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

by Cathryn Cade

  And here, unlike at her condo, she could wander around her back yard in a bikini—or heck, in her underwear if she chose. No one would see her. The hedge was thick enough to hide an army from the place next door.

  As she unlocked the back door and carried her groceries and purse inside, she grinned to herself. She just might take her nap in the shade of one of the maples. It was a beautiful day, hot in the sun, but merely warm in the shade.

  She looked through the archway into the living room at the mess she'd created with items waiting to be sorted and tossed or donated, and made a face. She definitely needed a nap before she tackled that.

  And as for how much she wore while she slept ... maybe it was time to enjoy the freedom of country life.

  * * *

  Stick rolled to a stop in his drive, and looked over the back seat of his pickup truck at his two boys.

  Velvet had dropped them off at Deputy Dunbar's small farm after breakfast. After most of a day of running wild with his brood, they were both sound asleep, draped in their booster seats, two sweaty, dirt-streaked, tow-headed mirror images of each other. Dash's hair parted on the left, Kick's on the right, and they had dimples in opposite cheeks. And when they slept, they threw out whichever arm was nearest the other twin, as if to reassure themselves they were a pair even in sleep.

  In their sleeveless Harley tees and dirt-stained jeans, they looked like miniature versions of him, which is how they insisted on being dressed. Although they wore sneakers to his motorcycle boots. Boys needed to run and climb.

  He stepped out of the pickup, surveying the quiet farmyard with satisfaction. No sign that anyone had been in or out, that was good. Everyone knew to stay the hell away unless his motorcycle or his truck was in the drive, signaling his presence. This place was his refuge, his home. He owned from county road to county road, including the compound.

  Everything except the property next door. The old lady who owned that had just died. As soon as her heirs put the place on the market, the local Realtors had instructions to let him know before anyone else. He'd buy it, and then the whole section would belong to him.

  Not quite a kingdom, but close enough. And he'd mount his defenses and keep out those who tried to come between him and what was his.

  He'd just arrived back from Sandpoint, Idaho. A sweet little town on a big lake just to the north, across the state line in Idaho, and a great place for a party weekend. But the 4th was over, and he hadn't been there for fun, he'd been there to put on a goddamn suit and attend a parole hearing for the crazy bitch who had birthed his boys—and then tried to kill him in his sleep.

  He'd met his lawyer, Drew Leupold, there and said his piece one more time for the committee of buttoned-up, prim-faced men and women on the parole board. Handed over the packet of police reports, the photos of his torso and throat taken at the ER, and the psych reports that said Contessa was incapable of normal empathy and love—a sociopath.

  All of which he fucking hoped would be enough to keep her locked up in the Idaho Women's Prison in Pocatello for good, because if she ever got out, he'd put her down himself if he had to.

  He unfastened his boys from their car seats and carried them inside, one on each shoulder, warm, sweaty little weights, quiet only in their sleep like puppies. They woke just enough to grasp his shirt and nestle into his broad shoulders, then went back to sleep. Knowing their papa would keep them safe from everyone and everything—which he would, no matter what.

  Their bedroom was upstairs, across the hallway from his own. He laid them carefully on their twin beds, pulled off their shoes and watched as they wriggled onto their bellies, snuggling into their favorite blankets without opening their eyes. He stood for a few moments, just watching them sleep like little angels with long lashes brushing their chubby, sun-flushed cheeks. Fierce love swelled in his chest.

  They'd be out for a couple of hours, time enough for him to do some business in his office downstairs. He hadn't heard back from the Dakotas club about the shipment he was expecting.

  But as he turned to leave the room, he glanced from the long, narrow window that looked to the south. A small, silver sedan sat in the driveway next door, just visible over the hedge. Ah, the new owner was here. Time to introduce himself.

  He grabbed the little speaker for the baby monitor he kept in the boys' room and clipped it to his belt beside his knife. Then he trod down the stairs of his house and out the door. He didn't bother glancing in a mirror before he crossed his drive and ducked through the gate nearly hidden in the hedge.

  He was who he was, a big, scary-looking biker—although with his 'stache, beard and hair neatly combed and trimmed for once. Wouldn't do to show up for a hearing with the law looking like an outlaw. At least he'd gbeen able afterward to change out of the damned suit, and was once again comfortable in his usual Western shirt, sleeveless for summer, over faded jeans and motorcycle boots.

  Looking scary worked for Stick when he was keeping his men in line, or letting outsiders know they really did not want to mess with him, or getting the best business deal for his club. And in this case, his appearance might be just what was needed to convince his new neighbors they didn't want to live next door to him.

  He put a cold look on his face and headed for the back door of the little house.

  His hand was raised to pound on the screen door when he looked over and saw what waited in the dappled sun and shade of one of the big trees.

  Fuck. Him.

  A woman lay there, in a rickety old lawn chair draped with towels.

  Posed like a pinup girl, one leg bent at the knee, one arm flung up over her head, the other trailing in the grass, her head nearly hidden under a broad-brimmed purple hat like women wore to garden, but the rest of her ... oh, yeah.

  She was as good as naked, and she looked damn good naked.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At first Stick thought his new neighbor's scanty white garments a swimsuit, but they were of thin lace. She was out here in the yard in her undies.

  Her lush curves spilled out above and below, lickable, suckable and very, very fuckable. His cock certainly thought so. He was hard and ready, his snug jeans suddenly too tight. As he prowled across the lawn to her, his hands twitched, ready to mold and stroke.

  And that lush body looked strangely familiar. He bent and peered under the hat, and found a trailing lock of pale blonde hair. He jerked back, then stilled.

  Fuck him twice, it was the blonde from the barbecue.

  His smirk spread over his face, full of sheer, predatory triumph. So she wanted more, did she? Seemed so, if she'd gone to these lengths to stalk him. She'd left the party with Jack Moran and Keys Younger's old ladies, so apparently they'd told her this place was his. Well, she'd gone to all this trouble, he'd oblige.

  If she was back for more even after he'd done titty shots off of Misti right in front of her, he'd even take her phone number, and maybe call her when he got hungry again for an armful like her.

  He'd had women lie in wait for him before, but now he had his boys to think of. He only brought club whores home when the twins were elsewhere. But he had time to give her a quick fucking before the boys woke. Then he'd send her on her way.

  He bent and put his hand on her ankle. Yes, her pale skin was just as silky as he remembered. He stroked his hand up her leg, and between her satin thighs, giving her an appreciative squeeze.

  "Hello, blazhinka. Back for more?"

  But instead of tipping back her frivolous hat and giving him a sultry smile, the woman started violently, her limbs convulsing. Then she kicked out both legs at him, landing a solid blow on his thigh, and let out a shriek that nearly shattered his eardrums.

  "The hell!" Stick dodged another kick, this one to his groin, and straightened, glaring down at her incredulously. "Woman, what is wrong with you?"

  She smacked the hat away from her face with one hand and bolted upright in the old chair, which groaned in protest. She was panting, her legs drawn up before her, her
hands fisted, her blue eyes wide between locks of tumbled, pale blonde hair.

  "Oh, my God," she gasped. "You! What are you doing here?"

  He gave her a look, setting his hands on his hips. "Seriously? You're gonna play that card? Like you weren't expecting me."

  She gaped at him, color flaming into her cheeks, her mouth opening. "Me? I'm supposed to be here! You—you're supposed to be over there!" She flung out her arm, pointing east toward the club compound.

  Stick raised his eyebrows. Then he lifted one hand to his beard and stroked it as he considered her. She was 'supposed to be here'?

  "Fuck me," he said. "You know the new owner ... the old lady's family?"

  "I am the old lady's family. I mean, she was my gran."

  She still wore the bewildered look his boys did when something woke them from a sound sleep. Although she finally came out of it enough to realize he was enjoying the sight of her lush tits in her little lacy bra. She grabbed the big, purple hat and held it in front of her. "Can you just ... go away and—and come back later?"

  Instead of moving, and because he knew it would piss her off, Stick shook his head. "No. I leave when I'm ready. And you can stop hiding behind that thing. I've already seen it all, remember?"

  She made a sound like an enraged raccoon that he'd cornered in the barn the summer before. "You're never going to see it again, so I hope you have a good memory."

  He smiled down at her. "Oh, I do. And I remember how your tight little pussy feels, and the sounds you make when I make you come on my cock. I especially remember the way you beg so pretty for me to fuck you harder."

  She scrambled from the lawn chair, which was fun because her tits and ass jiggled, and he got to see her long, strong legs. But sadly, she grabbed the towel and held it before her along with the hat, her face nearly the same deep pink as the towel.

  "You—you foul-mouthed jackass!" she said, as if she couldn't believe he was speaking to her that way. Who did she think he was, a parson? "You need to leave, or I'll call the sheriff."

  He shrugged. "Go ahead. The deputies are all friends of mine. This time of day, you'll probably get Smith or maybe Jankowski. Smith owes me money for poker. Jankowski for backing him up when some Spokane boys started a fight at a local bar."

  She didn't know whether to believe him or not. Cute the way she was frowning and biting her full lip. But he wasn't here to admire her, he was here to convince her to leave.

  "So you can expect to see me whenever I decide to pay you a visit," he told her. "Maybe when I want another taste of blonde pussy."

  At this, she backed hurriedly to her back stoop, her eyes the size of saucers now, her mouth an o of indignation.

  Then she scowled again. "I don't know why you're trying to scare me," she told him, one hand on her hip. "But I'd be careful wandering over here after dark, if I were you. I might mistake you for a—a varmint. And my Ruger may not be very big, but a bullet's a bullet."

  She had spunk, he had to admit. Stick shook his head chidingly at her. "Blazhinka. You shoot me with your little gun, and you'll have the law and all the brothers after you. And if my brothers catch you before the law does, they won't be so nice."

  She jerked back again, but held his gaze, even though her knuckles were white where she clutched her towel, and her face had paled. "Then I guess I'd better not miss, huh? No worries, you're a very big target."

  "I'm a tough target, blazhinka. I'm also a very bad enemy, and a worse neighbor. So how about I make you a deal—sell this place to me, and you'll have money and peace, somewhere else."

  "What? No. This place isn't for sale."

  He gave her the look that made grown men tremble in their boots. "That's the wrong answer. But you'll give me the right one, sooner or later. How much it takes, depends on you."

  "Wait, what? So that's why you're doing all this?" She waved a hand at him. Her high, rounded cheekbones flushed again, and her blue eyes flashed with fire. "You're not interested in me at all, you just want my gran's house. I suppose you intimidated her into selling you the place next door. Well, as far as this place goes, do me a favor, huh? Hold your breath while you wait."

  Then she turned and opened the screen door of her little house, mumbling something about his gigantic ego. She really had a lush, heart-shaped ass, even under the old towel.

  As he admired, he shook his head. She hadn't been as scared of him as she was pissed that he wasn't after sex. She didn't want him, but she wanted him to want her? Women—he'd never understand them.

  "Yeah, you remember the gigantic parts of me, huh?" he called after her.

  The screen door slapped shut, and the other door slammed behind it, but he knew she'd heard him. Good, she could spend a little while remembering him buried deep inside her. He surely did. Strangely, their argument hadn't cooled the heat in his groin—only added to it. His cock was hot and hard as a pistol, ready to fire.

  She thought he only wanted this place? She hadn't taken a good look at him, because a man didn't get a hard-on over a piece of property. He'd have her again, and he'd have her property too—in that order.

  As he walked back to his house in the hot summer sunshine, smirking to himself, it didn't occur to him at all that the parole board and Contessa were finally off his mind.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sara could not remember the last time she'd been this utterly furious at another person.

  It was a darn good thing her little Ruger was packed away in the bottom of her overnight bag, because if it had been in her hand outside, she might just have fired a shot at that big hunk of smug, smirking, Russian-American muscle in her Gran's back yard.

  She ripped the towel off, flung it halfway across Gran's bedroom, which she'd claimed for herself as it was not only the biggest, it had the shade of the big maple in the morning. She clenched her fists, shaking with the effort to contain her rage. Oh, she wanted to scream and rant and break things—over his thick head.

  How dare he stand there and taunt her with the memories of what they'd done, what she'd allowed him to do to her? He was no better than an animal, willing to have sex with every woman who crossed his path. And for giving in to his seduction at his barbecue, she was as dumb as a female animal in heat.

  She grabbed her khaki shorts and yanked them on, then fought her way into her white tee, and stomped into her white canvas flats.

  She would get even with Stick Vanko if it was the last thing she did—somehow. And she wouldn't serve it up cold, either. She wanted her revenge as fast and hot as possible.

  This resolve hardening in her like a burning coal, she stomped over to the small closet, and grabbed the two stuffed garbage bags she'd stored there. They were filled with Gran's clothing and shoes, and they were destined for a local thrift store that supported winter warming shelters. But having packed them, Sara hadn't quite been able to take them out the door.

  The mood she was in now, she could throw every single thing in the house out the doors and watch them smash.

  But instead, she thumped the bags down at the edge of the lawn next to the driveway. The weather forecast called for dry and hot for the next week, so it wasn't going to rain, and the little house had no extra space to store everything she planned to discard.

  Two hours later, there were five garbage bags and six cardboard boxes stacked there, along with an ancient vacuum, a huge old fan that worked but only with a loud rattle she had no idea how to fix, and an 80's era microwave nearly the size of Sara's apartment dishwasher, which she'd wrestled out of the house only with sheer determination and the aid of an ancient polyester coverlet. She left the ugly coverlet there under the appliance.

  She staggered back into the house, wiped the sweat from her face with her tee, which was no longer white. Then she took a long, cool shower—nothing wrong with Gran's plumbing, thank God—and sat down in the newly tidy living room with her lunch on a TV tray, and a bottle of diet Coke.

  As she swigged the cold, refreshing cola and ate her turkey s
andwich, loaded with fresh veggies and vinegar and oil, just the way she liked it, she began to feel better.

  She looked around the little living room, at the two big chairs and the sofa on which she sat, all a faded gray, at the oak coffee table and the glass-fronted hutch in one corner full of mementos from various national parks. Then she surveyed the flower prints on the walls—all faded to tones of mauve and gray.

  She looked into the small kitchen with its linoleum floor and counter-tops, which now had a lot more room on them without the microwave and Gran's ancient mixer. She looked at the vintage metal-rimmed Formica kitchen table and chairs by the windows that looked out to the south over the hay fields, and at the matching counter-tops. Pink. A soft, coral-tinged pink, but they were definitely pink.

  Lindi had yellow Formica in her little cafe. Kit and her men had installed sage green granite in their new home.

  Sara inherited pink. She snorted and let her head fall back to the sofa again.

  She thought about her condo, with the high rent, the modern amenities and the lack of lawn, garden or any outdoor privacy except her tiny patio, with room for exactly two small chairs and a cocktail table. She thought about her lack of room there to spread out any creative projects. About how she couldn't even turn up her music if she wanted to. Or work out in her living room, because no thumping on the ceiling of the condo below. About how the condo had not a lick of tradition or family to it.

  This place was full of pink, but it was vintage, and thus cool. She'd inherited her mother's love of all things old, even if she hadn't done anything with that yet. Wait, yes she had. Her toss pillows were all vintage lace and needlepoint, and her bedding was vintage Laura Ashley blue-and-cream. Even her dishes were a combination of white china and random pieces of Fiesta-ware and china.

  Huh. If she were to move in here, she'd want to re-paint, and definitely re-do the bathroom, which was '50s, and not in a good way. But for now, this place was her style, in a way. And it was hers—all four acres of it.