by Cathryn Cade
Sara barely noticed. "I came to thank you for my new security system," she told Stick. "And to say, I was invited to dinner by another man. He's a nice guy. So, I'm not trying to play you against each other, Ivan. But you need to let me know, am I wearing this dress for him, or for you?"
Stick surged out of his chair and prowled to her. One hand on her ass, he yanked her to him, solid against his hard body.
"You'll call him and tell him you won't be going to dinner or anything else," he told her, his deep voice carrying through the hush that once again held the clubhouse. "You come into my club and claim me in front of my brothers and other women ... that means this dress and all that's in it—tits, ass, pussy and the brave heart that goes with them—are all mine. You claim me, sladkiy moye, and I claim you ... as my old lady."
He bent closer and murmured, just for her. "That bitch was coming on to me, Sara, not the other way around. That's gonna happen, but hear this, I'll always let other women know, I've got all the sladkiy—all the honey I can handle, right here in my arms."
Sara's heart swelled, and this time she knew, she could trust this feeling, and this man. "Oh, Ivan. Ya lyublyu tebya."
She could tell by the way his eyes widened, that she’d shocked him, and by the way they then crinkled that she'd murdered the pronunciation. Russian was not an easy language.
But he gave her a squeeze and answered, "Me too, milaya. Me too."
Then he kissed her, bending her back to claim her mouth with his in a deep, wet, sweet kiss.
Around them a roar went up. The Devil's Flyers, Airway Heights, Washington chapter had a new first old lady. This was cause for celebration.
Calls went out, bikes and pickups and cars rolled in, and the party grew and went on into the hot, summer night.
Stick Vanko and his old lady took time out to celebrate on their own in his room.
As she lay in his arms, Sara lifted her head. "Ivan, when I said that about Brad being a nice guy, I wasn't really comparing you. I know you sometimes take the law into your own hands, but … I also trust you to do it only when you really find it necessary."
"Okay," he said, waiting for the rest.
She swallowed. "Ivan ... what happened to Twig? I want to know."
He gave her a grim look. "No, you don't, milaya."
'"Yes, I do," she whispered. '"I was involved. If he hadn't attacked me and tried for the boys, you wouldn't have had to deal with him. And if I'm yours now, I want to be strong for you. That includes sharing consequences with you. I'm not leaving you to bear this alone.'
He gave her a long look. "All right, this once, since he attacked you, I'll share. He's at the bottom of a lake, where he'll never be found—not Coeur d'Alene, 'cause Keys lives on that one, and he doosn't need his own blood in the bottom of it, no matter how much the sadistic little shithead deserved to die. Now, you, me & two others know, that's it. And you're never to tell a living soul, you get me?"
"All right." She nodded, and then leaned over him, curving her arms around his head and pulling him to her breast. "All right, Ivan. You did what you had to do. And now the boys are safe."
His arms came up around her again, holding her close. "And you, Sara. I'll always keep you safe too. That, you can count on."
These sweet words led to more kissing, which led predictably to even more. After they dressed again, the couple wandered back out to party with their friends and family.
To Sara's delight, Jack and Lindi, Keys and Kit and Remi arrived. Velvet and Webb came, bringing the boys with them for a while. They raced to their father and Sara, and for the first time Sara received their exuberant hugs.
Pete Vanko hugged Sara too, and waggled his brows at her. "You'll be a step-mama. Sure you're ready for that?"
"Are you kidding? The boys are the real reason I'm taking your brother on."
A deep chuckle sounded behind her, and Stick pulled her back against his side. "Then I guess I'll have to give you some more. You'll look good with my babies in your belly."
Sara gave a little shiver of pleasure at the thought of a blond baby like the twins to cuddle and love. But she rolled her eyes at her bossy biker man. "In a couple of years, okay? I have plans."
He gave her a look full of heat and promise that made her shiver even harder. "I have plans too, for lots and lots of fucking and other fun."
Sara slapped her fingers over his mouth, and Pete snickered. "This is gonna be interesting. You sure you're not too classy for the likes of us, Sara?"
Sara smiled up at her man, her fingers now caressing his warm lips and the short curls in his beard. "He's a little rough around the edges, but I've got just the tools to smooth him a little."
Stick smiled. "Yes, you do, milaya. Right here."
He squeezed her ass, and then kissed her again.
"Right," Pete said. “I’ll just go mingle.”
They didn’t notice him go.
A catering truck pulled in with delicious Mexican food, Pete brought kegs from the brewery, and Marta, who apologized tearfully to Sara for her mistake in thinking Sara was just another club hanger-on.
Sara hugged everyone, cried a little with her best friends, ate dinner with her three best guys, then said goodnight to the boys. She drank too many shots of cinnamon whiskey, danced and partied until she fell asleep in her new place, on the Flyers' president's lap, at his table.
Jack and Keys, sitting across the table from their friend and brother, raised a toast to Stick and the woman he held so tenderly.
"Told you, man," Jack said smugly. "Sweet as honey."
Stick Vanko lifted his chin to both of them in acknowledgment of this truth, but also with a touch of arrogance, because he knew what he had here, in this place and these people.
"Vse eto moye, sladkiy eto moye," he said. Then he grinned and raised his glass along with his voice. "Devil's Flyers. Ride free, live well, and raise hell."
"The Flyers!" Jack and Keys called, and drank with him.
Then they went back to enjoying their own share of the honey. Jack found Lindi and gave her a deep, sweet kiss. Keys moved onto the dance floor where Remi and Kit were swaying, and put his arms around them both.
These Flyers knew when they had a sweet life in their grasp, and they meant to hang on as long as they were able.
* * *
RUSSIAN & SPANISH WORDS
Russian
blazhinka (blah-JHEEN-ka) = blonde or 'blondie'
bratik (BRAH-teek) = big brother
dorogoy moya (DOR-oh-goy MOY-yah) = my sweetheart
maladshiy (mah-LAHD-shee) = little brother, or 'brat'
milaya moya (mee-LAY-ah MOY-yah) = my pretty one
prostite pozhaluysta (pro-STEET-eh poh-jhah-lyoo-shtah) = I'm so sorry
sladkiy moya (SLAHD-kee MOY-yah) = my honey
spasibo (SPAH-see-boh) = thanks
serdtse moya (SEHRT-say MOY-yah) = my heart
Vse eto moye, sladkiy eto moye = All this is mine, and the honey is mine.
Ya lyublyu tebya (ya lu-BLUE teeb-YA) = I love you
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Sweet & Dirty BBW Romance
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Excerpt from Bk 4, FOLLOW THE HONEY
<
br /> Coming in 2016 …
Book Four
Follow the Honey
featuring Lesa and Peter Vanko
After she’s fired unjustly for embezzling from a brewpub owned by the Devil’s Flyers MC, a revenge prank is the worst idea this bubbly, BBW brunette ever had. But when she’s caught in the act by her hot boss, he has a very adult punishment in mind, starting with holding her hostage in his secluded house.
Lesa Bruer has solid goals—build a white-collar career that will make her father proud, find a steady, faithful man to marry, and help her younger sisters do the same. But she's better at waitressing than crunching numbers, she has a massive crush on her hot, man-slut boss, and a bad habit of acting on impulse. None of which make her a good candidate for the life she plans ... and puts her first in line for the Devil’s own consequences.
Pete Vanko co-owns the best brewpub and grill in Airway Heights WA. As a member of the Devil's Flyers MC, he works hard and plays hard, with all the women he wants. Life is good—until fate drops a sweet but feisty brunette in his lap, with curves that won't quit and a knack for getting into trouble.
Now to save her and his brewpub, Pete must set a trap for a ring of dangerous thieves … but the one he really wants to discipline is Lesa.
CHAPTER ONE
Lesa Bruer crouched in the inky shadows cast by a pickup truck. And not just any truck—this was Pete Vanko’s classic, 1954 Chevy, rebuilt and lovingly restored.
For a long, aching moment she stared up at the dark, faintly gleaming hulk, inhaling the scents of gasoline, leather upholstery, a faint whiff of shaving cologne, and the fresh night air of the Eastern Washington prairie, still warm from the heat of the August sun. At nearly three a.m., with only a sliver of moon above, it was dark, but the truck’s sleek, rounded outline was just visible in the glow of a night yard lamp from outside the open shed.
It was so quiet her ragged breathing was the only sound over the night breeze.
She braced her left hand against the truck door, the metal smooth as silk under her palm. In her right hand, she clutched a key, so tightly that one sharp edge dug into her palm. The sharp pain loosed the fiery ache of tears pressing behind her eyes. She sucked in a breath that turned to a shaky sob, and then fell to her knees, head bowing, long hair falling about her face as she voiced a moan of sheer frustration.
She was such a failure. She couldn’t even do what she came to do—exact a richly deserved revenge on Peter Vanko.
Everyone at The Hangar Brewpub & Grill knew he loved this truck, that he'd worked for months to restore it from a rusted hulk found in an old barn. Now, even though she couldn’t see well in the darkness under the covered parking area beside his big old house, Lesa could picture the deep, glowing bronze of the body, the faint, red ghost flames layered on the nose, and his brewpub’s red-white-and-blue emblem on the doors.
Pete drove into Airway Heights six days a week, just before ten a.m., one elbow propped on the truck’s open window frame, shoulder-length, blonde hair ruffling in the Eastern Washington prairie breeze around his angular, tanned face, his broad shoulders relaxed as he rode out the slight bumps of the small town roads.
And five of those days, he passed her small, rented house just off the main street just as she was walking out her front door, having fed the stray cat that had taken up residence under her back porch, and watered the two pots of flowers that graced her front porch.
At first she’d waved to him, but stopped after a few days, because he rarely bothered to look at her, or if he did it was with an enigmatic twist of his lips, nearly a smirk, his crystalline blue eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses.
But she’d thought he liked her a little. That he at least respected her willingness to work hard and do whatever it took to help keep The Hangar thriving and growing.
Then today, without any warning, he’d called her into his office and told her, his voice cold, some fierce emotion burning deep in his eyes, that she was fired. “Clean out your things, and go. You’ll receive a paycheck for the next two weeks, but I don’t want you at The Hangar anymore—not even scrubbing toilets.”
He hadn’t bothered to say this privately, either. He’d left his office door wide open, so everyone else in the place—the two grill cooks, the two waitress-barmaids, and Marta, the former bookkeeper, could hear.
Stunned as if he’d slapped her across the face, her breath frozen in the icy void that was her chest, Lesa had barely been able to form the single word, “Why?”
In answer, his angled jaw clenching, eyes going even icier, Pete had flung two sheets of paper on the desk between them. Two balance sheets, showing costs for the same list of brewery and restaurant supplies. Only they didn’t match. On one sheet, the costs were higher, several amounts circled in red.
Shaking her head, Lesa had looked up to find him watching her with the closed, pitiless glare of a man wronged by a trusted employee.
“But I didn’t,” she’d fumbled, her voice numb with shock. “I—I wouldn’t. I’m not a … a thief. I'm not!”
“There’s no one else it could have been,” he’d said, his deep voice cold and clear.
Of course there was, but when Lesa had opened her mouth to correct him, he’d preempted her.
“You expect me to believe Marta would do this? A woman I know much better than you?” His mouth curled in disgust, nostrils flaring. “Not happening, so don’t bother giving me that wounded, innocent look. Just get your things and go.”
In shock, Lesa had grabbed her purse and the picture of her with her two younger sisters, and stumbled out to the parking lot, past the wide-eyed stares of her fellow employees. Pico and Joe, the two young cooks, had given her looks of wounded sympathy. Bett and Sylvie had looked away, faces pinched as if she’d wronged them. Marta, a lovely, slim red-head, had watched Lesa's every move, her face a haughty mask.
Lesa’s own face had burned with humiliation, her eyes blurred with tears as she stumbled out of the brewpub into the baking heat of the afternoon sun. She’d drifted home in a daze of misery, unable to believe how quickly her dreams had exploded in her face.
It had taken her the rest of the afternoon and evening to figure out what had happened, but she’d finally done it.
She knew who’d embezzled the money from the brewpub, and she knew why Peter Vanko had been so ready to believe she was to blame. Because the embezzler was Marta—had to be her. The redhead was on her way to another job, she knew the books and Pete intimately, and she had reason to be angry with him.
Marta, who strutted through the brewpub in the latest fashions, on stiletto heels, her hair and makeup always perfect. Who spoke with a Russian accent as pretty as she was, and often lapsed intimately into her native tongue with Pete and his older brother, Stick, and evidently babysat the other man’s little boys.
Marta’s own brothers, three lean, handsome young men with sharp eyes, liked to frequent the brewpub and talk in Russian about Lesa and any other women in the place, while Marta shook her head but laughed along with them. Lesa could tell from their sly grins that their remarks were not complimentary, and most likely very suggestive.
Marta had been Pete’s girlfriend, or at least his hookup, for months. Until the last few weeks, when Lesa had noticed Pete ignoring the redhead while she cast wounded looks his way, and then flirted under his nose with other attractive men. It hadn’t seemed--to Lesa’s guilty pleasure--to do her much good, but Pete must have minded after all, if he didn’t want to believe Marta had stolen from him.
Now, dropping the key on the dusty pavement under her knees, Lesa wept for the unfairness of it all. Pete Vanko was never going to be interested in her, when he could have women like Marta, and according to Bett and Sylvie, plenty of other wild party girls who frequented the Devil’s Flyers’ clubhouse.
And he’d shown her his lack of interest in spades--he’d humiliated her in front of her fellow employees, and the entire town. Lesa didn’t bother to kid herself that the news wasn’t
all over Airway Heights by now. She’d have to leave, and find a job somewhere else.
And she loved it here, damn him. She’d had plans and dreams. So maybe they’d included him--she could scrub him from her rosy future and sub in some other guy, a nice one. One who’d treat her with respect, not look at her as if she was a piece of refuse on his pub floor.
She might as well go home, and start trying to forget him tonight.
She sucked in a long, shaky breath, and then froze as she heard a low, chilling sound in the shadows, the growl of a large dog. Very slowly, she turned her head.
“G-good dog,” she managed, her voice thick. “Good boy, Dima.”
The growl softened, then morphed into a low whine, as a bulky, dark shape materialized in the narrow space between the truck and the side of the garage. As hot, moist breath assaulted her, Lesa lifted her hands, warding off a wet nose. With a happy groan of greeting, Pete’s big dog moved closer, crowding her against the wall, trying to lick her face.
Dima was part German Shepherd and part who-knew-what. She was brown, with touches of black, and despite her forbidding size and looks, extremely friendly to people she knew. She often accompanied Pete to work, wandering the non-public areas of the brewery, office and the graveled sweep behind the building or snoozing on a dog bed in the office, while Pete simply ignored the regulations about animals in a place where food and drink was produced.
“Sh-sh,” Lesa pleaded. “Okay, okay. I’m g-glad to see you, too. Or at least I would be, if—oh, never mind. Let me up.”
“Now why,” drawled a deep voice from behind her, “Would I want him to do that?”
Lesa gasped, horror stiffening her shoulders. Oh, no. Oh, no--he’d caught her. As her hands went lax, Dima seized the chance to lick her chin with a long, wet tongue.
A light shone into her eyes, blinding her. She winced away from it, pushing at the dog’s big head as she gave her cheek a wet swipe.