Call Me Sugar Read online

  My God, I love the thought of no longer having to stash odds and ends underneath my bed.

  After throwing myself into bringing in what I can and spending the next two hours rummaging through suitcases, hanging clothes, and emptying half a dozen boxes, I sort through a few toiletries then blow out an exhaustive breath. My body feels like it’s been run over by a semi, and I need a shower, some food, a cold drink, and a bed. Four AM, the early hour I’d pulled out of my apartment this morning, seems like a century ago.

  Bone weary and ready to drop, I unpack a towel, grab fresh panties, and strip out of my clothes then stare into the floor-length mirror still hanging on the bedroom door just as it was over a decade ago. Once trimmed in white, it’s now a deep, brushed bronze to match all the door handles and fixtures throughout the house.

  Emotions swirl in my belly like choppy sea water as I take a long glance into the mirror at the bags underlining my eyes, the little-to-no makeup left on my face, hair that is stringy, straight, and in need of a good washing, and my body that’s slick with sticky sweat. I take a deep breath, another, then another, then close my eyes and rake my hands down my sides, my nipples tightening at thoughts of Keith. The hay barn behind his house. Those lips covering every inch of my body. Those hands exploring and discovering all my hotspots. The rope he used to bind my wrists. The belt he used on my ass and inner thighs, and the pain that turned to hot pleasure as his thick erection severed my hymen for the first time, while he controlled me. Empowered me. Dominated me.

  Changing me for life.

  Smooth hands run down the length of my naked body as I lose myself in every single detail of that day and burn hot with need for a man’s touch, a man’s mouth, a man’s weeping erection. Desire pulses deep in my core as dark images course through my mind, images of his hands—large and rough—all over me. Fingers—lengthy and flexible—probing inside me. Lips—warm and moist—teasing and tasting me. Dear God, I want to be on my knees, bowing my head, offering, giving, ceding, submitting.

  His.

  One finger grazes my clit while another pushes hard and deep into my sex. My eyes squeeze tightly shut as I plunge inside, my thumb gently rubbing the swollen peak. It feels good. So damned good. Still, it’s not enough … not enough.

  Shit, Jen. Forget him. Your best vibrator is right inside your travel bag.

  With thrusts growing deeper, breath becoming fervent and rapid, I bend the tip of my finger and brush the hidden, velvety inner spot that sets my body on fire. My head drops back as the familiar tingle in my belly grows deeper, one man entering my mind as a climax is only seconds from ripping through me.

  Him.

  “Knock kn—”

  Vulnerable, defenseless, and mortified, I spin on my foot with the color draining from my face and a scream tearing through me at the familiar honeyed voice and sight of the provocative cowboy in the doorway. My mind is an instant blank as we stare in frozen silence, his eyes searching mine as I search my brain for any kind of reasonable words to speak while feeling like a blithering half-witted idiot for leaving the front door open to common criminals.

  But when his dark brown gaze does a slow, gradual, nearly painful sensual downward slide before lifting and locking onto mine, lacking even a trace of embarrassment, politeness, or courtesy, it takes only a split second to know that there’s only one kind of danger I’m in—the kind that can wound my pride and most definitely my heart. Awareness flickers in his amber-colored stare, which makes me shudder and hits me deep in the stomach. For seconds I just stand there in all my naked glory, motionless, staring just as hard, shocked, appalled, flushed with humiliation, and turned on out of my mind.

  Sweet merciful fuck!

  God, I’ve missed him.

  After he tips back his black cowboy hat, he gives me a beautiful close-up of that handsome face that I’ve never forgotten, and his hands dip into the pockets of faded black jeans hanging low and snug around his waist, hugging his ass and thighs just right, and paired with a wrinkle-free, lightly starched, black button-down shirt that pulls tightly across the width of his chest and shoulders. Shiny, square-toed boots covered in exotic leather hit every single one of my hot spots, being a true Texan woman who loves a man in a fine pair of boots, and from what I can see, his hair is much shorter now but still shiny and dark with deep brown sideburns leading into a neatly trimmed beard that I can literally feel brushing up my thighs. He’s cowboy, businessman, and jock all combined into one, and I can’t keep from sucking in a breath at the sight of him. Need powers through every inch of my body, and I want to experience every sexual act that two people can with this man. Vile things, shocking things, sinful things. I want his mouth, his hands, his body. I want his control, his influence, his reign. And that damn facial hair … I want it touching me absolutely everywhere. Greed radiates through me in an almost unnerving force, when in fact, I know I should be feeling indifferent and resentful.

  But I want him. I want us.

  With a wicked gleam in his eyes, when they rake hungrily back down my body as he takes in every inch slow and steady, a blistering swelter licks over my skin and comes to rest deep inside my core while my nipples stiffen to hard peaks, all which leaves me with two choices here. First, I can act like what I’m doing is perfectly normal and just utter something stupid like “Miss me, cowboy?” Or I can try acting like my female scent isn’t making it perfectly obvious what I was just doing and pretend he’s simply barged into my home without the common courtesy of knocking and caught me in the middle of changing clothes, maybe scratching my leg or smoothing lotion on my skin, instead of relieving the ache in my sex that’s been lingering since I drove through San Alba.

  Right, Jen. He’ll fall for either of those things. When. Hell. Freezes. Over.

  But rebounding on pure instinct, I grab the towel beside me and wrap it around myself like it’s a crucial life preserver while he shifts awkwardly and moves those addictive eyes slowly upward. Our gazes cling, transfixed, as his yellowish-tinted irises flicker with the same strength, determination, power and command as they had before.

  My God, he was striking before. But now, he’s sexual magnetism. He’s charisma, strong muscle-bound, small rural-town hotness. He’s heat, sex, and sin.

  Us.

  I shiver, shift restlessly, then take a deep breath, and he does the same. Something crackles in the air between us and shoots a sea of flames straight up my spine, the magnitude of sexual tension between us after all these years surpassingly stronger than when we were teens. My pussy throbs as it perfumes the air with my arousal, and for a quick moment, I can sense the sting of leather from his worn belt, hear his relentless unyielding demands, and feel every thick vein of his slick girth sliding in and out of me desperately and mercilessly while he grasps my neck.

  He’s the reason I need to submit to a man.

  Soft whimpers rise up my throat, and I no longer care about the fact that he once broke my heart or that he stopped communicating with me altogether two years ago. Don’t care … don’t care … just don’t. My stomach is quivering wildly, my pulse quick and heavy like a barrage of bullets.

  “Keith. I—I’m…”

  He stiffens then swallows hard. “Jesus, I’m sorry, Jen.” His concentration strays to the boxes stacked beside me and his hands leave his pockets and reach for the back of his neck to crack the tension. “The door was open, and I wanted to make sure you got here safe and sound and let you know I’ve a got a couple of ranch hands who …” For what seems like a boundless minute, he pauses then drags his eyes back over my towel-clad body. “Fucking hell. Finish … getting dressed, or get some rest … or Christ, do both. Tomorrow is gonna be a long day, sugar.”

  The edge to his tone brings another pool of arousal between my thighs, while my stomach flutters with delicious thoughts of rough, controlling, extraordinary sex with this man. Heat simmers through absolutely every inch of my body, which leaves me with a strong but petrifying inclination to drop the towel, ask him n
ot to leave, and show him just how heavy and tight my breasts are, how swollen my clit has become, how wet he’s made me.

  My God, I want him in ways I don’t understand.

  With a parting nod, I shove away the need crawling between my thighs and release some kind of ridiculous-sounding giggle that resembles more of a cackling then respond with a near silent, “Cool,” because not only am I little shaky, dumbfounded, and rattled, and a whole shit-ton of mortification and humiliation but also because I haven’t the slightest idea of what else to say.

  With his fawn-tinted eyes blazing hot like fire, he drags a hand down his face then turns to leave with what I think is a small bend of a smile and definitely a bulge behind his jeans, while I’m left cringing at the sound of his boots against the wood floor, my pulse marching through my ears, and wishing I knew what to say, what to do, and how to make him stay.

  “Lock the door behind me, Jen.”

  Just like that, he’s walking away, while every part of me wants to shout, “Please come back,” then drop to my knees, remove his boots and jeans, and take his thick cock between my lips. But when I hear the front door slam, it’s obvious that he has other ideas.

  An unpleasant ache flickers inside me.

  I don’t belong to Keith.

  I never have.

  ****

  Keith

  Why are you doing this?

  Through an ocean of tears, those were the last words she ever spoke to me, the words that left me yearning to die a long painful death. I remember every minute of that day and the long lingering silence between us, the first tear sliding down her cheek, the minute Jason got in my face, so fucking livid at what I’d done that his eyes sizzled like a raging fire.

  I remember it all like it was yesterday.

  “You’re nothing but a spoiled pretty boy,” he’d said while stabbing a long finger into my chest. “A rich little ranch kid who gets all the pussy he wants and only cares about his own needs and no one else’s.”

  “You talking about her being hurt?” I’d countered. “Or you, Jason?”

  “Fuck you, Keith. Fuck you and your egomaniacal attitude.”

  Guilt plows at my chest all over again as I pull out of the driveway and onto Scenic Drive with blood surging hot and fiercely to my groin while I try to process what I just walked in on. Christ, I should have called her before I just waltzed through the door like I had a right to do so.

  Another thoughtless shit move on my part.

  I swallow the last drops of lukewarm bottled water, wishing like hell it were something strong and smooth. Frustration pulls at my chest with a compelling need to pull over and curb-stomp something.

  Fourteen years ago, she’d been stunning.

  But Christ if she’s not beautiful today, still radiating that smell of vanilla and fresh-cut flowers, her body lean but curvy, tits small but made for my palms, a shaved pussy carved for my tongue and cock, an ass just full enough to enjoy the forceful sting of my palm, and those jade-green eyes flashing with their cock-hardening, white-hot fire look of a woman who knows just exactly what her body needs and wants.

  Jen Boylan is strong. She’s determined, desirous, and sensual.

  She’s submissive.

  Sweat beads over my brow, and my dick is still rock hard.

  “Fuck.” I adjust the steel, brushing my zipper while fantasizing about my fingers in that pussy, my mouth on that pussy, my cock inside that pussy.

  She belongs here. In Springhill. With me, goddammit.

  I thirst to touch her. I need to touch her. I ache to touch her.

  I loved her then. I love her now. This time, I won’t let her get away.

  Chapter Four

  Jen

  Sleep soundly. Wake up feeling refreshed.

  That’s what the online ad had said.

  Refreshed, my aching ass!

  Before I get my eyes open, I know I’m not in my apartment, not in my comfy bed with its high-thread-count sheets and silky-soft comforter. Slammed by a horrific pain that starts in the bottom of my neck and radiates into both shoulders, I awaken to the sound of thunderous pounding and for a quick minute, I’m disoriented and wondering where I am. My phone shows it’s 8:10 AM. Shit, I’ll be late for work! I never sleep past 6:15, weekends included. With my head in a daze, I look up and see two regular windows covered in brown wooden blinds instead of the familiar large rectangular picture window overlooking a pool and beds of blooming flowers. The sound of chirping birds is loud—almost ear-piercing—like they’re right outside the window, and there are no doors slamming, car engines starting, footsteps sounding above me. That’s when it hits me. I’m no longer in Dallas.

  I’m in Springhill, in the house I was raised in, the house my father died in—two places I swore I’d never return. The playback of weird dreams during the night sends an eerie shivering up my spine. Mom at the kitchen counter cutting up cantaloupe… Dad beside her, dousing a slice in black pepper … Mom accusing him of ruining a perfectly delicious, sweet Pecos-grown melon … Tears running down her face after a trip to the doctor’s office … Sobbing early in the morning when he wouldn’t open his eyes.

  Laughs, tears, screams.

  Coffins and organ music.

  My mother kissing a strange man I’ve never seen.

  More laughs, more tears, screams into the pillow.

  The sound of another ear-splitting knock on the door has me jolting back to reality and jumping straight off the miserable excuse of a bed.

  Keith. Is. Just. Outside. My. Door.

  Shit, shit. Double triple shit.

  He saw me naked. He saw me touching myself.

  With wobbling legs like I’ve just stepped off a terrifying giga roller coaster, I dress quickly, throw a splash of water on my face, and push fingers through my hair as I get such a frightening glimpse of myself in the mirror that, if I weren’t shaking like a damn leaf, I’d have to laugh. Bed hair isn’t nearly a good enough description of the state of mine at the moment—flat on one side, sticking out on the other. It resembles one of those Saturday morning cartoon characters where someone stuck their finger in a light socket. And then there’s my face. Skin white as a ghost. Bags the size of Dallas. Mascara smears giving me panda eyes. I fight off a quick smile and think of Jana, another paralegal and my best friend. With my hair a mess and my makeup smeared, I look just like one of Jana’s favorite slang descriptions—a two o’clock beauty queen.

  Let’s tidy up in the ladies’ room. We can’t have Dallas’s finest thinking we’re two o’clock beauty queens wanting to get laid and waiting around on the drunk guys.

  Nerves launch a hard, uncomfortable lump in my belly as I exit the bathroom and creep toward the door in dire need of ibuprofen for the agony in my neck and shoulders, along with a gallon of strong, hot coffee. Why on earth hadn’t I unpacked the Keurig yesterday?

  With only two steps between me and those captivating brown eyes that had watched me touching myself just hours ago, I stop, damn near hyperventilating, and lingering just in front of the door. Breath unsteady, I can feel every beat of my heart, see his probing stare, and almost smell the spicy scent of his cologne while a battalion of chills march up and down my back.

  “Shit! Screw it,” I say in nothing but a nervous whisper. “He probably enjoys his own daily hand-party. Don’t all men?”

  Fingers trembling, I twist at the deadbolt, flip the second lock, then open the door, expecting jeans, boots, a worn Stetson, and warm chocolate irises. Yet, there are two men, neither of whom I know. The big burly one who is only inches from my face is intimidating, definitely grabbing my attention, and reminds me of a bouncer at a nightclub.

  Keith is nowhere to be seen.

  “Mornin’, ma’am.” Pearly white, perfectly shaped, dazzling teeth—obviously veneers—almost glow under the bright morning sunlight as the giant of a man, who has to weigh close to four hundred pounds, stares down at me, while the other focuses on the screen of his cell phone. “My name’s Jonat
han, but most people around here call me Rock. Mr. Ryker sent us to unpack your belongings.” Grinning as he hands me the large Styrofoam cup oozing the luscious smell of rich coffee, I almost want to kiss him. “Dark roast, hazelnut creamer, sugar free, two packets of Splenda. He said you might need this.”

  Jesus, do I ever. I take a small sip of hot, nutty deliciousness.

  “And he couldn’t be more right. It tastes like heaven in a cup. Thank you … Rock.”

  Two plus hours later, my furniture is in the house and Rock and his helper, Jed, are pulling out of the driveway. It feels like it’s a hundred degrees plus, even though the air conditioning and ceiling fans are both running at full speed. My hair is rolled up inside a Dallas Stars cap, my forehead laced with sweat, and I couldn’t care less about my looks at the moment. I’m so damned emotional that I can’t think about anything besides this house as a child and its dark blue shag carpeting, brown wall paneling, the matching sofa and chair covered in a floral design that I pleaded with my mom not to buy, and so many wonderful memories from my youth.

  I roll out the Pottery Barn leopard-print area rug that, thanks to my yearly bonus, I was able to splurge on last Christmas and immediately feel another strong sense of déjà vu, this time pushing me to tears, which I quickly swipe away and turn some music on my phone.

  If a little Five Finger Death Punch turned up nice and loud can’t get my mind off the past, nothing can.