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

by Cathryn Cade

  When he and his companions moved on, the three women looked at each other. Kit growled under her breath. "I was about to kick that blond dude in the nuts. He was staring straight down your top, Lindi."

  "And this is why I love bikers," Lindi said. "They look, but they do it openly, not behind a girls' back."

  Sara laughed and nearly snorted her iced tea. "Yes, they do it openly all right."

  Stick could practically scorch a woman's clothing right off of her with a look. And if that didn't work, he talked and kissed them off. Okay, no. She was not thinking about him. Think about Brad, he was hot and polite.

  And he'd shown her how to do some very cool things with leather. Too bad he didn’t do as much for her libido.

  Done eating, Lindi leaned back in her chair and fluffed her hair. "What are you up to this afternoon?" she asked Sara.

  "Let's see, I'm giving notice at my condo. Then, hiring some local movers to bring my things out to Gran's. But first, I'm stopping by to say hello to my friends at the County Law Building."

  After she fixed her lipstick and finger-combed her hair out to there. She'd donned her new red high-heeled sandals before coming into the cafe.

  Kit took in her expression and smiled. "She's goin' in hot, she's goin' in mean."

  She held up her hand, palm out, and Sara high-fived her. "That's right."

  "Enjoy. And call us later," Lindi pleaded. "I wanna hear all about the sick puppy looks on their faces when they see your new 'free and happy woman' look."

  Sara smiled back at them. "Will do."

  And she did.

  The look of shock and then envy that flitted across Nikki Tupper's face was worth every bit of courage it had taken Sara to saunter back into the CP's main office as if she hadn't a care in the world. The new HR director quelled the look instantly, replacing it with a sugary smile, but Sara had seen it, and that was all that mattered.

  "I do hope you're not having any trouble finding a new position, Sara," the little brunette said, her eyes wide, her voice hushed as if the subject was shameful.

  Sara smiled down at her. "No, Nikki, I'm not," she answered, letting her voice carry through the quiet office. "And don't hold your breath—my new career won't require a reference from you, so I won't be asking. Now excuse me, there are people I actually want to speak with here."

  She leaned in and lowered her voice. “And make sure you’re treating them right.” Then she turned her back and walked away.

  Marlene was waiting for her by her desk, a big smile on her face. She gave Sara a hug, and whispered, "Bet that felt good."

  "You better believe it," Sara agreed, giving her friend a warm hug in return. "M-mm. Miss you."

  "Miss you too. The situation with your former project? Not getting any better. Andrew is not pleased."

  Sara smiled. "How awful for the poor man. I'm devastated for him."

  Then she started to laugh. Marlene shook her head, but she was laughing too.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Sara finished her great afternoon at the condo, sorting her business and off-season clothing into two lots—things she wanted to keep, and things that could go to the UGM along with the bag of casual wear.

  Since she'd finally realized that beige was not, and never had been, her color, two expensive business suits, one summer and one winter, went into the charity stack.

  She kept navy, black and gray pieces that could be worked into ensembles with new, sexier and more casual pieces. She didn't know what her next job would be. It might involve dressing up, but she was never sliding back into her old, blah persona. She'd leave the pale pink tops and beige skirts to Nikki Tupper.

  Finished, she poured herself the last glass of wine from the bottle in the condo kitchen, and sipped it as she sorted out her dishes and cooking equipment.

  By the time she was through, her former life had been reduced to a series of boxes, totes and bags stacked in her kitchen, bedroom, living room and her spare room-office-craft room. And on Monday, a moving crew would come and take them to Gran's house or to charity.

  Then a crew could come in and clean, and Sara could drive away to her new life.

  * * *

  Sara woke the next morning full of energy. Today was Sunday, so she was free to do whatever she wanted. Wait, no—that her old self talking. Now, she was free to do what she wanted every darn day of the week.

  And what she wanted was to get started on her leather work. She made herself a pot of coffee, ate her breakfast of granola, sliced banana and yogurt while using her tablet to check her email and news of the day.

  Finished with this, she showered, dressed in an old pair of shorts and tank with a built-in bra, tied her hair up and back in a messy knot, covered the kitchen table with a plastic table cloth, set out an old wooden cutting board as a work surface, and then carefully laid out her tools, the black leather belt and went over Brad's instructions in her mind.

  Then she shook out her hands, took a deep breath, picked up her new star stamp, her dad's wooden mallet, centered the stamp carefully on one end of the belt, and got to work.

  Later, she dressed for the day, which was sunny and headed for hot according to the weather report, in a sleeveless top, cream with tiny black flowers and a deep vee of black lace at the neckline. This was tucked into a pair of denim cutoffs with her new black belt, which she loved. Although she had hours of work ahead, she'd taken the time to make up her eyes in subtle gray shadows, a hint of blush on her cheekbones and deep pink lip-stain that was meant to last all day.

  With a pair of dangling silver earrings and a silver bangle along with the thin, black, leather wrap bracelet she'd made herself, and black slip-on sport flats, she was ready.

  She left dog food under the hedge, and refilled the water dish there. Then she closed up the house, got in her car, and went shopping.

  That evening, Sara lounged on a new chaise lounge she had purchased at FG Meyer in Spokane. Gran's old lawn chair was in the garbage. At her side was a glass of wine and a new romance novel on her tablet.

  She'd had a good day, and a busy one.

  Arriving home, she'd showered, bundled her hair up in a messy bun, and because it was still hot, wore only a red knit tank dress with built-in bra, and panties. The dress had been in her closet for two years, but she'd never worn it because she just didn't go out in public dressed so minimally.

  Now, she finally had a private yard of her own, where she could sit in comfort, and no one would see or know.

  She was tired, but it was a good tired. She was now officially moved in to this place, and done with her condo. And after the way she'd spoken to Nikki Tupper the day before, she was definitely done working for Kootenai County. But damned if she could bring herself to feel any regret for that.

  She felt ... free. And okay, a little restless, as if she wanted something else, but she could live with that.

  Another drink of wine, and she went back to her story. It was good, about a couple parted by tragedy, thrown back together years later. She sniffled her way through their painful efforts at reconciliation and then sighed with pleasure when, despite everything, the hero could not contain his spiritual and sexual need for the heroine.

  Deep in the love scene, she didn't notice the falling dusk, or the rustling hedge, until a familiar, deep voice cut through her haze of vicarious lust.

  "Must be a good read, from the way you're givin' that chair a workout, blazhinka."

  Sara froze, gaze flicking up over the edge of her tablet. Over the lighted screen, she saw a tall, broad-shouldered man standing a few feet away. As Stick prowled toward her, his taunt penetrated.

  "What? I'm not ..." Oh, crap. She had been squirming in her chair. And she felt all damp and needy. She didn't need to look down to know her nipples thrust against her thin top—she could feel the soft cotton abrading the tips.

  Her face flamed, and the heat spread down her throat and lower, to her chest. She was extremely grateful for the dusk.

  But his c
huckle said it was light enough that Stick noted her embarrassment, and enjoyed it. "What are you doing here?" she snapped. "You left your boys home alone?"

  He tapped something on his heavy leather belt. "Baby monitor. Top of the line. I'm within range here."

  "Oh. Well, that's good." At least he wasn't leaving them alone to hassle her.

  "I saw your dog around today," he told her. "Not a friendly animal, he won't let me near."

  Sara sat up. "You did? Did he look okay? I've been feeding him, and I know he's eating, but I haven't had a good look at him."

  He grunted. "He's been on his own for a while, maybe. In the morning, try to get him to come to you. If that doesn't work ..." he shook his head.

  "If that doesn't work, what?" she asked, alarmed.

  "I can't have a big, dangerous animal around my boys. If you can't call the dog in, I'll have to shoot it."

  "No! You are not shooting that dog, Stick Vanko. That's awful. I'll—I'll call animal control, see if they can tranquilize him, or give me something to put in his food."

  "Allergy tablets in some peanut butter," he said promptly, amiably. "Works every time. Dogs are crazy for peanut butter. Soon as he’s down for a nap, call me, we'll make sure he gets to the vet and gets his shots. Then you can assess his behavior."

  "And how would you know about tranquilizing dogs?" she asked dryly. She'd been had. He hadn't been planning to shoot the dog at all, he just wanted her to agree to claim the animal.

  He winked at her. "Heard it from some guys I know. They may have broken into a few auto wrecking yards in their time."

  She should have known. Sara pulled her legs up and leaned her chin on her bare knees, regarding him with equal parts wariness and fascination as he sat on the end of the lounger, elbows on his knees. "Have you ever done that?"

  "Maybe, when I was young and stupid, a long time ago. Now I buy what I want, or ask for it."

  A shiver ran through her at the look in his eyes. She should shake her head and tell him to go back to his place, and to his boys. Instead, she gazed up into his light eyes as he twisted to plant his big hands on the lounger on either side of her hips, and leaned closer, so close she could smell his warm, clean, just-showered male scent, and feel his warm breath on her chin and lips.

  "I am asking, milaya," he murmured, his hands moving to settled on her hips, and squeeze gently.

  With a nearly super-human effort, Sara broke free of the spell of his voice, his scent and nearness. She shoved him, hard. He rocked back, the chair creaking under the move.

  "Well, don't ask," she snapped. "You need to stay away from me."

  Stick gave her a strange look. "What the fuck? No, I'm not going to stay away. You're here."

  "And that's all it takes for you, huh? Proximity? I'm here because this is my Gran's house. You're the one who came through the fence, onto my property."

  He tilted his head and regarded her like a strange new species of puzzle. Then his look settled into a now familiar smirk, and he shook his head chidingly.

  "Blazhinka, you may be fooling yourself but you're not fooling me. If you didn't want to be close, you could have sold this place to me, and moved over to Coeur d'Alene with your girls, or anywhere else. But you stayed right here." He stabbed a finger at the ground beneath their feet. "Here, where I am."

  Sara stared at him. "No, I ... I didn't."

  He was still watching her, his blue eyes softer, warmer than she'd ever seen them.

  Was it possible he was right? Had she been lying to herself about the reason for her fierce determination to hang onto this place?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Sara clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. With a deep, triumphant growl, Stick swooped. He grasped her bare legs, parted them to make a place for himself, and moved over her. The back of the chair lurched under her as he found the mechanism and lowered it to nearly flat, leaving her on her back in the cushions with a huge, muscular biker looming over her.

  A biker with intentions made clear by the long hard shape in his jeans as he settled over her on his elbows, his narrow hips in the vee of her thighs, and his broad, hard chest pillowed on her breasts.

  He leaned closer, his beard and his nose brushing her cheek as he murmured into her ear. "You stayed because I’m here. And we both know it."

  Then he kissed her, nudging her lips with his, drawing her lower lip between his and nipping it gently, then licking it with the tip of his tongue. Entranced, her head spinning in a sweet whirlpool of feminine submission, Sara cupped his bearded face in her palms and pulled him down for a proper kiss, his mouth locking over hers, his tongue demanding play.

  He tasted of beer and mint. He'd showered and brushed his teeth before he came over. This small thing filled her heart with a burst of joy and drowned the voice of caution that was reminding her that her last time with him had not ended well, for her at least.

  It helped that he thumbed her nipple to vibrant life as he kissed her, and then thrust his other hand underneath her, filling his hands with her bare bottom and squeezing. When his fingers slid farther, delving into her wetness, Sara mewled into his mouth, and arched under him, pushing into his touch.

  "Sweet," he muttered against her mouth, tugging at her top, and then bending his head to nuzzle the flesh he bared. "Sweet, clean woman ... wet for me."

  "Stick," she breathed, stroking his head and wriggling her shoulders to help him tug the dress down her arm. She fought free of first one strap, then the other, and he grunted his approval, sucking her nipple into his hot, wet mouth and lashing it with his tongue and he caressed her labia, teasing her with his blunt fingertips until her pussy spasmed in need and want.

  She let go his hair and reached down to tug at the hem of his tee. He reached back with one hand and tugged it over his head, leaving Sara with a banquet of male torso, broad and hard, his chest with sparse curls of hair, his burly shoulders, his biceps, muscles bulging under satin skin. And his back, long and lean, heavy muscles cording under his skin as he tugged her dress the rest of the way off, her panties going with it.

  "That's more like it," he approved, reaching between them to unfasten his pants. He planted his elbow beside her shoulder, and reached to palm her open sex, stroking through the wetness sleeking her. His firm, knowing touch electrified her, and when he thrust two long, knobby fingers inside her, she cried out in pleasure.

  "Stick, more. I want—I want you."

  "You want my cock?" he dipped his head to suckle her other breast, humming with enjoyment. "Or you want my big ego, huh?"

  Sara reached down and captured his length in her hand, thick and long, hot surging satin in her fingers. "I want this—now!"

  He let out a hiss of breath, pushing into her touch. "Christ, woman. Wait."

  He ripped something in his teeth, and handed it to her, a small flat packet. "Condom."

  Sara nearly whined her disappointment at even this delay, but she worked quickly as she could in the dark, smoothing the thin latex over his cock. "Didn't know they came in this size," she mumbled.

  He kissed her, smiling. "Be glad they do. Because then your pussy gets this size, too, yeah?"

  Since he was pushing into her as he spoke, she could only agree. "Yeah. Oh, yeah."

  Their groans of pleasure mingled. He shoved his hand under her again, lifted her up into him, and began to thrust, long, hard thrusts that drove his cock into her deep as he could go.

  This time, she was sober. This time, she felt every move, every nuance of his thick, beautiful cock moving inside her, his hands and mouth on her, his powerful body over hers, moving and moving her with him. His mouth and beard on her face, his breath mingling with hers as he cursed, hot blue commands and urgings to give it to him, all of it, yes, keep moving just like that, now come, come for him, come all over his cock.

  And she did, and it was the best, hottest sex she had ever had in her life. She let him drive her up the long, exhilarating slope and flung herself joyously off the
top with him, in free-falling bliss, locked in his arms. He stiffened, and let out a muffled roar of completion, his grip tightening convulsively as he shuddered mightily in her embrace.

  Afterward, she clung to him, panting, laughing a little even as tears wet her cheeks and shivers of bliss ricocheted through her body, from where he was still locked deep inside her.

  He was quiet, his head tipped down beside hers, his chest heaving over hers as he breathed hard. The skin of his back was damp with sweat, and she felt a drop run from his temple into her hair. She didn't mind a bit.

  Smiling beatifically, Sara stroked her bare foot down his long thigh and hugged him.

  "Wow," she murmured, her voice throaty with satisfaction. "That was even better when we're both sober. We should definitely do it this way from now on."

  Maybe some part of her knew the words were a mistake the instant she said them. But still, it took her a few seconds to realize just how much of a mistake.

  He'd gone very quiet. Then he lifted his head, and pushed himself up on a hand and one knee, reaching down to hold onto the condom as he eased out of her. With one athletic move, he was gone from her arms, on his feet by the foot of the chair and fastening his jeans.

  Sara curled up to a sitting position, pushing her hair back from her face. She watched as he bent and swiped his shirt from the grass. "Stick?"

  It was dark now, only a rim of lighter blue in the west and the stars to light the sky, but the set of his shoulders, and the way he held his head back, as if he was looking at her with a cold, assessing gaze, chilled the rest of her glow of satiation and joy. Leaving her just a tall, plump woman, naked after allowing her neighbor, with whom she was barely on speaking terms, to have her in her back yard.

  He still had said not a word. She waited for a few more seconds, and then let out a huff of disgust—at him, and at herself. Her heart squeezed with hurt. How had she done this again? Let him take everything he wanted, and leave her with nothing—well, except a great orgasm.