Sweet Tooth: A Second Chance Romance

by Aria Ford

  “Jackie,” I whispered as I kissed her neck. Her skin was so sweet and warm under my lips. I sucked it gently and she laughed, a small, happy sound. It made the blood flood my loins. I reached down and locked my arms around her, lifting her so that she was in my arms.

  I carried her to the bed, laughing and protesting. Put her down on it. My own body was so aroused now I wasn’t sure if I could slow it down. But I had to. I wanted to make this a night to remember.

  I held her against me while I reached behind to unfasten the dress. My fingers were trembling so much I could barely lift the little loops of silk off the small, round buttons, but I managed. While I worked I kissed her neck. She was giggling as my lips tickled her and the sound was setting me aflame.

  I kissed her back onto the bed and slid the dress forwards over her arms. Worked it down over her feet where it slid away. I stared at her.

  Wearing bridal lingerie, she was unbelievable. My cock throbbed angrily, a warning that I had to do something now or I was in danger of spending myself just looking at her. I went to the bed, fumbling with longing, blinded fingers for the laces of the corset. I managed to work it off and stared at her hungrily. It was like unwrapping Christmas gifts. Everything I took off revealed something amazing.

  I did it slowly, kissing her left breast and then the right one as I slipped the bra off. My body flooded with heat as I felt that warm roundness with my hands. I pushed her back onto the bed and slowly, so slowly, slid her panties down. My eyes feasted on her lying there.

  My bride. My wedding.

  I sighed. She was smiling at me. “You also need to get rid of something, there.”

  I smiled. “I suppose I do.”

  “Yes,” she purred. She sat up and fumbled with my buttons. I felt my heart melt as she undressed me too. I gathered her in my arms when she’d taken off my shirt, longing to feel her silk skin pressed against my chest.

  We sat like that for quite a while, her body pressed to mine, my face buried in her warmth. I couldn’t quite believe the depth of feeling that ran through me. Love, joy, amazement. Wonder. Happiness. I choked. I couldn’t quite believe it.

  Then, as she moved in my arms, longing rose again to overwhelm me. I shifted and finished what she’d started until we were both naked on the bed.

  Then, slowly, as slowly as I could, I parted her thighs and felt her wetness. She was as ready as me! I gasped.

  Trembling, I knelt between her thighs and slid inside. I gasped as I filled her, feeling the sweet, warm welcome that only she gave me. I couldn’t believe how amazing it felt to be inside her. I pulled out and in, slowly, trying to find the ways that pleased her most. When I found the spot that made her cry out, I stuck with it.

  In, out. In, out. In, out. Faster and faster and faster. My eyes were closed, breath gasping.

  She was moaning and then she cried out, a ragged scream. Then it came. Crashing over my head like wildfire. I gasped and moaned and it kept coming. The biggest, strongest orgasm I had ever felt. I was pumping in her, my body spending itself.

  I collapsed into her arms and we lay like that, my mind a featureless blank, until she moved.

  She ran her hand down my back and into my hair, stroking me. I sighed and moved closer, kissing her neck.

  “I love you,” I whispered in her ear. “Thank you, dearest.” I couldn’t find words to describe how incredible I felt. I had to thank her.

  She smiled. Her face was so bright it seemed as if all the candles in the room had sparked there. “Thank you too, dearest.”

  We lay there, our bodies pressed together, sharing the warmth of skin and the drowse of release until I rolled off her and held her in my arms.

  We kissed, then, and, kissing, began to feel our desire kindling again. It was going to be a long night, I thought with some rising excitement. A long night, and a long morning. It was our night.

  Our wedding night.

  I still couldn’t quite believe it.

  When I woke next morning, with Jackie in my arms and the scent of her in my nose, looking at the sweet smile on the curve of her mouth, I did start to believe it.

  “Good morning, wife.”

  She giggled. “That’s nice.” She opened her eyes. “Good morning.”

  We rolled into each other’s arms, and it was a long time before either of us left the bed. When we did, drowsy and sated, we looked at each other—both, I think, a little awed.

  “I love you,” I said, staring at her where she stood in the hazy daylight filtered through the curtains.

  “I love you too,” she said.

  We kissed.

  Epilogue

  It wasn’t that hard to convince Dad to move with us when we finally moved. Scott had put so much thought into everything. Found the perfect housing estate for all three of us—Dad and ourselves. It was outside of the city, set in leafy greenness. He was ecstatic.

  So was I. The place was beautiful. A classic style with high ceilings and rooms bright and sunny, with room for a nursery for Stella and a big bedroom and a generous kitchen. It couldn’t have been more perfect if it had been made for us.

  It was another three months of gentle debate about the decor before it was finally ready for us to move in. During that time, Scott’s dad had forgiven him. He had reinstated him in the will and even agreed to meet me. It had been tense, but worth it. Scott loved his dad and I was pleased to see them back together. The renovations wore on, and our plans reformed and grew. And I was glad we’d waited for it all to be redone before we did.

  Now I stood in the kitchen, looking out of the long, french windows onto the terrace and our lawn. Dad was out there—he lived next door now and looked amazing—and with him was Stella.

  “…and these ones will grow and flower in the springtime,” he was telling Stella. She toddled beside him, looking up with big trusting eyes. She was nine months old now, and starting to walk.

  “Jackie?”

  Scott called me as he came out of his office. It was the weekend and we were enjoying the time together. He stood with me and we looked out into the garden together.

  “She said it again this morning,” I said.

  “She did?”

  “Yes.”

  We stood and watched Stella as she followed my father around the garden trustingly. The look in his eyes when he looked down at her still made my heart ache. She meant the world to that guy.

  “I haven’t heard her.”

  “Wait,” I said, turning to kiss him. “You impatient man, you.”

  His grin did all sorts of things to my body. “Yes,” he murmured. “I am impatient. When I want something.”

  “Scott…” I murmured, drawing his hard, firm body against my own. “I want you too.”

  “Shall we go upstairs?” he whispered.

  I was going to reply, and in the affirmative, too, when the door opened.

  “Hello, you two,” my father said. “Returning one small girl to her home…”

  Stella was beside him, clinging to his hand. I smiled down at her. I looked at Scott. He was looking down at her with the awe and tenderness that never failed to bring a lump to my throat.

  I helped my dad up the steps while Scott went to talk to Stella.

  “Would you like tea, Dad?” I asked him as he cleaned his boots and walked slowly into the warm, spacious kitchen.

  “That sounds good,” he agreed genially. At that moment, Scott made an urgent sound.

  “She said it! She did! She did.”

  I smiled. Went to join him. He was holding Stella and lifted her gently so that she was between both of us.

  “Say it again, Stella,” he whispered gently “Who am I, Lovey? Hey?”

  She looked up at him, big gray eyes solemn. “Da,” she said.

  I blinked back tears and saw that Scott was crying. Unashamed, big tears rolled down his cheeks. He was smiling, too, and then we were both laughing.

  Stella joined in the laughter and I heard my dad chuckle as he rattled with
the tea things in the sink.

  “Yes,” I whispered to Stella, my voice too tight for speaking now. “That’s right.”

  Scott was her Da. And we were a family. There was so much love in that house that I was surprised the walls didn’t break, showering it everywhere like a thousand shimmering sparks. Because sometimes your wildest dreams can come true. All you have to do is trust. And follow your heart.

  The End

  MR. BIG SHOT

  Chapter One

  The Gulfstream IV touched down at the Las Vegas McCarran International Airport and came to a stop on a distant tarmac where a royal blue carpet and a silver Rolls Royce waited for the passenger. The jet rested, as if adjusting to the extreme heat, although its home base was commonly as hot and it was hardly a stranger to deserts.

  Although the aircraft could accommodate up to eight people for sleeping, when the door rolled open, only two individuals came out; Sheikh Arran Muhalla and his loyal body guard, Alahan. Impeccably dressed in a custom-tailored silk suit, Sheikh Arran Muhalla’s tanned skin contrasted with the heavy golden Rolex he wore on his wrist and the gleaming white of his perfect teeth. Powerfully built, he walked with the grace of a cougar. Even those who didn’t know him could feel his lethal potential. Known to his American friends as Arran, he was comfortable in any environment; that of his birth, and that of his Yale education.

  Arran stepped into the glittering silver Rolls. His guard, Alahan, took a front seat and the driver smoothly rolled out of the airport and headed for the Bellagio. Arran adjusted his tie and checked his hair, although there was never a hair out of place. Although there were no meetings planned, he was always concerned with his appearance. He patted the sound system and the vehicle filled with Puccini’s Tosca. He settled back against the upholstered cushions and closed his eyes, allowing the music to carry him to a different place where time was measured in the trappings of grace.

  As the driver pulled up before the Bellagio, a doorman advanced to open Arran’s door. Alahan quickly blocked him and stood momentarily, surveying the people and surroundings before opening the limo door. Arran emerged and went into the hotel where he had reserved the Chairman’s Suite.

  Arran was the eldest in an extremely successful Middle-Eastern family and the head of their businesses. His younger brothers, Sinhad and Farrah, dealt with various smaller enterprises, but Arran exercised final approval of every move that was made. He was in Vegas to handle the general business for one of the banks the family owned. His schedule provided for a short stay; no more than three weeks at most.

  Alahan took care of the details of checking in while Arran waited in the nearby Russian Bar, sliding onto a stool at one end of the long bar where he might watch everything going on. It was his habit to keep his back to a wall; a lesson learned from a lifetime of caution. He ordered a whiskey sour and while he sipped, his posture staunchly erect and alert. He was bored and played with his tumbler, the thick gold ring on his middle finger tapping against the glass. Alahan took up a watch point just inside the door, checking out the room constantly. The bulk beneath his jacket revealed that he was carrying a weapon. While not blatantly obvious, anyone looking would know not to start trouble in his presence.

  There were a handful of others in the bar, taking a break from the gaming or meeting before going on to dinner. Arran had an eye for unusual women but had tired of the shallow beauties who usually offered themselves to him. He’d been to Las Vegas many times and knew it was the land of smoke and mirrors. Women’s bodies were molded and augmented to their own ideas of beauty while their men merely paid the tab. Arran could have any female who interested him, but had grown bored with their readiness to fill his empty bed. For the time being, he would remain a confirmed bachelor.

  The sound of shattered glass filled the room as a tray plummeted to the bar floor. A table of guests leapt out of the way to keep from being sprayed and one of the women cried out theatrically as liquor dripped down the front of her phony designer cocktail dress. She was outrageously made up and smelled of her profession; a very expensive whore. One of the men motioned toward the bar and the harried manager quickly came over, an angry look on his countenance.

  The helpless waitress had her back to Arran. From his perspective, he could see shapely hips, endless legs, and a wealth of silver-blonde hair swept back from her face and wrapped into a barrette at her neck. She was poised there, frozen, looking at the woman with the liquor stain and then to the dropped tray on the carpet at her feet. The manager reappeared with white bar towels and the waitress instantly bent to retrieve the tray, and then turned to wipe the woman’s chest with the towels. She succeeded in making the stain worse, rubbing the sweet liquor more deeply into the fabric of the gown and the woman’s voice rose in intensity at the mess. The overly reactive manager was bowing and apologizing dramatically, motioning away the waitress who set her tray on the bar and left through doors into the kitchen area. A uniformed waiter immediately appeared with a broom and more towels to clean up the mess as the group at the table rose and left the bar after a few harsh expletives toward the manager.

  The manager, obviously upset, pulled down his jacket to re-establish his dignity and turned toward the kitchen. Arran signaled the bartender and asked that the manager be directed toward him.

  “Yes, sir, good evening Sheikh Muhalla,” the manager greeted him, a nervous grin upon his perspiring face.

  “The waitress—you intend to fire her?” Arran asked simply.

  “No need to worry, sir, she won’t be bothering anyone again,” the manager quickly assured him.

  “You intend to fire her?” Arran repeated, and the manager realized it was a question and scrambled to answer it.

  “Yes, sir, we will find someone more professional to take her job.”

  “Keep her,” Arran said.

  “Sir?”

  “Leave the girl be. She needs the work and will not repeat her mistake, you may be assured. Ask the guest who was soiled to select a gown in any of the hotel shops and add it to my account,” Arran ordered.

  “Sir, are you sure? After all, it was the waitresses’ fault and there’s no reason you should…”

  Arran cut him off. “Shall I repeat my instructions?” His voice invited no argument; he was a man who was accustomed to giving orders—once.

  “Of course, Sheikh Muhalla, immediately,” the manager bowed and scurried away.

  Arran took another sip of his drink and as expected, the doors from the galley slammed open and the waitress came out, looking along the bar until she spotted him. She came toward him and as she approached, he took in her face. An elegant nose and rosy, prominent cheekbones framed what were huge, green eyes. These, combined with her hair gave her the appearance of being chiseled from a pale gray marble.

  “Are you Sheikh Muhalla?” she asked politely. Her voice was slightly gravelly but articulate—giving her a cultured appeal.

  “Yes,” he nodded, caught in those green eyes.

  “I understand I owe you a debt of gratitude,” she prompted.

  “No, you owe me nothing,” he returned, watching the light behind her eyes turn dark.

  “I pay my debts…with money. If you’ll give me your address, I’ll see to it that I reimburse the cost of the woman’s dress to you,” she said in a businesslike voice.

  “It’s not necessary,” he shook his head, wanting to hear her speak more but wishing she would change the subject.

  “I must insist. I don’t accept charity,” her voice was stronger now, more official. In a way, she was almost arrogant except that it was pride that held her spine straight and her chin up.

  “My dear Miss…?” he said, asking her to fill in the details.

  “Standish, I’m Gabrielle Standish,” she obliged. “Look Sheikh, I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to address you; we don’t have sheikhs in the States, so excuse any ignorance, but I’d really rather that you allow me to pay for the woman’s dress. It will take me a while, but I will p
ay you for it. Your information, please?” she asked again and pulled out an order pad to write on the back of a slip.

  “I’m staying here at the Bellagio,” he said in a quiet voice, wishing he could record hers for its sultry quality.

  “I’ll do my best,” she said and nodded her head before she turned away and went toward another table of guests, carefully walking wide of the wet carpet. As she returned to have the drink order filled, he called her over.

  “You may call me Arran,” he said.

  This time she cocked her head and repeated his name. “Arran… that’s different, but then I suppose where you come from all names are going to differ from those here in America. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Arran, and I’ll be sending you the money I owe you as I can,” she told him. Her tray of drinks ready, she carefully pulled them onto her raised hand and walked toward the table.

  Arran watched her and saw that she was, despite the earlier accident, quite a graceful woman. Those well-proportioned hips swayed between the tables with rhythm and she spun about as if on ballerina slippers to deliver the glasses. She could have been a dancer, the way she walked. He finished his glass and left the bar, taking the elevator to the top floor and his room. This was his base of business when he was in town. Over four thousand feet in size, it slept five guests in king-sized beds and had five and a half baths.