Sugar on Top (Sugar, Georgia Book 2)

by Marina Adair

  She gasped. He didn’t move. Just stood there, holding on tightly and welcoming the feeling of finally being inside her, being with her. Glory was doing the same thing and he wondered if she felt as thrown by how irrevocably right this felt.

  She shifted her hips ever so slowly, tightening her arms around his neck until there wasn’t even air between them and they started moving together. Slowly at first, then he braced her up against the grill so his hand could participate, stroking every inch he could reach, stretching for some of the more important spots.

  She started to tighten around him, a good thing since he was about ready to lose it, and did this little swivel action with her hips. Breathing turned nonexistent, his chest felt too big for his skin, and he wanted to run and stay right there forever, all at the same time.

  She lifted up and clenched before sliding all the way back down his length and—

  He buried his face deeper into her neck. “Christ, you feel so good.”

  She did it again, only this time she lifted her head to meet his gaze straight on, looking at him as though he was one of the good ones and—bam—things got serious. Real fast.

  Cal gripped her hips and rose up, moving faster and deeper. He wanted to make this last, wanted to blow away every “what-if” she’d had about them, but then she clenched again and her head fell back, thrusting those magnificent breasts out while sexy little moans escaped her mouth, which officially drove him right over the fucking line.

  The pressure built, hotter and higher, and he fought to keep himself in check, but her thighs tightened around his waist until he thought he’d pass out and then, thank you, Jesus, he felt her start to shake and she pushed down as he came up. The sweetest sound he’d ever heard was his name on Glory’s lips.

  Which worked for him since he was mumbling her name as he finally gave in to the heat. Everything went black and he dropped his head to her shoulder, pressed his face to her throat, and took her in, while Glory collapsed against him, both breathing hard.

  “I was going to ask if you wanted to come in for a cold beverage,” she said after a long moment.

  “Mighty neighborly of you,” he chuckled and, when he was able to look up without dropping her, pressed a dozen or so gentle kisses to her throat, making his way up to her mouth, and once he got there, it was slow and languid and oh so perfect.

  Which scared the shit out of him.

  It was almost noon when Glory finally stirred. Well, opened her eyes was more like it. Hard to stir with two-hundred-plus pounds of solid man wrapped around her.

  Cal’s face was pillowed between her breasts, his leg was draped over her thighs, and his hand cupped her butt like he owned it—after last night and twice already this morning, he totally did.

  She was pretty sure he owned her heart, too. Not that he needed to know that. She’d just gotten him open to the idea of exploring the possibility of more; she didn’t need to burden him with any kind of declaration. Glory wasn’t that dumb.

  She was also far too sated to declare. Multiple orgasms could do that to a girl. They could also leave her grinning like an idiot because, unlike the rest of Glory’s life, which had been one big game of wait and watch and wonder, last night had been the first real step toward creating the kind of future she deserved.

  Instead of waiting for her life to start, for love to find her, or for the big “what-if” to finally reveal itself, Glory had gone after what she wanted—and he was currently twisted around her like a big, naked, manly pretzel. A pretzel whose hands were on the move.

  “You can’t be serious,” she said and he shifted, his statement of just how serious he was pressing hard against her thigh. “We have been in bed for ten hours and I think we’ve slept a total of two.”

  “We didn’t make it through all of your panties yet,” he mumbled sleepily, gently biting her shoulder. “And I am still waiting for the red pair.”

  “I don’t have a red pair.” She had black, blue, teal, pink, yellow, polka dots, stripped, a lime green pair, which currently hung from her bedpost, and orange ones with little NO HUNTING signs on them. But no red.

  As he already knew.

  Last night, after they’d stumbled inside, he tossed her on the bed and proceeded to riffle through her drawer, pulling out, inspecting, and making her model each and every pair she owned. Sometimes in conjunction with his jacket, sometimes without, but he always insisted on taking them off himself.

  With his teeth.

  Without warning, Cal rolled on top of Glory, pinning her hands above her head. “I still think you’re holding out on me, Boots.”

  “You’re joking, right? You tore through my entire collection.”

  “There are three things a Southern man never jokes about. Bacon, morning sex, and—”

  “Let me guess, football?”

  “I was going to say panty collections.” Then his face went serious. “And, Boots, no one in the South jokes about football. No one.”

  She rolled her eyes and shoved at him; the big jerk didn’t budge. “I’m not holding out. Now, get off, I need to study.”

  “For what?” His gaze slid over her breasts and she shivered. “Human anatomy? Because I am an expert on the female form.”

  Yes, yes, he was. Too bad her final was on Pediatric Health Theory. “Nope, and I need to study. So this”—she looked at his most impressive erection pressing into her stomach—“will have to wait.”

  He studied her long and hard until she wanted to say forget hitting the books and hit it—again. With him.

  “Does your final cover the power of panties or”—he shifted again—“the lack thereof?”

  Didn’t she wish. “Sorry.”

  He frowned, then delivered a hot smack to the mouth and rolled off her, walking his naked backside out of her room, not even bothering to put on his pants.

  “Where are you going?” she asked, straining to see him mosey into the kitchen.

  “Since panties and morning sex are off the menu and the Falcons don’t play until tomorrow, I’m going to fry up some bacon. And maybe make you some flapjacks.”

  “Do you even know how to make flapjacks?”

  He peeked his head back in and waggled a brow. “I am a flapjack master.”

  “I thought you were the panty master.”

  He winked. “That, too.”

  Chapter 16

  Early Monday morning, Cal gently tapped on Payton’s door. She didn’t answer, which wasn’t a shocker since she hadn’t said much on the trip home, had said even less during dinner last night—about the pageant or the possibility of her moving to Texas. She’d cleared her plate, asked to be excused, and gone to bed.

  But this morning, he’d awoken to find a slice of astonishingly good rise-and-shine cake, a Miss Peach application on his desk, complete with the required essay, and a note asking him to read before making a decision.

  So he had. Twice. And damn if it hadn’t broken his heart.

  How had he missed the fact that the pageant was his daughter’s way of connecting with Tawny? That it was a heartfelt attempt to gain her mother’s attention and approval?

  Easy. He’d been so focused on Payton being right in front of him that he forgot to see her, actually see what she was going through. And damn it if that didn’t seem to be a recurring problem with the women in his life.

  He raised his knuckle and tapped again; he knew she was awake, could hear her texting through the wall.

  A moment later the door creaked open and his daughter’s solemn face peeked through the crack. Her eyes were puffy and her skin blotchy, and if there was one thing he hated more than seeing Payton cry, it was knowing he was the cause.

  “Can I come in?” he asked, praying she said yes but willing to leave it be for a while if she said no.

  And in true teen fashion, Payton did neither, just walked over to her bed and left the door ajar.

  Deciding to take that as an invitation, Cal followed, not giving her a chance to renege. Also, bi
g point to Dad, not commenting on the length of her shorts—nonexistent—or how the new top Tawny bought her showed her bra straps.

  Didn’t even mention the strapless blue dress that hung on her closet door. Maybe it was because they were all signs, signs he’d been determined to ignore, that somewhere between playing dress-up and pajama parties, his little girl had grown up.

  She didn’t speak, wouldn’t even look at him. Just plopped down on her bed, pulled her knees to her chest, and hugged the stuffed toad he’d bought her for her tenth birthday, and suddenly Cal’s chest ached, because he got it. Her growing up was just as hard for her as it was for him, maybe even harder.

  “I tried your breakfast cake. It was really great.”

  “Mom and I made some yesterday for breakfast. She’d put a cube of butter instead of a cup of butter when she e-mailed me the recipe.” That would explain the brick-like texture. “It was going to be my Miss Peach talent.”

  “Speaking of Miss Peach, I read your application and I thought a lot about what you and your mom said.”

  He wanted to talk about whether she’d thought about moving like she’d promised, and what she’d decided, but he knew that he had to bridge this gap first.

  “It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said with a fragile smile, and a bad feeling started low in Cal’s gut. “Mom texted me.” She held up her cell. “I guess they got the house she wanted, so she has to get their old one ready to go on the market. She can’t make it to the pageant.”

  He felt frustration and helplessness and a giant heaping of anger swell up and strangle him—which made him want to strangle Tawny. She got Payton all excited, excited enough to go behind his back, and now she was bailing and leaving behind a heartbroken daughter and a mess for him to clean up. Payton deserved better than that. And so did he.

  “I’m sorry to hear that, baby.” He sat down next to her and leaned back against the headboard, resting his hand on her knee. “You put a lot of time and heart into that essay.”

  She plucked distractedly at the fur around Hopper’s foot, and when she looked back up, her face was a one-two punch to the gut: heartache and apology.

  “I thought it would be fun, you know. Mom always talks about being Miss Georgia State and how cool it was.” Cal didn’t have the heart to tell her that it was only cool because Tawny had emotionally peaked at nineteen. “And then when I went there this summer, she took me to get head shots and try on dresses and I know I should have told you before, but I wanted to talk to you about entering the pageant with Mom here because…”

  She paused and Cal could tell she was debating between telling the whole truth and the dad-friendly truth. He decided to help her out. “Because you thought the two of you could corner me into saying yes?”

  She nodded and her eyes went glassy. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I just wanted to do it so bad and I knew that you’d say no, so I went behind your back.”

  Unable to help himself, he pulled her to him, relieved when she didn’t resist and instead melted into his side, laying her head on his shoulder like she used to. “I don’t like being lied to or manipulated. Family doesn’t work that way.”

  “I know,” she whispered on a sniffle.

  “But I’m also sorry I made you feel like you couldn’t come to me and talk about it.” She tilted her face up, all wide-eyed with surprise—like he’d never apologized before. “That’s not very family-like either.”

  And if he wanted to keep his family together, he had some growing up to do, too.

  “I love you so much it makes me crazy because I want to keep you safe, make sure you’re happy, and that sometimes means saying no, even when I know you want me to say yes.”

  “I know,” she said, trying to sound all put out and one hundred percent teenager, but coming off more wounded than anything. And that was when Cal decided to make good on his promise to keep her safe and happy, because right now she was about as miserable as a girl could get.

  He pulled her application out of his back pocket and handed it to her. She looked down at the scrawl on the bottom and with a gasp, shot up, elbowing him in the ribs in the process. “You signed it.”

  He did. And it had taken everything he had to do it, but in the end he realized that Payton was an amazing kid and she deserved his support—even if she did go about getting it the wrong way.

  “I’m sorry your mom can’t come, I know how much you were looking forward to spending time with her. But if you still want to do Miss Peach, I’d love to help. I don’t know a lot about pageants or rise-and-shine cake, but I’m sure that between the two of us, we can figure it out. Like always.”

  Payton looked at his signature again, then squealed and launched herself at him. He tightened his arms and breathed her in, noting that under all of the fancy shampoo and watermelon lip gloss, she smelled exactly the same—like home.

  “Thankyouthankyouthankyou.”

  “Just promise me something, kiddo.” He took her face in his hands to make sure she understood how serious he was, so she could see how much he loved her, and what an amazing young woman he thought she was. “Make sure that you do this for you. Not to make your mom happy or me crazy or impress some boy who won’t matter in two years.” He tried hard not to stress the last part. “Do it for you, your way.”

  “I promise,” she said on a little stutter, another tear escaping down her cheek. And even though watching her cry ripped out his heart, the hug she gave him went a long way to making everything all right. “You have no idea how much this means.”

  Even though the idea of her in that dress gave him heartburn, he knew signing the application was the right thing to do. If they were going to make it through the next few years, they were going to have to start trusting each other. And that meant he was going to have to start seeing Payton for the beautiful young lady she was becoming—and treating her accordingly.

  Oh, there were still going to be rules, and he was still going to have to put his foot down at times, but he was willing to have an open discussion about how they could both give a little.

  “Wait.” Payton pulled back, once again weary. “You’ve seen the dress, right?”

  “Yes.” He was trying to block it from his memory.

  “And you do know that there will be dancing? With boys? And me? Me and boys dancing to slow music.”

  Cal ran a hand over her face. It was a fact he’d been wrestling with all weekend. “Yes, I was once a teenage boy and remember Cotillion well.” Almost too well. “Which is why we will be setting some guidelines.”

  Her body slumped and she gave him a here we go look of exasperation.

  “But first why don’t you tell me what’s important to you about being in the pageant and we’ll see how we can make that happen while keeping me sane.”

  Glory awoke to two beady eyes starting her down. When she feigned sleep, Road Kill shuffled closer, sticking his wet nose against hers and letting her know the gig was up.

  “Five more minutes,” she mumbled sleepily and rolled over when he made it clear that he wasn’t going anywhere until she fed him.

  She had stayed up most of the weekend studying for her final; the rest had been spent mooning over her date with Cal. The date that started Friday night and lasted well into Saturday afternoon when she finally had to put on something other than panties and drag herself to work. And now she had to drag herself to class if she was going to make it to her final in time.

  A low rustling, followed by irritated gnawing, came from beneath the bed.

  “No, Road Kill!” She leaned over the bed and lifted the bed skirt, catching Road Kill red clawed, his little teeth wrapped around the waistband of her favorite neon green panties, his front claw holding them by the crotch. “One bite and you’ll end up as someone’s shoes.”

  Road Kill stopped to consider this, then with a deep grunt reared his head back, ripping her panties right down the center. Then dropped them and waddled to the kitchen—where Glory assumed he was waiting for his breakf
ast.

  With a sigh, she rolled out of bed and padded after him, nearly tripping over the anthill of panties in the middle of the room. There was a gnawed corncob sticking out from beneath it.

  She looked at Road Kill, hands on her hips in the most intimidating pose she owned. He looked at his bowl and then pushed it closer. And so her day began.

  It was well past lunch by the time Glory pulled into the hospital’s parking lot to start her shift. She had taken and aced her final—thank you very much—picked up the last batch of pageant applications from town hall, and printed out her proposal for Charlotte to look over. All she had left to do was arrange for the bleachers at the high school to be delivered to the Country Club, deliver the finalized list of Miss Peach entries to the Sugar Gazette, and get through her shift. Then she could go home and sleep until tomorrow.

  She parked her car in the usual spot and watched in sweet surprise as Cal pushed off the wall and came toward her car, taking slow, easy strides that rejuvenated every inch of her body with sudden alertness and bone-tingling interest.

  She opened her door right as he stepped off the curb and into her space. Not that she was complaining. He looked good. And he smelled even better. Like summer air, sawdust, and…fresh-cut flowers?

  “For you,” he said, pulling a bouquet of dahlias out from behind his back—red, of course. It was a simple but elegant bunch, tied together at the stems with a silky red ribbon that crisscrossed its way all the up to the base of the bouquet.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, taking a heavenly whiff of the arrangement and promising herself she wouldn’t cry. She had never received flowers from a man before. That they were from Cal made them even more special. “What are these for?”

  “For acing your final.”

  She blinked. “How do you know I aced it? Professor Clark hasn’t even posted the grades yet.” Although he had agreed to grade Glory’s final while she waited after class, since so much was riding on her score.