Sugar and Spice

by Shandi Boyes

  In silence, I undo our seatbelts, pluck Harlow from her chair, then guide her into the bedroom. Harlow scrapes her fingernails across the wood-lined wall like she usually does my pecs, but not a word seeps from her lips as she takes in the silk-covered king-size bed and compact, yet high-quality ensuite bathroom.

  "It's nice." She turns her eyes to me, their extensive width more vocal than her words. "Do you know if anyone has ever. . ."

  She coughs to clear the angst from her voice. She shouldn't have bothered. Even if she placed her hand on the Bible and swore she wasn't jealous, I'd never believe her.

  ". . . Used this bed before?” She makes out her question is about any regular joe, but I know that isn’t the case. I’ve studied her in great depth the past month. I know every one of her signs.

  Spotting a prime opportunity to return her earlier tease, I let her stew a little bit. Seconds never felt like hours until now.

  Realizing patience will never be my strong point, I say, “I’m fairly sure the bed is untouched. If not, I’ll be asking questions. This jet is new. It is only her second time in the air.”

  Harlow’s eyes flare with excitement during my denial, but they taper with annoyance during my last two sentences. “What about your previous travel, then? Did you use any of those beds?”

  I smile, pleased by her possessiveness. “Most of the jets I chartered had desks instead of a bed.”

  "Oh." I can tell she wants to say more; she's just lost for words. "So why didn't you charter one with a desk this time around?"

  The rise and fall of her chest doubles when I take a step closer to her. I'm not sure if the poor overhead lighting has her missing the desire in my eyes, or if she's hazy from the two glasses of wine she had in the stretch limo, but whatever it is, I can tell the exact moment the truth smacks into her. Her pupils widen as her breath catches in her throat.

  “You chartered this jet specifically for our trip? So we can. . .” Her high tone finalizes the rest of her question.

  I stealthily prowl toward her, loving the zeal pumping out of her. “That’s not the reason I bought this jet, but it did occasionally enter my mind during negotiations.”

  "You bought it! Oh my god, are you nuts? Who buys a jet just to join the Mile High Club?" She lowers her voice, conscious we're not the only passengers on board. "For future reference, I would have cashed in your mile-high voucher in an economy class bathroom. You didn't need to buy a fancy-schmancy jet."

  I move closer to her, then cup her face in my palms. “This isn’t just about sex. It’s about indulgence and treating you how you deserve to be treated.”

  She attempts to speak, but I continue talking, foiling her endeavor. “We’ve worked through most of your wish list the past month, but this weekend, I want to start on the wishes that come after your bakery, family, and friends. Just your wishes. The ones you wrongly believe are selfish and unnecessary. The ones you won’t share as you’re afraid they’ll make you look greedy.”

  Her breathing kicks up a notch, but she remains as quiet as a church mouse.

  “You deserve to be cherished, Harlow; let me cherish you.” I drop my lips to the delicate curve of her neck, adoring the goosebumps that follow me. “You deserve to put yourself first; let me ensure that is the case this weekend.” Her pants are breathless and sharp, encouraging me further. “You deserve to be loved; let me love you.”

  Although my confession is a roundabout way of telling her I love her, the lust strangling her senses makes her miss the hidden meaning.

  “I want to give you the world, Harlow. I just need your approval first.” I wish I had the confidence to spoil her without first seeking permission, but Lucinda’s charges ensure I pursue consent in all aspects of my life—relationships included. I’d never force Harlow to do anything against her will—not now—not ever.

  “I don’t need a limousine and a private jet.” Harlow’s reply is as soft as the butterfly kisses I am peppering along her collarbone. “I just need. . .” Her words trail off to a moan when my teeth gently graze her skin.

  I drag my lips away from her neck, wanting her to finalize her sentence. When her lust-filled eyes bounce between mine, seemingly confused, I say, “Words, Harlow. I need your words.”

  A small stretch of silence passes between us. The tension is immense, but it's always like this when we are together. We could be discussing varieties of cheese, and our conversation would have depth. We have connection in abundance that sometimes needs to be dispersed in a non-sexual way, or we'd never leave the bedroom.

  “Stop thinking with this. . .” I gently tap my finger against Harlow’s temple. “And start thinking with this.” My hand trails down her cheek and along her jaw before coming to a stop at her heart. “You put a piece of yourself into everything you do, so why not do the same thing with me?”

  Her eyes bounce between mine before words she never wanted to articulate are spoken. “People will think I’m only with you for your money.”

  "Who gives a fuck what others think? You know the truth. I know the truth. No one else matters." Anger sizzles in my words. I hate that we're forced to defend our relationship to people who shouldn't matter. Unless our union is abusive and belittling, no one should have an opinion on it but us.

  My rare expletive excites Harlow more than it displeases her. “Why do you want this so badly?”

  “Because you’re not a this, Harlow. We’re not a this. We’re an us, and I just want a chance to show you that.”

  Nothing I have said this afternoon was rehearsed or pre-thought. My words are as honest as they can be because they’re coming straight from my heart.

  “I can’t get you out of my head. I don’t think, sleep, or eat without you entering my thoughts. I can’t even dream because you are right there as well. You told me not to blame gravity when I fall. Blame the person stealing the ground from beneath my feet. I’m blaming you, Harlow. You are entirely at fault for everything happening. But are you brave enough to accept the responsibility of your actions? Or will you blame the universe for something it has no control over?”

  It’s low of me to use her inability to back down without a fight against her, but I wasn’t lying when I said I strive for what I want. I want this—I want her—so I’ll do everything in my power to have her.

  When Harlow's hands dart up to the buttons of my business shirt, I assume our conversation is over. She doesn't use sex to get what she wants, but she does use it as a distraction. She knows I am defenseless to her in general, and the barriers are even lower when she is naked.

  I realize my assumptions are way off the mark when Harlow murmurs, "What if what I want can't be bought? What if I want you to cherish me, but in a way that doesn't require money? What if I want you to love me, but I don't want my heart broken in the process?" Each question she asks coincides with the pop of a button.

  Once my thudding chest is exposed to her avid eyes, she sets to work on removing my cufflinks with the same zeal. Although lust hangs thickly in the air, it doesn’t stop my campaign. “What if I promise not to break your heart? Will you give me a chance to show you how you deserve to be treated?”

  Harlow’s eyes snap to mine. They are blazing with hope, but that doesn’t stop her saying, “You can’t promise that.”

  “Yes, I can. You’re a queen, Harlow. Queens don’t get broken hearts. They cause them.”

  The healthy pounding of my heart echoes in my tone. My reply isn’t to blame for my surging pulse, though; it is the spark of agreement growing in Harlow’s eyes. She wants to believe me; she’s just confused as to why. I am sure I can help her see sense.

  "When you took over your bakery, did you test the waters first to make sure there weren't any nasties waiting to sting you the instant you dove in? Or did you just dive in head first?"

  She smiles; the love she has for her bakery is all over her face. “I dove straight in.”

  “Exactly, because no brilliant entrepreneur understands the word failure. I don�
�t want our venture to fail any more than I do my record label, so I’m putting steps in place to ensure that doesn’t happen. That’s what this weekend is about. I’m laying down roots. I’m building our foundations. I’m trying to woo you, for fuck’s sake.” She grins at the dramatics of my last sentence. “But if you are going to fight me at every turn, tell me now. Save me the heartache; rip me to shreds if you must, but can you please do it before I fall to my knees and beg for any scraps you’re willing to share?”

  “You think I’m a brilliant entrepreneur?”

  Air sucks from my lungs in a grunt. “Really? That’s all you got from my entire statement?”

  She giggles, acting cute. I’m two seconds from blurting out three words I’ve never said to anyone in my lifetime, and she is laughing.

  I’ll show her how damn cute I am.

  “If you can’t hear the words I’m speaking, Harlow, maybe you’ll feel them.”

  I hook my arms around her back, dip her, then kiss the living hell out of her. It is a hot and angry kiss, but it expresses everything I want to say.

  Harlow melts under my embrace, proving what I've always known. She's scared, but not of me. She's afraid of what I do to her. How unhinged I make her. She's worried saying yes will take away a part of who she is. She doesn't need to fret. I love her the way she is. I don't want to change her.

  After pulling her body flush to mine, I drop my lips to her jaw. “You don’t have to be brave all the time. Sometimes the best adventures occur when you just let go. Fall, Harlow. I guarantee your feet will never leave the ground because I’ll always be there to catch you.”

  She does fall, just not in a way I am anticipating.

  Our crash onto the bed resembles many we've had the past six weeks, but the fire in her eyes makes it more meaningful. She is answering me without words, making herself mine as much as I am hers. There is just one difference: she's not giving up a part of who she is to be with me. She is giving me permission to be a part of who she is. Those are two entirely different things.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Harlow

  Cormack cups my chin, bringing my eyes level with his. “Yes?” he asks, seeking validation to the wordless confirmation streaming out of me.

  The sexual chemistry that regularly fires between us triples as I struggle to express myself. This is one of a rare handful of tongue-tying expeditions I’ve embarked on the past few months. I don’t often follow the rules; I gave up walking the line years ago, but this is different. I’ve never experienced anything like this before, so I’m clueless on how to handle it.

  Cormack wants me to fall, but I already have. My feet left the ground the instant he crashed into my life. But I’m not wading in the shallow end; I’m in so deep, no amount of swimming could save me. But can I admit that? Or is there a stipulated time I must wait first?

  If I were considering these questions without Cormack's wintry eyes staring down at me, I'd be void of a response. But the admiration in his eyes puts my worry to rest. I love the way he looks at me like I am more valuable than any possession he could ever own. He honestly doesn't care what people think about our relationship. And, in all honesty, neither do I.

  "Yes," I reply, briefly nodding so he'll miss the sentimental tears looming in my eyes. From the massive surge of blood pumping through my heart, you'd swear I was agreeing to something more significant than being spoiled. "But within reason. Don't go buying any more private jets."

  I roll my eyes. Not once in my life did I think I’d ever utter my last sentence.

  Cormack drops his lips to my neck, hoping it will conceal his victorious grin. It doesn't. He doesn't even need to be in the same room as me, and I'd know he is smiling. I can feel it deep in my bones. I can also understand his desire to savor his victory. It's not often I back down, but since he only wants to cherish me, not change me, I can loosen the reins a little.

  The restraints loosen even more when Cormack’s attention shifts from my neck to my chest. He grips the hem of my shirt and drags it over my head, his movements so swift, goosebumps rush to the surface of my skin.

  “Eager much?” I say with a giggle, loving that he feels confident enough to remove my clothing without first seeking permission.

  Cormack palms my breast in his big manly hand before replying, “Ssh. Worshipping.”

  He’s not joking. My lace bra makes it feel like there is nothing between my nipple and his mouth when he sucks the achy bud through the thin material. The power of his sucks are overwhelming, an energizing buzz of pain and pleasure.

  He adores my nipple until it hardens so firmly, it clicks against his teeth when it pops from his mouth. After stimulating my left breast with the same dedication, his lips lower to my stomach. My sex clenches with every suck, kiss and nip he does. I’m hot and panting with need, my desire for him making me forget we’re in a small aircraft.

  "Please," I beg when his teasing trek stops a mere inch from my throbbing sex.

  With a grin that reveals he loves my needy response, he blows on my dripping pussy. The contrasting temps between his breath and my body are excruciatingly obvious. It feels like he has the AC on full blast and aimed directly at me.

  Blinded with need, I arch my back, bringing my pussy closer to his mouth. Cormack takes advantage of my new position by dragging my G-string down my quivering thighs.

  “I like these,” he compliments, staring at the tiny pair of panties dangling from his index finger. “Where did you get them?”

  I graze my teeth over my lower lip when he slips the bright green scrap of fabric into his trouser pocket. “Target.”

  “Target. Hmm.” His throaty hum vibrates my core.

  Through a pant, I watch him carefully, struggling to work out if that was a good or a bad moan.

  I realize it is a good one when he says, “Target will be our first stop when we land. You need a few more pairs.”

  I smile, adoring the hunger in his tone. “Do the residents of Hampton know what Target is, much less have a store at their disposal?”

  My giggles switch to a moan when Cormack runs the back of his hand down my pussy. “If they don’t, I’ll build one.”

  I’m about to issue a smart-ass response that I wouldn’t put it past him, but his swift backhand of my raw-with-need pussy steals my words. I call out, the sensation unlike anything I’ve ever felt. My clit pulsates as tiny electrical currents zap through my veins.

  "Your body is extra responsive today. It must be the altitude," Cormack growls, having no idea the mess between my legs was there before he touched me. His request to cherish me wasn't just chaotic to my mind; it made my insides do weird, fluttery things, most notably affecting my heart and pussy.

  While stroking his cock through his trousers, Cormack’s heavy-hooded eyes scan my body. I want him to touch me more than I need my next breath, but the wicked visual of him kneeling between my splayed thighs, rubbing his cock to calm the tension brewing between us makes the need not as ravenous. Just the carnal groans he is releasing has my orgasm gaining intensity, let alone the sexy visual of a strong, dominant man fondling himself.

  “Take it out,” I beg as my hand slowly glides down to my damp sex. “I want to see firsthand what my body does to you.”

  My reply is a half-lie. I already know what my body does to him. He has proved it time and time again the past month, but if a little white lie moves us into unchartered waters, I’m all for it.

  Cormack frees his cock from its tight restraints as the exact moment my fingers brace the wetness between my legs. I let out a husky groan, surprised by the dampness. I’m drenched with need. Hot and slippery.

  “Are you wet?” Cormack asks as his crown glistens with an equal amount of dampness.

  I nod without shame.

  He scuffles a little closer, his hand never leaving his cock. “Show me.”

  I wait for coyness to invade me. It never comes.

  The veins feeding Cormack’s magnificently thick manhood thr
ob when I spread the lips of my pussy to show him the moist conditions. He growls as his strokes quicken. I slip two fingers inside myself, inspired by his famished eyes.

  “Use the pad of your hand to stimulate your clit,” Cormack demands a short time later, his tone both needy and commanding.

  “I thought you were supposed to be worshipping me?”

  My thighs press closer when he replies, "Don't worry, sugar, I've got you covered."

  I roll my eyes, pretending to hate his term of endearment. I'm full of lies today. He only calls me "sugar" when he is extra wicked. That makes me love it even more.

  “Like this?” I grind my palm against my clit, acting as if I’ve never brought myself to climax before.

  I gasp when a shockwave shoots from my pussy to my nipples. I didn’t realize my clit would be so sensitive. Don’t get me wrong, the image of Cormack stroking his cock will be a treasured memory for years to come, but the sensation burning every nerve ending in my body has me teetering on the edge of insanity.

  I thrust my fingers faster. The need to come is blinding me.

  “Slow, steady pumps, Harlow. You don’t always need to fuck to feel pleasure.”

  Cormack slows the rhythm of his strokes, leisurely gliding his hand to the very base of his cock before rolling it back to the tip. As I strive to calm my breathing, I mimic his movements. My fingers plunge in and out of my soaked sex at the same speed his big, manly hand caresses his cock. You’d think the size of his hand would take away from his impressive manhood. It doesn’t. It is as mouthwatering as it’s ever been.

  “That’s it, worship your pussy as it deserves to be treated.” The raw sensuality of his voice causes my thighs to shake.

  My core contracts when Cormack transfers a bead of pre-cum pooling on the crest of his cock to my aching clit. He uses his excitement as lubricant to pinch and roll the needy bud between his thumb and index finger.