Eat Your Heart Out: A Romance Charity Anthology

by Skye MacKinnon

  “That’s impressive.”

  I glance at him to see if he’s being sarcastic. Gibson Hall is a billionaire and probably grew up with a silver spoon in his mouth. He can’t possibly appreciate the amount of work it’s taken for me and Mom to get our business to the level where it’s at now, but he looks genuine enough.

  “It was starting to be a struggle in the old kitchen,” I admit. “I finally got around to setting up a proper commercial kitchen for her recently, and hired a couple folks to come in and help out. It’s easier on her that way.”

  I don’t know where this urge to spill all our personal business is coming from, but I manage to hold back on my fears in that area.

  “Makes sense,” he says. “Why don’t you hire people to make deliveries as well? Wouldn’t that free you up to spend more time on the farm, or in the office, maximizing your business?”

  I smile. “Technically, yes. But if I did that, I’d never get out of the office, and I’d miss all this.”

  I gesture at the beautiful countryside around us. Acres and acres of rolling green, interspersed with trees, birds whirling in the golden light. In the distance, the mountains reach up, craggy and bold on the horizon.

  He makes an appreciative sound, and I glance over him, then back at the road ahead of us.

  I’m surprised when he asks, “When’s the last time you took a vacation?”

  “A vacation? What’s that?” I smile at him, but he just gives me an expectant look. “I, uh, took a trip to the city a few years back to celebrate a friend’s graduation.”

  It hurts to say it. Not because I’m a workaholic who almost never takes even one day off, let alone a proper vacation, but because the last time I took a break, I met him. It was a very memorable trip, in a number of ways, and he doesn’t remember me at all.

  Bunny’s snide comments threaten to put on a repeat performance in my head, and I shake myself, refusing to let her make me think less of myself. I am not a lumberjack. Cherryjack. Whatever.

  “A friend’s graduation, huh?”

  I blink and refocus, then realize Gibson’s talking to me. “Yeah, about five years ago.”

  He nods. “Did you go anywhere fun to celebrate?”

  I narrow my eyes, but keep my attention focused on the road. Is he playing with me? Does he recognize me after all? No, it’s not possible. It’s been so long…

  I realize in that moment that I owe him nothing, least of all a comfortable trip. Maybe the Devil takes over my tongue, or maybe I’ve just had enough of rich people treating me like I’m disposable, but either way, the words come pouring out.

  “Actually my friends took me to a sex club. I made out with a gorgeous guy and had my first ever man-made orgasm. The club was called Black Cherry, attached to the Nimba. Maybe you’ve heard of it?”

  Silence.

  Okay, so maybe I overdid it a bit with the making out, and the orgasm information was possibly more than he needed to know, but you know what? I don’t care. It was probably the last man-made orgasm I’ll ever have, too, and I’m not ashamed of the memory.

  Which is kind of strange. Getting off in the arms of a near-total stranger is something most people would say I should be ashamed of, but I don’t feel that way. I did for a while, but not these days. Maybe it’s because I really did want it, or maybe it’s because he made it so totally worth my while.

  Either way, I don’t regret it. I just wish Gibson had found it as memorable as I did.

  More silence.

  The silence lasts so long that I decide I’ve won and allow myself a smug smile. Weren’t expecting that, were you, Mr. Billionaire Sex God?

  “Stop the truck, McKenna.”

  His words are so quiet that I stop the truck, suddenly worried he’s going to throw up. Now I feel bad. I wanted to shock him, not make him ill. He gets out of the truck, then looks down at the ground. “Come over here.”

  He’s speaking so quietly, and now I have a bad feeling. Is there a dead animal there or something? Shit.

  I slide out of the truck and go around to his side. “What? What is it?”

  Then I gasp as his hands grip my waist and lift me into the truck, so that I’m perched on the edge of the bench seat, his hips between my thighs.

  Chapter 5

  Gibson, who has waited a very long time for this…

  I grab her hips, pulling her forward so that her upper body is pressed against mine, her pussy flush against my painfully hard cock. Her gasp causes even more blood to leave my head and rush south. I’m almost lightheaded at this point, and I don’t care. How can I possibly care when the woman I’ve literally dreamt about for five years tells me the orgasm I gave her was her first ever from a man?

  I’m fiercely glad of that. I wonder if she’s slept with anyone since. Has anyone tasted her? Has anyone else made her come screaming in their arms? Is her cherry still up for grabs?

  I have to know.

  I look down at her, glorying in the rosy flush spreading across her cheeks, her parted lips, her dilated pupils. I flex my hips, just to hear her breath shudder out of her lungs.

  Lowering my head, I run my nose up the length of her neck, then flick out my tongue to touch the shell of her ear. She makes a tiny, needy sound, and I nip her earlobe, my hands clenching on her hips when she jumps.

  “What else, McKenna?” I whisper, wrapping one arm around her waist and burying the other in her hair. I have to taste her skin, and I indulge the need, licking, nibbling, swirling my tongue over her flesh and then blowing on the dampness. Her fingers clench on my arms as her skin pebbles with the cold.

  “What...what do you mean?” she gasps.

  “What else has a man done to you since I last saw you?”

  She freezes. “Y-You remember me?”

  Surprise has me drawing back, staring into her beautiful golden brown eyes. “How could I forget you? Watching you come apart in my arms was…it was one of the best experiences of my life. I haven’t touched another woman since. And yes, I know how that sounds, especially in my line of work, but…what can I tell you? No one else has made me feel what I felt with you.”

  Her eyes widen, and her chest heaves, her nipples rubbing against my pecs as she drags in a breath. “I thought you didn’t remember me.”

  “I remember you,” I growl, unable to resist her mouth any longer. Her lips are as soft and welcoming as I remember, and they part on a moan, allowing me in to taste every corner of her mouth. Her tongue, hot and slick, tries to duel with mine, and it’s adorable. I growl again as I dominate her mouth with mine, and she sighs with pleasure, her curves pressing against me as she melts into me.

  So responsive, my McKenna, my sweet, ripe cherry. Then I remember what I was asking her and drag my mouth from hers. “Who else has touched you, McKenna? Who else has made you come?”

  “N-No one,” she stammers, her pupils huge now, her lips wet and swollen from my kiss. “No one turned me on the way you did. The way…you do…”

  I pull her closer against me, flexing my hips, and her head falls back as her hips roll against mine. “No one’s pressed their cock against your pussy?”

  She shakes her head, and I drop my head to her throat. “What about kissing your neck, licking and nibbling at your perfect skin until you beg them to make you come?”

  Her moan is throaty and satisfying. I nip at her flesh, then soothe the sting with my lips and tongue. My cock is so hard, it’s about to punch right through my pants, but there’s something I need to do before I can even think about burying myself inside her sweet, hot curves.

  “What about tasting you, McKenna? Didn’t anyone want to taste all that special cream between your thighs?”

  She inhales sharply as I let go of her waist and dip my fingers inside her waistband, tugging at the snaps on her ripped jeans. “McKenna?”

  I’m so desperate for her that my voice is little more than a growl.

  “N-No,” she stammers. “No one…no one’s done…that.”

&nbs
p; “Do you want them to?” I murmur against her mouth. She pulls me towards her, her hands clenching on my arms, her lips opening in welcome, but I hold back. I’m in charge here, although I may be deluding myself on that front. More importantly, I need to know. “Do you?”

  She stares at me, her skin flushed, lips wet, eyes on fire. “Only if it’s you,” she says, finally, and my mouth crashes down on hers as my fingers make quick work of the fastenings on her jeans. I slide my hand down inside her panties and absorb her shocked cry as I push through her curls to touch the slick heat of her core.

  God. I think my head’s about to explode. I remembered this, but my memories didn’t do it justice. The soft, wet, raging fire of her, just begging for my touch, my possession. I pull my hand out, and her disappointed groan is music to my ears. Then I release her hair and use both hands to pull her jeans and panties down to her ankles.

  I drop to my knees in front of her, both hands on her ass, tugging the sweetest part of her against my mouth.

  She cries out as my tongue finds her clit, then again as I lick and suck down to her clenching entrance. She’s so wet for me, I could drink here forever. I spread her legs wide and lap at her pussy as she shudders and gasps, her hands scrabbling over my head, my shoulders. I grab her hands, one at a time, and press them to the edge of the seat, then ease back and look up at her.

  “Don’t let go.”

  Her lips part further, her eyes darkening with need.

  My beautiful, virginal McKenna loves being told what to do. Who knew?

  I did. I knew. And that knowledge makes me feel powerful.

  “Understood?” I ask her, and she nods. “I need your words, McKenna.”

  She drags in a breath. “I understand. I won’t let go.”

  I smile at her, then lower my mouth to her clit once more, sliding a finger inside her pussy. The sound she makes is my reward, as is the clenching of her inner muscles on my finger. She’s tight, but I know she’ll stretch for me. I add another finger, teasing her clit with repeated flicks of my tongue. Stroking her inner walls, I find the spot that makes her scream, and I hit it again and again, curling my fingers with every stroke as my tongue lashes her clit.

  The taste of her is exquisite, but even more exquisite is how she obeys my instructions, holding onto the seat with a white-knuckled grip, even as she writhes against my mouth, begging me to stop, to keep going, to never stop.

  And then she tenses up against me, and her ragged scream echoes as her pussy clamps down on my fingers, flooding my hand with her juices, convulsing over and over as her orgasm tears her apart.

  I keep moving, keep licking and teasing her clit, and she’s only just coming down from her orgasm when another crashes through her. Another follows immediately, and then she collapses against the bench seat, limp and trembling and wrung out from pleasure.

  I ease out of her and lick her cream off my hand, then uncurl her fingers from the edge of the seat and gather her against me. She’s utterly boneless, but when I kiss her, she responds, moaning at the taste of herself on my lips and tongue.

  My cock is harder than ever. There’s no bigger turn on than seeing the woman I want wrecked from the pleasure I gave her. Now is not the time, though. I’m more than happy to pleasure my woman at the roadside, and yes, she’s mine, whether she knows it or not. Which is why her first time will be in a bed. With rose petals. Maybe even candles.

  There’s a voice in the back of my head telling me this can’t last. She lives in Buttfuck Nowhere, Montana, over two thousand miles from my home, but I don’t care. I let her get away once, and I won’t make that mistake again.

  Even as I think it, she stiffens against me, and I realize she’s come back to herself enough to realize what she just did, or rather, what she just let me do to her. At least this time she can’t physically run away, but there’s more than one kind of distance.

  I may not plan to let her get away, but she may have other ideas.

  I’ll just have to make sure she comes around to my way of thinking. I won’t accept that we’re not meant to be. I just won’t.

  Chapter 6

  McKenna, for whom driving is a challenge right now…

  So today I learned that it’s really hard to drive, especially stick shift, when you’re floating on a cloud of post-orgasmic bliss. After I crunch the gears for the third time Gibson gives me an amused look.

  “Need a hand?”

  “No, thank you.” I grit my teeth, mash the clutch, and force Bessie into fourth. “Besides, this truck is practically a family heirloom. I’m not about to trust it to anyone, least of all a guy who just crashed his own car.”

  I glance at him, surprised to see color staining his cheekbones.

  “For the record, it was a rental, and I was, uh, distracted,” he says, looking out the window.

  “Were you distracted by cherry blossoms?” I ask him, with more than a little smugness. It wouldn’t be the first time someone ran into a tree along our property line because they were so caught up in the display. It was a stroke of genius on my part, if I say so myself, to plant a variety of ornamental cherry trees around the perimeter of the farm. They flower at different times of the year, so there’s a near constant display from April through July.

  It’s brought a lot of passers-by into the farm to buy cherries, and then they tend to get some of Mom’s awesome baked goods as well, and I make sure to have various bits of merchandise stacked around the place. Few people can resist a t-shirt that reads ‘I popped my cherry at the Cherry Picker Farm’.

  I’m not about to tell him all that, though. I feel like I’ve got the upper hand right now. No sense in giving away my advantage, and given what his mouth just did to me, at the side of the goddamn road, no less, I feel like I need every advantage I can get.

  “Not exactly,” he says, and I sense more than see him turning to look at me. “The cherry blossoms were beautiful, but it only made the Lady of the Lake look even more spectacular.”

  “The Lady of the—” Oh.

  Oh dear.

  He grabs the wheel, and I refocus on the road, realizing he just saved us from going through a fence and into the Hughes’ northern pasture.

  So much for having the upper hand.

  “Do you often go skinny dipping in full view of the road?”

  “There’s not usually anyone on the road at that time of day,” I tell him, through gritted teeth. “I’d just got through a long day in the office, and I…”

  I trail off. The truth is, I’d wanted to reconnect with my land, with the farm, the trees, the sky, the cherries. It would probably sound ridiculous to him, though. Not that I care what he thinks, but if he mocks me over it, I’ll be forced to boot his ass out of this truck, while it’s still moving, and make him walk home, and Mom would be horrified at me treating a paying guest like that.

  “You wanted to get back to Nature,” he says, and I stare at him in shock. I didn’t expect him to be so perceptive.

  His mouth curves in a smile. “I’ve had to stop myself from doing that a lot over the last...little while.”

  I’m guessing it hasn’t been a ‘little’ while at all. “Why? Why not just go outside and smell the roses for a minute?”

  He shrugs and stares out the window for long enough that I stop waiting for an answer. But finally I hear him speak, so softly I almost don’t hear him.

  “I was afraid I might never go back.”

  There’s a wealth of hurt and sorrow in his tone, but I’m deeply aware I don’t know him well enough to open that can of worms. Nor do I want to, not really. He’s a guest. A strong, gorgeous, good with his hands (and mouth), guest. He’ll be leaving in a few days, and I’ll never see him again.

  No point in getting attached, and that means not digging into his painful past. It’s none of my business. None at all.

  Bunny Hughes is a platinum-plated bitch, from her hair to her nails to her ridiculously ostentatious jewelry, but her home is beautiful. The ranch itself is
about forty acres and they keep a few gorgeous horses, but mostly it’s about the house. A long, low, ranch house that blends with the countryside and doesn’t look anything like the kind of place Bunny Hughes would want to live. Apparently she keeps trying to get her husband to raze it and build some modern monstrosity in its place, but he keeps saying no. Which is surprising in itself because Mr. Hughes is a property developer, but he seems to be one of the few real estate guys in existence with ethics.

  I have no idea how he ended up married to Bunny.

  She storms out of the house as we pull up outside, already screaming. “What time do you call this? How am I going to have time for pie practi—”

  She breaks off, eyes widening as Gibson gets out of the passenger side, but she recovers fast. “Well, hello, Gibson. How lovely to see you.”

  Her emphasis on the ‘you’ isn’t lost on me, but I don’t care. She ordered cherries. I brought her cherries. It doesn’t bother me at all that, not only does she know Gibson, but she knows him well enough to call him by his first name. I’m not even surprised they know each other. Rich, beautiful people all know each other, right?

  I grab a crate from the back of the truck and carry it towards the house.

  “Don’t go in there!” She shrieks from behind me, and I turn to see her partly wrapped around Gibson, one hand gripping his arm, the other pressed to his chest, her front plastered to his side. He’s squinting slightly, but I can’t tell if it’s from Bunny’s highlights, her yelling, or her ample cleavage. “I don’t want you trying to steal my recipe!”

  I consider all the ways I could respond to this, but my blood is already boiling at the way she’s entwined so tightly with Gibson. Except that can’t be why I’m angry because he means nothing to me. He’s just a guest.

  And the only man to ever give you orgasms.