by Nina Lane
Past the fog of lust, she dimly thought she didn’t want to come quite so soon, but she couldn’t stop her whole body from simply yielding to him. A hot melting sensation filled her veins, the swirl of thick cream into dark French roast coffee, the slow dissolve of sugar into boiling water, the softening of bittersweet chocolate on your tongue.
Luke lifted his head away from her, a flush cresting his sharp cheekbones and his eyes glittering. He slipped his fingers up to her clit and slowly massaged the sensitive bud. Tension tightened her nerves. She looked down at her naked body all spread out and open. His long fingers moved against her pussy, his hard, muscular chest pressed to her side . . .
She moaned, wiggling her hips to encourage him to rub harder. “I’m . . . I’m getting close.”
“Good.” His hot breath caressed her cheek. “I’ll take you over the edge.”
He increased the pressure just a little, spreading two fingers on either side of her clit. The tension broke. Polly came with a shriek, bucking her hips upward as vibrations trembled and rocked through her body. Luke’s voice was a low stream of pleasure and encouragement in her ear as she fell, panting, back against the pillows.
“Oh my God,” she gasped. “And that was just from you touching me.”
He chuckled and rubbed his lips across her collarbone. “I plan to do a hell of a lot more than that, Peach. But not just yet.”
She lifted herself onto her elbows. His erection was still rock-hard.
Her heart thumped against her ribs. “Can I touch you now?”
“Not until we agree on a rule.” He slid his hand down her body again. “Never ask if you can touch me. You can always just do it.”
“Agreed,” she breathed, closing her fist around his warm, throbbing shaft.
His sharp intake of breath bolstered both her confidence and her fascination. Wanting to find out if she could take him over the edge the way he’d done to her, she began stroking his cock slowly.
“Ah, fuck . . .” He groaned and lay back against the pillows, one arm behind his head and his eyes half-closed. “Jesus, that’s good.”
Polly sat up, sharply aware of her nakedness and the fact that Luke was watching the sway of her breasts as she knelt beside him. His erection stuck straight up, pointing toward the ceiling. A sudden urge seized her to straddle the front of his body this time and position the thick tip of his cock right at her opening before slowly lowering herself onto his shaft . . .
She shivered, pressing her thighs together. As much as she wanted him to actually fuck her, she was almost relieved that they weren’t going quite that far yet. It was intimidating enough just touching his very hard, male body, so she was more than happy to start by dipping her toes into the river of hot masculinity that was Luke Stone. And his cock.
She rubbed her hand up and down his erection, letting her fingers drift lower to cup the tight sac of his testicles and then back up to the damp head. A thick vein pulsed along the underside of his shaft. Curious as she was to know what he tasted like, she couldn’t work up the courage to lick him like an ice-cream cone.
Yet.
Another groan rumbled through Luke. Polly glanced up, rather thrilled to see that he’d broken into a sweat and his chest was heaving, the muscles flexing and rippling beneath his taut skin.
“Polly . . .” A lust-edged warning laced his voice.
“Come on, Luke,” she whispered, staring at the movement of her hand on his slick shaft. “I want to see you come. Give it to me.”
She tightened her grip and massaged him with faster, harder strokes. His body tensed suddenly, and he gave a rough shout at the exact instant that creamy seed spurted from the tip of his cock, splashing over his abdomen and onto Polly’s breasts. She drew in a ragged breath, her whole body quivering with excitement and fresh longing.
Luke sagged back against the pillows, exhaling a long breath as she gently milked the final sensations from his body. He grasped her wrist and tugged her toward him. The musky scent of sex rose between them as Polly settled her wet, naked body against his.
He slid his hand to her nape and held her in place, his gaze oddly intent on her face. Something about that look twisted through Polly, as if he were still questioning the wisdom of getting involved with her.
Then she remembered his expression of relief when she’d come back into the house after having been unable to start her van. How he’d ordered all the chefs and her entire culinary class out of the test kitchen so he could be alone with her. How fiercely possessive he’d been about her not hooking up with another man.
From the instant she’d seen Luke Stone, she hadn’t wanted any another man. She only wanted him.
A strange feeling fluttered inside her, pleasure mixed with the unease of realizing that not only did she want him, she also liked him. A lot. He was straightforward, hard-working, dedicated, and caring. Yes, he had control issues, but frankly so did she or she wouldn’t still be holding so tightly to Wild Child.
But surely her growing fondness for Luke was a good thing, an emotion that would only enhance their hot sexual relationship. It was like indulging in a bag of her favorite candy while knowing she’d run out eventually. The limited quantity made her enjoyment all the sweeter and more satisfying.
With that resolved, she leaned over and pressed her lips against his. He tightened his grip on the back of her neck and deepened the kiss. Her blood warmed all over again, faint dizziness sweeping through her head.
“Forget the candy, Mr. Stone,” Polly whispered, sliding her hand down his chest. “You’re the one who gives me a sugar rush.”
He smiled and pulled her closer. She sank into the kiss, trying not to think about the fact that a rush was usually followed by a crash.
SHE WAS GONE AGAIN. LUKE knew it the instant he opened his eyes.
Except this time, the evidence of her presence was everywhere—in the sex-drenched smell of the sheets, the indentation of her head on the pillow, the rumpled comforter, even the fact that the first thing he saw was the painting Polly had admired on the opposite wall. He could still feel her hands on his body, her cherry taste in his mouth, her scent on his skin.
He pushed up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Twin emotions rolled through him—a strange combination of deep satisfaction and disappointment. Satisfaction because the night he’d spent with Polly had been unlike any he’d ever spent with a woman—which he’d known it would be with her—and disappointment over the discovery that she was gone.
A note sat on the bedside table, written in her curly handwriting:
Called a cab, but will be in touch later about the van. Thanks for a lovely night and an amazing sleep.
P.S. I took some of those fruit gummies from the jar in the kitchen. Are they new? They’re delicious!
A shaft of sunlight fell over the note. Luke lifted a hand to block it, then realized with dawning shock what he was doing. He looked at the clock, blinking as if the numbers 9:34 were somehow a visual lie.
What the . . . ?
He shoved his legs into his pants, hitching them around his hips as he went downstairs to find his cell phone—which he’d left in his office. He never left his cell phone in his office at night. He always kept it on the nightstand.
Sure enough, the phone was filled with texts and voice mails. He called Kate, who sounded breathless with concern.
“Mr. Stone, everyone has been so worried,” she said. “Are you all right? Were you in an accident? I’ve been checking the traffic reports, but—”
“Kate,” Luke interrupted. “I’m fine. I overslept.”
She was silent for a moment. “I’m sorry, sir? You overslept?”
“It was a shock to me too,” he admitted wryly. “But you can send out a news flash that I’m fine and will be into the office soon.”
“Yes, sir. Would you like me to order you some breakfast or . . . er, brunch?”
“No, thanks. I’ll see you within the hour.”
He ended the c
all, answered a bunch of others, and checked in on the flooding situation in Venezuela. The relief organizations had gotten in and were distributing fresh water, food, and medical supplies. His brother Adam reported that the waters were receding and they had crews out to assess the damage.
There was no text from Polly, no matter how many times Luke scrolled through the messages in the hopes that he’d missed one.
Seemed he was still an idiot, even in the light of day.
He walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator to take out the eggs, seeing the pizza box sitting on the middle shelf. With a shrug, he took out a piece of cold pepperoni and ate it while walking around and opening the curtains.
The glass house afforded majestic views of the California shoreline—cypress trees dotting the rocky cliffs, white-capped ocean waters, soaring seagulls, and breaking waves. The scenery had sold Luke on the house, and he was further irritated that Polly had spent the night but hadn’t even seen the view.
Polly, all softness and light with the incongruity of her shy smile, who had worked him to an orgasm as if she’d known exactly what he liked.
Hell. She was what he liked. All of his good, protective intentions aside.
He polished off the pizza and returned to the kitchen, where he removed the lid from a jar of Puffles, multi-colored gummy candies sprinkled with silver sugar crystals. He took a few out and popped them into his mouth, unaccountably pleased that Polly had liked them since they were a new product in the Sugar Rush line of bite-sized treats.
As he reached for another handful of Puffles, his gaze landed on the macramé bag she had left on the counter. Deflecting a pang of guilt that he shouldn’t do this, but doing it anyway, Luke opened the bag and spilled the contents onto the counter. Then he rifled through them as if he were an archeologist digging for clues.
There were the usual girl things—hairbrush, lipstick, tampons, mirror—and a little plastic first-aid kit. Paperback books, a romance novel, a “live your best life” self-help book, and one about using an accounting software program. A half-knit scarf, chewing gum, incense, hard candies (not Sugar Rush, he noted with displeasure), sunglasses, hand sanitizer, and a notebook filled with scrawled lists. At the bottom of the bag, there was a silver elephant charm with a loop for a necklace.
As Luke studied the little charm, his cell phone buzzed again with a call from Kate.
“Mr. Wyatt from Godson and Wyatt called and asked if he could see you this afternoon instead of tomorrow,” she said. “You have a one o’clock opening, but will you be here by then?”
“Of course I’ll be there by one.” He glanced down at his half-naked body. “I’m practically on my way right now.”
“Very good, sir. I’ll schedule the appointment then.”
Luke put his phone down and headed upstairs to shower, still holding the elephant charm in his fist.
After a day at work during which Luke had to keep pushing Polly out of his head and reminding himself to “focus, dammit,” he inputted the Wild Child address into his GPS and headed toward Rainsville.
When he exited the interstate, he realized he was nowhere near downtown Rainsville—where he’d assumed the bakery was located. Instead he was on the outskirts of town, an area filled with old, clapboard buildings, overgrown lots, and junkyards.
He navigated a dead-end street, turned, and circled the block three times before finding himself in front of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. With a frown, he checked the address again and peered across the street at an old stucco building that had several boarded up windows, a bail bondsman’s office, a closed auto parts store, and . . . Wild Child.
An old awning sat above the door with the name Wild Child written in faded blue. The windows were decorated with flowers and peace signs that might have been bright and cheerful ages ago, but now just looked faded and sad. A Closed sign hung crookedly on the door.
Shit. Polly had said she was trying to upgrade her bakery. She’d need a wrecking ball to upgrade this hole in the wall.
Luke shoved his car into gear and headed back to the interstate.
Don’t get involved.
Since college, he’d been rigidly focused on Sugar Rush, and never more so than over the past year. Though there had been a time when he’d thought he’d fit marriage and kids into his well-organized life, he’d soon realized there was no room for that. He’d always been wary of people—aware they usually wanted something from him—but the lawsuit had made him downright suspicious of almost everyone.
He couldn’t let his guard down with a cute bakery girl, even if he could still feel her hand circling his dick, still see the naked curves of her breasts, still feel her body shudder as she came. He’d meant it when he said he couldn’t give her anything long-lasting, and it didn’t matter that she hadn’t seemed to mind.
From his experience, women always eventually minded his lack of desire and ability to commit. So despite his determination to prevent Polly from hooking up with anyone else, he couldn’t start an affair with her. He wouldn’t.
Having come to that conclusion, he pulled through the gates of his mansion. Polly’s old van still sat in the driveway. The painted peace signs and flowing Wild Child Bakery logo looked incongruous against the backdrop of minimalist Scandinavian architecture. By contrast, Polly had fit both in his house and in his bed.
Luke suppressed that realization. He would get the van fixed and returned to her tomorrow. Then he’d walk away and get back to his real life.
POLLY FINISHED ICING A TRAY of éclairs and stepped back to admire her handiwork. Of all the Wild Child products, her mother’s éclairs were still the bakery’s top seller—not that that was saying much these days.
But at least they were the one pastry Polly still held to Jessie’s standards with fresh vanilla cream, pâte à choux pastry made with real butter, and dark chocolate ganache. Every time she made the éclairs, she knew she was being true to her mother’s legacy.
She started setting them into little fluted cups when the wind chimes over the door jingled. Polly glanced at the mirror behind the counter, her heart crashing against her ribs as the glass reflected a tall, dark-haired man.
“Hello, Polly.”
Luke Stone’s deep, resonant voice flowed right into her blood, eliciting a rush of happy warmth that intensified when she turned to face him. He looked striking and incredibly masculine in a tailored suit and tie, his dark hair brushed back from his strong features, but Polly’s mind filled with a memory of him wearing only his drawstring pants, his gorgeous chest bare for both her visual and tactile pleasure.
But at the moment, he was all powerful CEO. As he approached the counter, Polly’s whole body tingled with an awareness that was both sweet and spicy, like chocolate truffles spiked with cayenne pepper.
“What can I get for you, Mr. Stone?” she asked primly, hoping he would respond by leaning across the counter, planting a nice, hot kiss against her lips, and growling, “This.”
“Your van is outside,” he said instead, handing her the keys and the macramé supply bag she’d left at his house. “New starter, fan belt, and fluid check. The bill is on me.”
He held up his hand when she opened her mouth to protest.
“I’m paying,” he said. “Don’t argue.”
Despite his imperious, no-nonsense tone of voice, gratitude welled up inside Polly with unexpected force. She needed the van and she didn’t have the money for repairs. So the fact that Luke was insisting on taking care of it . . .
It was the first time in a long time that a man had taken care of something for her. Or just taken care of her.
“Thank you.” She stowed her bag and keys underneath the counter. “That’s generous of you, and I’m very grateful.”
Luke gave a short nod and folded his arms across his chest. He looked cross. Polly hoped his attitude didn’t have anything to do with their sexy encounter two nights ago.
“I have to go now,” he said, like it was somehow her
fault.
“Okay. Would you like a pastry to take with you?”
He glanced at the displays. “Which is your favorite?”
“Oh, the éclairs, definitely.” She took a fresh one off the tray and put it on the plate for him. “I’ve had to . . . um, revamp some of the recipes, but this one has always stayed the same. I still use Valrhona’s cocoa powder, Madagascar vanilla, and the best quality organic milk and farm-fresh eggs. I also make some with liqueurs or chocolate cream.”
“Looks delicious.” He reached into his pocket for his wallet.
“It’s on the house,” Polly said.
Luke gave her a frown of mild disapproval and put a ten-dollar bill on the counter. “Only give food away if it’s a sample or a donation.”
He picked up the glossy éclair to take a bite, his eyebrows lifting slightly. A drop of cream clung to his lower lip, and the urge to reach up and lick it off seized Polly.
He took another bite. A sudden anxiety tightened her belly. Did he like it? Then she told herself not to care. She knew the éclairs were incredible.
“All of the bakery items are my mother’s original recipes,” she said.
He studied the éclair as if he were examining it under a microscope. “She must have been quite the baker.”
“She was.”
Polly turned away and started making a fresh pot of coffee. Her mother had invented all the Wild Child recipes in the kitchen of the little two-bedroom apartment where she, Hannah, and Polly had moved after they left Twelve Oaks. Every day when Polly and Hannah came home from school, their mother had glasses of milk and a new kind of fresh-baked cookie or cupcake waiting at the table.
And the treats were always mouth-wateringly delicious, baked with hand-chopped bittersweet chocolate, real, organic butter, and an immense amount of maternal love. At the time, Polly needed nothing else in life.