The Sweet Addiction Series Collection: Sweet Addiction, Sweet Possession & Sweet Obsession (99 page)

This is a crowded park. There’s bloody kids running around. I can’t will my prick not to react to this woman, but I can at least keep it hidden.

“Dirty girl,” I whisper against her ear. “You want to know what I think about?”

“Yes,” she replies breathlessly. Her hand squeezes my leg.

“I lick and suck your tits until they’re wet enough for me to slide between. Will you let me fuck them, Brooke? I want to. God, I’ve thought about it. Your hot little mouth opening for me, lapping at my head. Your gorgeous eyes going round while I milk my cum onto your nipples.”

“Oh, God,” she gasps.

“I dream about your tits, Brooke. And your arse.”

She blinks rapidly. “My ass?”

“Fuck yeah, your arse. Are you kidding? I want to come on that too.”

Her hand moves closer to my cock. “What else? Just . . . keep going. I won’t touch you. I just want to drive you a little crazy.”

I groan when her fingers brush against my length. “Brooke . . .”

“Oops. Sorry,” she says through a giggle, jerking her hand back. “I forgot how much room you take up down there. That was an accident.” Her hand tightens on my leg. “Go on. What happens before you come on my ass?”

I bend to kiss her mouth. I can’t fucking help it. Sugar coats my tongue, and again, I’m reminded of the way her skin tasted the other night.

My hand forms to her neck and she tilts her head. “I get you face-down on my bed. You ask me to spank you, and I make you beg for it. I bite and lick your skin. I straddle your legs and hold your ass so I can slide my cock between your cheeks. And then,” I pause, kissing along her jaw, smiling against her cheek when she lets out a shuddering breath.

“And then?” she asks.

“I found a quarter!” a tiny voice yells, way too fucking close to whatever the hell is happening on this bench.

With a muffled curse, I frantically move the sandwich bag further up my lap.

Brooke yanks her hand away and falls against my side, laughing unashamedly with a hand to her chest.

“Having a good time?” I ask her before addressing this little mood killer.

I pull back and stare between the round face in front of me and the coin that’s being held out for me to notice.

“Look!” The young boy turns the quarter in the air. “There’s only ever pennies in there. Sometimes nickels. I found an actual quarter!”

“Brilliant. Why don’t you run along now?”

“Aw, let me see.” Brooke holds her hand out and takes the coin. She studies it for a moment, smiles coyly at me when our eyes meet, then places it back in the boy’s hand. “That’s so cool. What’s your name?”

I gape at her.

Is she bloody serious? Does she not know how uncomfortable this is for me? What’s next? Asking the little bugger if he’d like to join us for lunch?

“Willie!” A woman yells, waving her hands in the air and running at me.

Jesus fuck! Can she see my cock from there?

Heart racing, I look down into my adequately concealed lap.

No. Everything’s good here. Nothing hanging out.

My pulse steadies. I suddenly remember how to breathe.

When the woman stops beside the boy and places a hand on his shoulder, I realize she was calling out for him, not announcing to everyone here that I was giving shows.

She gives me an apologetic look, then glares at the kid. “What have I told you about walking up to strangers? Come on. It’s time to go.” She tugs on his hand and leads him down the footpath.

Brooke laughs unapologetically as she settles back against the bench, then stares down at the bag covering my now flaccid cock. “How are things down there? Anything turning a shade of blue yet?”

“You’re the devil.” I move the bag and pick up my neglected roast beef sandwich. “Let’s spend the rest of your lunch-hour eating, shall we? Hands where I can see them.”

She picks up her fork and shoves a massive bite into her mouth. Her lips strain to close. “So good,” she says, although it sounds more like the noise a dying animal might make.

We laugh and eat under the midday sun, and I slip a little bit further under Brooke’s spell.

BROOKE

Camping . . .

Am I completely insane?

Not only do I have absolutely no idea why I agreed to this absurdity, I also have no clue how to pack for a weekend in the wilderness.

Outdoors. Zero climate control. According to my weather app, I’m looking at temperatures anywhere between forty and eighty-five degrees this weekend.

Say what? That’s basically my entire closet. Random Packing 101 right here.

I have jammed my oversized Victoria’s Secret duffle bag full of the oddest combination of clothing. Shorts, sweatshirt, bathing suit, a pair of snow pants just in case. I refuse to be unprepared for this. I even break another shopping rule and run out to the local sporting goods store to grab a few camping essentials, or at least what
I
classify as camping essentials.

Is there such a thing as too much bug-spray? Are road flares frowned upon at campsites? The answer is no and I don’t really give a fuck.

I have never been camping. I never wanted to be a girl scout. I have absolutely no desire to spend any time outside unless I’m lounging by a pool with a fruity umbrella drink.

There are outdoorsy people, and then there’s me.

So, why am I lugging this duffle out of my car and surrendering myself to Mother Nature for two days? Simple.

Orgasms. Mason’s mouth in general. That accent? Jesus. I can listen to him talk for hours. And . . . okay, if I’m being honest, it’s not terrible hanging out with him and doing things that don’t involve safe words.

He makes me laugh. A lot. The only other time men I’ve been interested in have made me laugh in the past is when they’ve dropped their pants.

That didn’t happen with Mason. That will never happen with Mason. I will take his cock very seriously.

And soon, if I have any say in the matter.

After locking up my car and making sure I have everything I think I’ll need, I adjust the strap on my shoulder and wait for a break in traffic.

It’s nearly six-thirty and the sky is beginning to warm with the approaching sunset. Reds and deep oranges color the clouds. The air is slowly dropping in temperature.

Thank God for the sweatshirt I packed. I may need it before we get to the campsite.

Across the street, Mason carries a large cooler around to the back of his car. He’s been loading up for the past ten minutes, not that I’ve been watching from the bakery window or anything.

Okay, I have. He’s excited, and it’s kind of cute to watch him step back and evaluate his packing job. Move things around. Scratch his head when the back door won’t latch shut and then pull everything out and start over.

Frustrated Mason King is surprisingly sexy, and I’m guessing not something people get to see very often, being Mr. Zen.

Traffic finally slows and I step off the curb. I get halfway across the street before Mason turns his head and notices me.

He looks fucking edible in dark gray warmups and a yellow graphic tee.

Fucking. Edible.

His hair is a blonde wavy mess, messier when he pushes a hand through it as he watches me. Both of us are in sneakers, which I had to run home for after he sent me a text this afternoon.

Mason: Your arse looks amazing in those heels. It also looks amazing in runners. That’s what you should be wearing this weekend. Lots of walking, gorgeous.

How did I forget about shoes? I remember floss and a nail file, but comfortable shoes? Not a priority.

After setting the cooler down on the back of the car, Mason jogs over and takes my duffle.

“Here. I’ll take that.” He slides the bag off my shoulder and lifts it with one hand, gauging the weight. His brows pull together as we move to the car. “A bit heavy, yeah? You pack for both of us?”

I hook a thumb behind me. “Oh, that’s just my lube. My clothes are in my other bag. Can you grab it?”

His face right now? Priceless.

Mouth falling open. Alarmed eyes shifting between the bag in his hand and my face. His lips pinch together after a few seconds of utter shock, and he fights a smile through a shake of his head. “Your lube? Jesus, Brooke. A bit of a wasted purchase, don’t you think?”

We stop at the back of the car. Mason moves a few things around to make room for my bag.

“Wasted? How is stocking up on lube a wasted purchase? You should always have some handy, just in case. And they last a while. I don’t think they expire for like two years or something.”

“Do you have any idea how wet I make you? You don’t need lube, sweetheart. Not with me.”

I cross my arms, leaning against the side of the car. “Are you sure about that? What about anal?”

He freezes, keeping his hands on the duffle after he stuffs it beside the cooler.

His head is down. Profile tense and body deathly rigid.

There is something extremely satisfying about supplying Mason with another spank-bank image. I like the high it gives me, knowing he’ll get off on that later. Picturing my body to seek out his release.

Enjoy that.

Laughing at my own cleverness, I start to move to the sidewalk, but he reaches out and grabs me, pinning my body between him and the bumper. My breath hitches when his hand connects sharply with my ass and stays there, his other roughly roaming over my curves.

His touch is possessive. Indecent.

I mold to his front like warm putty. I suddenly feel drugged.

So much for having the upper hand.

“Don’t give me any ideas about this perfect fucking arse, Brooke. Unless you want me to show you why we wouldn’t need lube for that either.” He sucks on the skin beneath my ear, then drops his hands, moving away as suddenly as this delicious assault came on. “You ready to get going? I want to set up camp before dark,” he says, completely casually, grabbing a rolled up sleeping bag off the sidewalk and sliding it next to my duffle.

I blink him into focus, reaching up and wiping my chin. I’m surprised it’s not wet with drool.

“Y-Yeah, sure. Just let me use the bathroom first.”

Jesus. Pull yourself together, Brooke.

I rush inside the studio before I see or hear his reaction to my obvious discomposure.

Lord, the man’s hands are wicked. Paired with that voice? I’m completely defenseless.

“You started it,” I mumble to myself as I tie my hair up off my heated neck. I guess it serves me right for trying to get a rise out of Mason.

He got one. I definitely felt it. And now I can very easily confirm his statement about not needing lube.

I push the door open at the top of the stairs and step out into the loft.

The room is exactly how I remember it from my first embarrassing experience up here. Lots of grays and blues. Massive wood-panel bed. A small kitchen table that looks to also be serving as a desk. It’s covered in membership forms and signed contracts. A laptop. A book about franchising.

I walk over to the accent chair in the corner and pick up the stuffed koala. I crush it to my chest.

“Hey, mate,” I whisper.

He kept it.

After using the bathroom and washing my hands, I stop at the refrigerator to hopefully grab a bottle of water. Something to hold in the car when my hands become restless. I swing the door open and startle at the contents littering the shelves.

Boxes. Bakery boxes. A lot of them.

Why are there so many?

“What the hell?” I grab the closest one in reach and open the lid. Four cupcakes fill the container. Four cupcakes I made. Completely untouched. I set the box down and reach for another. And another. Each one still exactly how I delivered it. No bites taken. None of the icing sampled. I find the first box I gave to Mason on the sidewalk the morning we met. The only cupcake that has been disturbed is the dolce and banana I tasted for him.

He isn’t eating anything I give him. He’s not even tasting them.

Why? Does he not like cupcakes? Fuck, if that’s the case, why is he allowing me to make it rain desserts every time we see each other?

I put the boxes back on the shelf and grab some water. I can’t get back outside fast enough. When I push the studio door open, I charge at Mason with my bottle pointed at his chest.

“Why is your fridge filled with cupcakes? What is going on?”

The smile on his face diminishes the second I get those words out.

I lower the bottle. I almost tell him to forget what I just said.

He looks uncomfortable, maybe a bit anxious. His eyes are shifting about the sidewalk while he rubs the back of his neck.

But damn it, I want to know. I’m too curious to drop this. And I’m not going anywhere until he explains what I’ve just discovered.

With a sigh, he pushes away from the car and steps forward, lifting his shoulders. “Because you made them,” he quietly states, stopping a foot away. “I don’t eat stuff like that, Brooke. I haven’t in a long time.”

“So tell me and I won’t push them on you. Jesus. I can’t believe you never said anything.”

“I don’t eat them. I didn’t say I don’t like getting them. You’re so proud of what you make. I am too.”

What . . . did he just say?