even.”
His dark brows lift. “That’s a rumor. Actually, the Manhattan is a drink that causes arguments among friends. Basically, some feel the Manhattan must be made with rye whiskey. Others maintain it should be made with bourbon. But no one can argue that it’s pure booze. So sip it slowly.”
I nod and take a sip of the concoction. “So, tell me about your day?”
He gives me that pulse pounding smile. “Well, I found out that Royston did offer to buy Cranberry Ridge from your mom. He wanted the land and the house too.”
I gasp. “Wow. Why?”
His humor-filled smile meets my concerned stare. “Apparently, he wants . . . wanted to renovate and turn it into an inn. No worries though, your mom told him no.”
My brow furrows. “Well, thanks a lot, Ma, for including me in the decision.”
Brant drains the pasta shells and rinses them with cool water. “Would you have sold?”
“Probably, if the price was right. I mean, I told you that it’s not my dream. And as much as I love my place, I dunno, downtown is kinda growing on me.”
Brant sets the shells aside. And pulls a large bowl from the fridge that contains the filling for the shells. “Well, if you ever want to move, I know a guy who owns an apartment building.”
“You own a building?”
“Didn’t I tell you?”
I shake my head. “Nope. Where?”
“You’re in it.” His eyes gleam with delight.
“Well, I’ll be sure and let you know.”
Brant is full of surprises. And if I’m being honest, I really like that about him. A man who can keep me on my toes and smiling. Sign me up.
Brant spoons the mixture into the shells and then places them into a baking dish and covers them in the marinara sauce.
“You want to sprinkle this with cheese?” he asks.
“Sure.” I slide off the barstool and walk around the island.
“Then pop it in the oven for twenty-five minutes, please.”
“Got it,” I tell him as I grab the bag of mozzarella from the counter. “So, what else happened today at work?”
“Guess your reunion will be at the distillery instead of the community center.”
I nod adding a fair amount of cheese over the first row of shells. “Yeah, I got the update on the group page.”
I turn to face Brant, who’s pulling an electric mixer from the cabinet.
“What are you doing?”
“Making dessert.”
I laugh. “Who knew you were so domesticated.”
“That surprises you?” He whisks flour, cinnamon and a few other ingredients.
I open the door to the oven and slide the pasta dish inside. “I guess it does. I thought for sure that you’d have a bevy of women who wanted to cook fo
r you.”
Brant turns to face me and his eyes search mine. “Well, to be honest I tried living on pizza and noodles in New York, but it got to be expensive. And I was missing Mom’s chicken and dumplings. So, I called up my mom and my gran and asked them to send me recipes. I begged Gran to send me the recipe for the stuffed shells.”
I smile at the thought of Brant learning how to cook from family recipes. “The stuffed shells we’re having tonight is your Gran’s recipe?”
He sets the bowl aside. “Sure is. And this cake is Mom’s—Late Summer Plum Cake. Now that you’re back to eating cake, I thought I’d make it for you.”
My hands land on his waist. He tugs at my hips until I’m pressed flush against him. Brant is all hard muscle and he smells so good.
His lips crush to mine and I lean into him. Every single second sparks like a bolt of lightning. Brant’s tongue strokes mine and my hands glide over his abs and up his chest. The ridge of his hard cock grinds against my thigh and I groan.
“Brant.” His name leaves my lips in a strangled whisper.
His hands move down and he cups my ass. I’m drowning in need for him. Every solid inch, I need him against me. His mouth is hot and wet. He tastes like whiskey and sweet oranges.
“You’re beautiful,” he pants, rocking his erection against me once more.
Every cell in my body is screaming for this man to take me right here. It’s only been two weeks . . . I think, but everything feels so right. So good.
I break our kiss. “You are such a tease. If you don’t stop, I’m going to push you onto the floor and have my way with you.”
He laughs softly. “Yeah, sorry if I got carried away.”
“Don’t be sorry. I’ve had feelings for you for so long, I’m getting carried away too. I can’t remember a time when I didn’t want to jump your bones.”
“Really?” He releases the hold he has on me. “Because I’m pretty sure the night I startled you and the next day at the coffee shop you wanted to slap me.”
I glance at the recipe for the cake. “Well, I wanted to slap you first and then kiss the hell out of you, for sure.”
“Hmm, I probably would have liked that,” he muses, and then flips on the mixer. I watch as the sugary mixture turns fluffy and pale. His muscles flex beneath his shirt as he continues adding in the rest of the ingredients.
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