THE MAN WITH ALL THE HONEY: Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance #3

by Cathryn Cade

  With the ganger gone, the crowd eddied back to the party, although a bit subdued. Stick headed back inside the clubhouse. He was ready for another beer.

  "Hey, Stick," a soft voice cooed at his side. "Ready for a drink and anything else you want?"

  He turned to see a pretty brunette giving him a coy smile, a shot glass in each hand. Misti was a stripper, and extremely skilled with her lithe body.

  Then movement at the mouth of the hallway behind her caught his eye.

  His statuesque blonde stood there, one hand to her cleavage, her hair mussed, her lush mouth still swollen from his. She was looking to him. When their eyes met, a smile bloomed on her face, even as her cheeks flushed a deeper rose.

  She was gorgeous, sweet and natural, a fine eager fuck ... and the absolute last thing he needed in his life, now or ever. He needed to shut it down with her, for good.

  * * *

  Sara awakened from her post-coital doze with a start when her lover smacked her hip with his huge, calloused hand, and ordered her to get up and dressed.

  Sitting up, she stared at the door he’d slammed behind him, then down at herself. Oh, dear God, she was naked in a stranger's bed with a hundred people partying just outside the door.

  And she'd just hooked up with a biker.

  Ivan, he'd said, but the Flyers never went by their real names, so now she’d have to ask Kit, Keys or Jack who he was, and what club name he went by. Hoo, boy. Yeah, that was skanky ... falling into bed with a biker without knowing anything but his first name.

  Then she gave a full-body shiver of remembered bliss, and bit her lip, knowing she was grinning like a fool—a tipsy one. Totally worth it, even if they hadn't talked much. The man should be registered as a—a danger to women's knees, as in he made them weak and he made them fall open on command

  Well. Nothing to do now but brazen it out. So she'd hooked up with a hot biker—it was nothing both her best friends hadn't done. And this had turned out superbly for both of them.

  Not that she wanted forever, of course, or even a steady relationship with him—and she smothered a giggle behind her hand, because she couldn't believe she didn't even know his last name—but what the heck.

  They could do what they'd done again, if they wanted to ... at least, once in a while. They were both adults, and unattached. Who would it hurt?

  Although, she'd better get to the nearest clinic first thing in the morning, and insist he do the same, because she'd been stupid to risk an STI. Although he'd used a condom, stuff still happened.

  And she'd get on the pill too, or have the shots, as Kit had chosen to do. Just the thought of an unplanned pregnancy made Sara want to hide under the covers and never come out. Yes, she wanted a family, someday. When she was married to a good man who was not a biker.

  But for now, she had a man's club name to discover. He looked a lot like the younger blonde guy, Stick. Had to be his older brother, or cousin? Yes, that must be it. Her lover had a definite Russian accent when he was pouring hot, filthy commands into a woman's ear, too. Gawd, that was sexy.

  She slid from the bed, then grabbed the edge of the mattress to steady herself as her legs wobbled. Whoa, still a little tipsy, and she ached in a pleasurable way from him pounding into her. He was a force of nature, that was for sure.

  She dressed, went into the little bathroom and finger-combed her hair into a semblance of order, then grinned guiltily at her kiss-swollen mouth and the beard burn on her chin and upper lip. Her eyes were heavy too. She looked ... well-loved.

  No, no, well-fucked. She could say the word. And so what if that's all it had been? Every other woman here was into bikers and likely casual sex too, or had begun that way before they became old ladies.

  Back in the bedroom, she stepped into her sandals, picked up her tiny purse and slung it over her shoulder, and then sashayed out to find her lover again.

  This did not take long, as he stood a head above most of the other men there. And head and shoulders above the brunette who was snuggled up to him—one of the women who'd been in the bathroom earlier.

  Sara stopped in her tracks as their eyes met over the brunette's head, and her smile faltered. The realization that something was very, very wrong slid through her, leaving a sick chill behind.

  Because the look he gave her now was the complete, utter opposite of the hot, inviting look he'd worn earlier. Now, his light gaze was as cold as winter ice, and twice as indifferent, no smile on his stony, bearded face.

  Instead, he looked her over like a—a used paper plate from supper, and then slid his arm around the brunette and bent her back over his powerful arm, his face buried in her cleavage as she squealed with delight.

  Sara let out her breath on a low moan of negation and pain, and shook her head. No, no. He was just moving on to another woman, as easily as that?

  Oh, God, what had she done?

  CHAPTER TEN

  "Here you are," Kit said at Sara’s side. "Geez, woman. We've been looking everywhere for you."

  "Sara? What's wrong?" Lindi looked from Sara to the other couple and back. "Oh, no," she said, her eyes widening in horror. "Oh, Sara. You didn't. Not Stick!"

  "What?" Sara asked, blinking. "Wait ... no! His name is Ivan."

  But the look on her friend's face confirmed that he was indeed the exact biker she'd been warned to stay far, far away from.

  "Yeah," Lindi answered, her gaze turbulent with sympathy and anger. "Ivan 'Stick' Vanko. Devil's Flyers' president, and all-round ass-hole."

  "Oh, shit!" Kit cried. "That's where you’ve been? With Stick?"

  She shut up abruptly as Lindi glared at her and slid her arm around Sara, giving her a warm squeeze.

  "C'mon," Lindi said to Sara. "Let's get out here, sweetie. You don't need to watch that shit."

  Sara would have agreed, but she couldn't bring herself to tear her gaze away from the sight of her passionate lover of just a short time ago, now involved in public foreplay with another woman ... a sight with which all his brothers and their women were apparently familiar, judging by their amusement and lack of surprise. Of course, it wasn't like they were the only couple thus engaged—her gaze skated over others doing the same, and more.

  Her stomach roiled, and she had to swallow hard against the hot ball of shame and disgust in her throat.

  “Shots?” offered a perky brunette with a tray of small glasses.

  “Yes!” Sara grabbed two of the glasses, and poured them down her throat, one after the other. They burned like fire, but not as badly as what she’d just been forced to watch.

  “Whoa,” Kit said. “We better get you out of here before you drink them all.”

  Sara allowed her friends to walk her across the big room, and out the open back doors into the warm twilight.

  "Hey," Jack called, materializing out of the dusk, a cigar in his hand. "You ladies okay?"

  "Sara’s not doing so well," Kit said.

  "Sara needs more shots," Sara stated loudly. "And not titty shots—just give me the darn bottle and leave me alone with it."

  "Uh-oh," Jack muttered. "Trouble?"

  "Stick," Lindi snarled.

  "Ah. That would explain the titty shots. But not with Sara, huh?"

  "No, he did something else with Sara," Kit volunteered. "Then she got to watch him doing shots off that club ho Misti."

  Jack winced. "Ah, fuckin’ hell."

  Sara threw her hands up and shook her head. "I didn't know it was him. Pinky-swear! I thought he was just a hot, sexy biker with a panty-melting Russian accent."

  A deep chuckle came from the shadows, and the huge, ginger biker appeared from behind Jack, also holding a cigar. "That how he gets 'em so fast?" he asked Jack. "Puttin' his Russian on?"

  Jack shook his head. "Think in this case it was whiskey and beer. Sara, meet T-Bear. T-Bear, meet Sara, who I've never seen drunk before, but I'm thinkin' now we are."

  "First time since grad night," Sara informed them. "No, I forgot Lindi's engagement party! An
' I need to keep it going on, so either somebody shares, or I go back in there and get me some. Drinks, I mean, not men. I am through with men for good." She stabbed a finger toward the club and then swayed. Whoa, sudden movements, not a good idea.

  "Of all the brothers, you had to pick Stick," Kit said, grabbing her arm while Lindi braced her from the other side. "When you go wild, you go big wild, sistah."

  "Please tell me he at least used a condom," Lindi begged. "Although you can catch STIs from saliva, so ..."

  Galvanized by her friend voicing the truth Sara had been doing her very, very best to deny, Sara let out a half-scream, half-moan, and waved her hands again—or tried to. Her friends were now tethering both arms. "No, no, no! I can't think about that now!"

  "Whoa, calm down, babe," Jack said, wincing.

  "Calm down?" Sara shrieked. "I can't calm down! I just had monkey sex with the biggest man-whore in the greater Spokane area! I'm gonna contract an STI—probably two or three! I'm gonna be—mmmph!"

  Kit's hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off her words. Which was a good thing, as people were turning to watch, ready to be entertained by any new drama.

  Sara sagged against her friend's shoulder, tears filling her eyes.

  "Okay, I'm seein' you girls better handle this," Jack muttered. "Anyway, fireworks are gonna be startin' soon."

  "Think they already started," T-Bear replied, his brows high.

  "Talk to her tomorrow when she's sober," Keys calm voice added behind them. "For now, c'mon, let's get you situated, ladies."

  Sara let them bundle her into a seat against the sun-baked wall of the clubhouse. She did not want to hear it when she was sober, either. She never wanted to hear about 'Stick' Boinker, Bonko, or whatever the hell he called himself, again! Unless it turned out he'd gifted her an STI along with that amazing orgasm. Then she was coming after him with her little Ruger pistol, which she knew how to shoot, and she was darn good, too. Both her brothers said so.

  As Lindi and Kit claimed the seats on either side of her, all her friends stared at her—except Jack, who had his fist to his mouth, pretending to cough, although even Sara could see he was laughing. So was T-Bear.

  "Oops. D' I say that out loud?" Sara asked.

  Keys grinned down at her. "Yep. Does my heart good to hear a woman give the big Russian some hell. Here, have another drink, and keep talkin'."

  He held something out, over Kit's shoulder. She squinted and nabbed it from him. An open flask—yay! It was either drink or talk, and she had a feeling she should stop the latter. She took a drink, then another. It didn’t burn so badly now.

  "Okay, a-aand enough, or you're gonna be puking." Lindi tugged the flask away and handed it off to Remi, behind them with Kit. She sighed heavily, and patted Sara's arm. "Oh, girlfriend. You are gonna regret this tomorrow morning."

  "Only regret is I didn' shoot 'im tonight," Sara informed her. Then she laid her head back against the wall and closed her eyes.

  "Happy Independence Day to me," she mumbled., Then everything faded mercifully to black.

  She completely missed the fireworks against the vault of dark sky, and the shouts and whoops of glee and wonder. But she’d had enough fireworks for one night.

  * * *

  Stick waited until the blonde was gone, and then he walked to his table, near the bar where he could watch all that went on in the main clubroom. Letting go of the brunette, he dropped into his chair.

  "Get me a beer," he told her.

  "Sure, Stick." Misti hurried off, no doubt thinking she was his for the evening.

  Stick looked to Rocker and Bouncer, both now seated at the table, a bottle of Jim Beam between them, their glasses full.

  "What're you looking at?"

  Bouncer merely shrugged, smirking, and tossed back his shot of whiskey. Rocker grinned slowly at Stick. "You don't know who the blonde is, do you?"

  Stick raised his brows. "I suppose you're going to tell me."

  Rocker shook his head, dimples cutting deep in his tanned cheeks above his black beard as he smirked. "Nope. Don't b'lieve I will. Think I'll let you find out for yourself."

  Stick shook his head. "I know who she is—the woman I just had in my bed. That's all I need to know, and all I want to know."

  The brunette returned, offering Stick a full glass of beer as if it were some special gift. Then she looked expectantly at his empty lap.

  "Thanks," he said. "Now go on. I'm busy."

  She flounced away, and Stick lifted his arm and swiped it over his mouth and nose, which still smelled like her cloying perfume. But at least he'd lost the scent of blonde pussy. And he needed to forget the rest of the blonde too. Whoever she was.

  "All right, brothers and sisters," someone hollered, as the music cut off. "Everybody outside. Let's make some fuckin' noise!"

  "Time for the fireworks," Rocker said, pushing his chair back. "Hope to God Snake don't blow another finger off this year."

  "It was only part of a finger," Bouncer said. "And from what I hear, his old lady don't miss it anyways."

  Stick chuckled with his sergeant. Snake had abnormally long digits, and although homely as the back end of a horse, he kept his old lady purring and fussing over him, so he evidently did things right.

  "Your boys comin' for the show?" Rocker asked as they walked out back into the dusk, where the partiers had gathered to watch as several yards away, Snake, Streak and Knife moved around several banks of big fireworks.

  "No. They'll watch across the field," Stick said. "Velvet promised to let them stay up and watch from the back yard. Next year they can start coming to this party." When hopefully he could trust them to stay the hell away from the fireworks. At four-and-a-half, they were like a pair of bear cubs, too smart and curious for their own good, and into everything. They'd grow up in the club, but as safely as possible.

  Velvet and Webb had raised a boy of their own, who sadly had died fighting in the Middle East. They would never have their own grandchildren, so had gladly taken on helping him raise his sons. But while Webb would have spoiled the boys rotten, Velvet put up with no nonsense.

  Marta, a pretty young Russian who kept the books for The Hangar, also stayed with the boys part time, and did some cleaning and laundry.

  The boys also played with children of other brothers and occasionally with local Deputy Sheriff Milt Dunbar's five children. Sandy Dunbar serenely raised children, poultry, goats and ponies on their property on the other side of the county road, and Dash and Kick loved to run wild there.

  His boys had a good life, and he had them, his brothers and women when he wanted one. It was a good life, and enough for him.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The next afternoon, Sara shut off her Lexus' in the driveway of her gran's house, and sat for a moment.

  The driveway was actually just a graveled lane leading in to the house, a detached garage and another shed at the back of the lawn. A caragana hedge and three tall blue spruce trees separated the property from another, bigger house to the north. Two big, old maples spread their branches over the south side of the yard.

  Gran's small house and outbuildings were sided in grooved Masonite, once forest green but now faded to a gray green. The roof was shingled in a darker gray. A cracked cement walk led through the old-fashioned wire fence into the front yard, and up onto a small stoop with just room to open the screen and unlock the door.

  Like many country places, this was actually the back door, which led through a small, screened-in porch and mudroom, and into the kitchen. There was another door leading into the living room from the other side of the house, but in Sara's memory, it had not been used much.

  A somewhat scraggly lawn ran around the house, with various shrubs in a narrow bed. The back lawn was also fenced, and made private by the caragana hedge which was nearly eight feet tall and now thick with tiny green leaves and yellow blooms.

  As Sara opened her car door, she could hear the hum of honeybees working the hedge. The afternoon bree
ze rustled in the leaves of the maples. A sprinkler chugged from the other side of the hedge, and the deep throaty rumble of motorcycles sounded from the compound across the field.

  She winced at this last sound as she popped her trunk and reached in for the bags of cleaning supplies and deli lunch she'd bought at the grocery store in Airway Heights. Then she scowled. She'd ignore those motorcycles. This place was hers now.

  So what if the Flyers' club house was across the field? It was a big field, now full of hay ready to be cut, and this house was on four acres, which meant even when the hay was being cut and baled, and then hauled away, the occupant would still have privacy.

  Another, larger house sat on the other side of the hedge and across a paved driveway. It was surrounded by lawn and graveled sweep along with a big barn and various sheds. The two-story farmhouse had once belonged to Gran's much older brother Vern, a bachelor farmer now long dead. Gran had inherited the place, and promptly put in on the market where it languished for years.

  It had sold a few years ago, to a single man. the new owner had children, because while driving past, Sara had glimpsed a variety of toy trucks and other paraphernalia of childhood strewn along the drive, which had recently been paved.

  Sara didn't much care who the neighbor was, because she had more important matters weighing on her.

  She'd visited a clinic this morning—after she managed to hold down a cup of coffee and more of Remi's salted toast. Her hangover still had a grip on her, but at least now she knew she was STI free, and she wasn't pregnant.

  Her drunken idiocy had resulted in humiliation, but no more. With those risks off her mind, she could put away her groceries and take a nap.

  And then decide what the heck to do with herself.

  She'd had her moment of rebellion, now she needed to get a life. She would begin by deciding what to do with this place. If she didn't count the MC clubhouse squatting across the fields like an ominous growth, ready to spill bikers forth on the surrounding semi-rural area, it was peaceful and pretty out here. Having grown up in Idaho, she was used to wide open spaces, and appreciated being able to see a long way to the horizon.