Nothing's Sweeter than Candy

Avon, Massachusetts

Copyright © 2015 by Lotchie Burton.
All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

 

Published by

Crimson Romance

an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

www.crimsonromance.com

ISBN 10: 1-4405-8908-9

ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8908-9

eISBN 10: 1-4405-8909-7

eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8909-6

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

Cover art © iStockphoto.com/LuminaStock

 

To Antwan Burton and Angela Burton. A mother couldn't ask for a better or more supportive son, or a more perfect daughter-in-law. The two of you belong together, and I'm so very glad you both belong to me.

To Cathy Ray, Patricia (Patty) Pugh, Denise Jackson, and Zaida Martin. Thank you all for your continued support and encouragement, and for giving me your time and helpful advice. And a special thanks to you, Patty, for pushing me so hard to work on this book and complete it. If not for your relentless insistence that I stop procrastinating, it might still be sitting on my hard drive.

To Kurt, my very enthusiastic friend and editor. Thank you for the male perspective.

Candace Brown stood in the hotel lobby staring at the row of elevators, hesitant to push the button that would take her to the upper levels. Nash, her once-in-a-blue-moon lover had called. He'd said he was in town, but only for the night. Her “if you had any sense” inner voice had shrieked
bad idea
as soon as she'd hung up the phone. But every woman alive knows raging hormones and no sex for months will kick a sensible thought in its ass, and trample it right into the dust.

She'd rushed out the door, jumped in her car, and driven there at breakneck speed, ready for a long-overdue romp between the sheets. Now with only an elevator ride standing between her and satisfying the ache between her legs, that nagging voice reemerged and refused to be ignored. And it told her she was about to take stupid to a whole other level. Suddenly she was undecided.

In the few months she'd known him, he'd never shown a capacity to care about other human beings or feel real emotion. There wasn't a sensitive, civilized bone in his body. Lately, he'd started the annoying habit of calling her “Freak.” He claimed it was a term of endearment, but the unpleasant way the word rolled off his tongue felt more like accusation than kindness. She loathed the way it made her feel. Nash enjoyed using offensive, demeaning language to make her uncomfortable and feel less like a woman and more like an object.

Basically, Andrew Nash was an asshole. He'd weaseled his way into her life using his affable charm, a trait she'd quickly learned was pure gimmick. Her first mistake was agreeing to go out with him, immediately followed by her second: going to bed with him. And she'd continued falling into bed with him again and again, all while ignoring her better judgment and ditching her sense of pride.

So why did she keep coming back? Because he was handsome and fit, and in spite of his asinine behavior, the man knew his way around a woman's body. His hands and mouth flowed like pure magic over every inch of her—pushing her buttons, plucking her cords, and playing her like a fine-tuned instrument. Aware of his abilities and her weaknesses, he skillfully used both to manipulate her and turn her inside out. When she was with him, she
was
the freak he'd named her—he knew exactly how to make her lose control. It pissed her off that the man who let loose her deepest inhibitions took such great pleasure in mocking her for it.

The fact that Candace's lust for Nash far outweighed her self-respect hadn't mattered until now. So what had changed? Why hadn't she pushed that elevator button? Maybe she'd finally grown tired of his demeaning comments and deliberate disrespect. Maybe the sex wasn't worth the insults. Maybe
it was time to stop settling for temporary satisfaction while enduring constant humiliation. While struggling to make her choice, she was distracted by her reflection in the highly polished chrome of the elevator doors. The sight stirred up a startling memory; the walls and sounds of the lobby melted away, replaced by a more powerful and provoking image.

All of a sudden she was with Nash, standing before a long bank of windows as high as the ceiling, staring back at their reflection in the tinted sheets of glass. The world beyond was muted and shrouded in darkness, illuminated solely by pinpoints of artificial light that flickered in distant windows or flashed by in the street way down below. The room was nearly as dark, dimly lit with soft lighting that spilled over from an adjacent room. Their naked bodies were cast in silhouette and posed on full display in front of the window, where they stood uncaring and unashamed.

She leaned back and relaxed her body into his, her hips and thighs cradled against him. She gave in to the tingling sensations created by caressing hands that glided over her sensitive skin in long, sensual strokes. Hands that swept across her shoulders, down her back, and reached underneath her breasts, cupping and lifting them high. Molded around her full and swaying flesh, his fingers pulled and pinched her distended nipples hard, sending electrical shivers down her spine. Warm, moist breath pushed through her curls and tantalized her ear and neck. His wet tongue probed her ear and teased her neck and throat, seeking the soft, telltale sounds of pleasure as proof that she craved his touch.

He pressed her tightly against him, fusing them together and pulling her back against his stiff arousal. The coarse hairs on his thighs and pelvis chafed against the soft skin of her bare back and bottom, the friction tormenting her. He bent her forward doggy-style in front of the window and moved his body seductively over hers, rubbing against her entrance before easing his stiff length into her waiting wetness. They shared the titillating sensation of penetration, the electrifying feeling of his steel sliding through her satin. Their bodies quivered in pleasure from the intimate joining, his cock encircled by her liquid heat.

Immersed in the moment, they wordlessly watched their bodies in motion, reflected in the glass. She saw through half-closed lids the paleness of his white skin against her darker complexion, and shuddered as his shaft moved with a slow, steady rhythm, in and out between her slick, silken folds. Together they moved in one fluid motion like partners in a private dance, pulling apart and meeting in the middle with force and fervor, again and again. Overcome by nearly unbearable sensations, she alternately welcomed the pleasure and fought against the building ache that would too soon take her over the edge. Fiery heat poured through her veins and scorched and burned her from the inside. The warmth surged and bubbled up into her throat as she soared inevitably toward climax, and emerged as the sound a woman makes on the verge of losing control.

His pace quickened and became more forceful. He pulled her up and pushed her hard against the window and pressed her face and breasts into the glass, her arms splayed out to her sides. Her back arched deeper and her legs spread wider to accommodate his furious and repeated plunges inside her velvet channel. She was lost in passion, overcome by sensation. Approaching the edge of his climax, he grabbed a handful of her hair, yanked her head back, and wrapped his arm around her waist. He pulled her down and pounded her again and again with his thrusting cock. His fingers unerringly found her throbbing clit and furiously rubbed against her sensitive flesh until she erupted in an orgasm so strong she staggered and nearly crumpled to the floor ...

The buzzing sound of her phone vibrating in her purse interrupted her brief, yet vivid recollection. The caller ID told her it was Nash.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Freak. I've been waiting for over an hour. Where are you?”

Her jaw tightened. Instant clarity flooded her indecisive mind, and common sense demanded to be heard. There wasn't a damn thing between her and Nash except hot sex. They weren't even friends. Their “relationship” was purely physical and based on convenience for her and mockery for him. Suddenly she realized that being the object of ridicule for the sake of good sex was
ridiculous
.

A dull red shade of anger spread across her cheeks. This was it. This was her wakeup call. She wasn't taking any more crap from Andrew Nash, no matter how good he was in bed.

“I'm not coming.”

“You're not coming? Yeah, right.” He laughed in sarcastic disbelief. “That's a good one, Freak. So where are you?” he continued. “The nights a-wasting, and I've got plans for that freaky brown-sugar ass of yours.”

“I said I'm not coming. I'm not taking any more of your shit. You may be a good fuck, Nash, but that's the only ‘good' thing about you. I'm ending this while I still have some of my dignity intact. Sorry for the short notice, but I know you won't have any trouble replacing me with some other freak.”

“Look, Freak, I'm not in the mood for games.” His voice took on an angry edge. “Get your ass over here. If you keep me waiting too long, I might have to spank that pretty brown ass, just to teach you a lesson.”

The mere mention of the promised spanking made her weak in the knees. A gush of liquid desire soaked her underwear—and pissed her off even more.

“You're an asshole, Nash,” she hissed through clenched teeth.

“Yeah, I know.” He laughed harshly. “But you're gonna show. We both know you're a fucking addict, and I'm your drug.”

Candace viciously stabbed the “end call” button on her phone, walked swiftly back toward the hotel entrance, and gave the valet her ticket. Still fuming when her car arrived, she handed the young man a generous tip and silently celebrated her small victory by charging the parking fee to the asshole's room.

Candace picked up the phone. “Doctor Jeffers's office, how may I help you?”

“Hi, Candy, is Joyce in?” Candace smiled at the sound of Sarona's voice. She, Joyce, and Sarona had been friends for years. Joyce and Sarona had met at an airport while waiting for a connecting flight home. The two struck up a conversation over a mutual obsession for designer shoes and handbags. Candace had worked for Joyce part-time while attending college, and Joyce offered her a job once she completed her degree. Now the three were nearly inseparable.

“Hi, Sarona. Yes, she's in. She's with a couple of clients, but she'll be done any minute if you don't mind waiting.” Joyce was a relationship/marriage counselor and sometimes sex therapist, and her full client list kept Candace's reception desk very busy.