Like Honey (6 page)

He watched as the head of his cock came out between them. He loved a good titty-fuck. But when she surprised him by reaching out with her tongue to touch the tip of him, he lost control. That mouth of hers did it to him every time, and he came all over her chest—which she did not appreciate. But he toweled her off gently—still not untying her.

Then he set aside the towel.

“Bastard,” she said.

“I've apologized already. I couldn't help it. You're just so sexy. I'll make it up to you.”

He brought his mouth to her wet center—and then the only sounds coming from her were moans of pleasure, even as she struggled against the ties that held her to the bed.

That struggle spoke to something raw in him. He liked his control, especially in the bedroom. But Kasey was the only woman he ever loved—and the only one he even wanted to tie to the bed.

E
very time Jennifer went into town, she had tea at Aunt Glenda's Tea Shop. She and Ren had visited it together and she found comfort there. In fact, she loved the town of Aberfeldy, breathtaking, sitting just so along the River Tay. She loved walking down Dunkel Street with its quaint stone buildings and shops, painted brightly against the often-gray Scottish sky. Beautiful watermill. Lovely old stone bridge.

Sitting at the tea shop gave her some semblance of belonging to something. Or maybe of having a life. She missed the city. She missed the States, and with a twinge, acknowledged to herself that one of the reasons she wanted the business to succeed was so that she could sell it. She knew she'd have to give it up eventually. Ren was gone. And she wouldn't get him back by staying here.

Still, everywhere she looked, she was reminded of him. His love of the Birks and his long walks through the area, often pausing for long periods near the waterfall. His love of the fine whiskey produced locally. And the way he loved his honey.

“Well, if it isn't Ms. D'Amico,” said a voice that came up alongside of her as she sipped her tea, taking in the atmosphere.

“Mr. Cullen,” she said. “So nice to see you.” This Mr. and Mrs. business was one of the things she found hard to get used to when she first moved here. But unless you knew someone very well, it was appropriate.

“How's the honey business doing then?” he asked politely. He was a large man with mean-looking, beady brown eyes.

“Fine,” she said. “We're expecting our first batch soon.”

“But the heather isn't even in bloom.”

“We work with several crops, Mr. Cullen. Starflower is the first and then we move our hives to the next bloom.” Plus they sent their bees off to pollinate—hired help, if you will. But she didn't feel the need to get into specifics here and now.

“Fascinating business,” he said. “May I sit down?”

“Of course.” What else could she say?

Cullen owned one of the local distilleries. Wealthy, arrogant, and boorish, he was not a man she wanted at her table.

“I knew your in-laws rather well,” he said after a moment. “And I thought very highly of them.”

“That's lovely,” she said, and poured herself more tea, then offered him some. She poured for him. “I never met them, of course. Ren and I met and married in Saint Lucia.”

“I never understood what he was doing there,” he said.

“He was in law enforcement,” Jen said.

“But why there?”

“Ah,” Jen said. “Well, he was to be married to a local woman. But they broke up and there he was. Her loss was my gain.” She tried to rally and think only of the happiness she shared with Ren.

She remembered meeting Ren in Saint Lucia. She thought he was just another cocky cop, but what she didn't know then is that it was a mask he'd carefully crafted to cover the pain of a relationship gone very bad. Then he grew comfortable with her—until the first time they had sex, which was during an incredibly stressful time for both of them. Yet the sex was hot. So hot that they kept doing it, even at the most inappropriate times. The next thing they knew, they were in love.

Mr. Cullen sighed. “You know, I hope you don't mind my saying, but you've become sort of a local legend. Your story . . . What do you plan to do, my dear?”

“What do you mean?”

“How much longer can you survive, patching together an ailing business?”

She sat up a bit straighter.

“I'd be happy to take the place off your hands,” he said.

Her ears pricked. So, he wanted to buy her property. Did he have any idea how appealing that was to a part of her?

“Mr. Cullen,” she said after a few moments. “The place was my husband's home.”

“I know that, dear, but you're young and beautiful and surely you will move on. And when the time comes, please let me know.”

He took a loud slurp of his tea.

“Well, thank you for your offer. But I'm not quite ready to leave. I have big plans for the business and have just hired a master beekeeper who's going to help a lot. I've got new bees in and they're thriving. Just got a huge order from one of the mead makers. Things are looking up.”

He lifted one eyebrow. “I wish you the best, my dear.” He reached out and touched her hand.

She pulled away. “Mrs. Connor, may I please have the bill?”

 

Later, she was tucked in her library with a blazing fire, attempting to read a handwritten book she'd found. She couldn't make sense of it. The writing was nearly illegible and what she could make out seemed to have strangely spelled words. Her eyes stung. She rubbed them as she set aside the book.

When the knock came to her door, she was deep in thought. The knock came again.

She opened the door and there stood Gray, holding a bag, with a quizzical look in his blue eyes. She was unprepared for a visitor, particularly this one. This one looking so scrumptious with his hair messy and a five-o'clock shadow. An image of him between the sheets, rumpled after a good lay, came with an indecent flash to her imagination. She held the picture firmly in her mind to be recalled later that night.

“Can I come in?”

“Oh, yes. I'm sorry. I've been making my way through some of these books. I've just been trying to read this journal and I can't understand a word of it. It belonged to one of Ren's grandfathers.”

He came in and followed her into the library, bringing his sack with him, which he sat on the desk.

“Can I see it?”

“Sure,” she said, sliding the book along the table. “What do you have in the bag?”

But he was already distracted by the book.

“What do you have in the bag?” she repeated.

“Oh, sorry. I brought some of my honey,” he said, leaning into the desk. “This book is interesting. I think it's written in old Gaelic.”

“You speak Gaelic, right? Then you can translate it.”

“Well, this is old Gaelic and it's different, but I might be able to take a stab at it,” he said, his eyes sweeping the length of her.

She shifted her weight and walked toward her chair that sat next to the fireplace.

“What kind of honey did you bring?”

“Several different kinds,” he said, following her to the fire, pulling another chair over and then sliding a small table between them.

He set out three jars of honey in a variety of shades. A barely yellow, almost translucent honey was labeled LAVENDER, from France. A darker, almost brown honey was labeled CHESTNUT from Italy, and yet another deep rich golden-looking honey was labeled TUPELO, from Florida. Intriguing. Jennifer picked up the Tupelo jar and held it up to the firelight.

“Taste?” he said. She nodded.

“Tupelo honey,” he said as he dipped the spoon in for her and handed it to her. “It comes from the blossoms of the Ogeechee tupelo in Florida.”

Her mouth went around the spoon as she ate the honey, noting its taste and texture in her mouth. Sweet and light like cotton candy or flowers. “Good stuff,” she said.

“Tastes good, huh? But here's the thing about this stuff, it doesn't crystallize at all because of its high fructose content.”

“Crystallization is a problem for us, but only with the starflower crop, and most of our customers are local and they use it quickly,” she said. “Next.”

He dipped the next spoon, held it up as the silky thread of honey spun down. He dragged the spoon on the side of the jar. The rich amber color of it was breathtaking.

Jennifer reached for the spoon and in went the honey. The taste exploded in her mouth. Dark and spicy, with touches of smoke and leather.

“I've sampled chestnut honey from almost all of Italy's regions, and no two of them have ever tasted alike. They vary wildly in intensity of color and flavor due to a number of factors, including the type of chestnut tree and its natural microclimate, the methods by which the bees are moved among the chestnut blossoms, and how or if the honey is refined after it has been collected. This is probably my favorite,” he said, then watched as she reacted with
mmmm
's and nods.
So sexy.

“This is honey?” she finally said. “It's almost like wine. The different tastes and even textures. There's so many of them. I'd like another spoonful please.”

“You're right. Like wine varietals, each type and batch of honey has a unique flavor and texture, and trying to distinguish one from the next can be a daunting task. Two general rules apply: the darker the honey, the stronger the taste, and the more liquid the honey, the more fragrant.”

She leaned farther toward him in her chair and he was there already. His spoon touched her spoon as they each slopped into the honey jar for the last drop of chestnut honey.

“I didn't bring very much, just a sample,” he said, and laughed. “Next time I'll bring more.”

“I hope so,” said Jennifer. “You're such a tease . . . with this honey,” she said, her face heating slightly. She loved watching his long fingers wrap around the spoon and stir into the thick sticky stuff.

The last jar was very light yellow in color, the lavender from France. When she tasted it, she nearly swooned. It was like tasting the fields of Provence.

Her eyes widened in sheer delight. “Mmm-mmm-mmm.”

“Good, heh?” A grin spread across his face.

“So good!” She couldn't hold back her enthusiasm; she almost felt like a child discovering a new toy, except that her senses were heightened and aware in a way that she could not have imagined as a child.

“Do you have more?” she asked after a moment.

“I have more back at my place. But maybe three honeys in one night is enough, considering the hour.”

The fire was blazing. Shadows played against the wall. Jennifer relished in the aftertaste of the honey. She tried not to look at her companion, whose eyes drew her in with each breath.
The fire. Look at the fire. Not at his eyes.

But later that night, it wasn't his eyes she thought about as she reached for another one of her vibrators. She had an extensive collection now. She pushed away thoughts of shame and fear. They had no place here in her bed. Here, in her mind's eye, here with her own hands, she could call forth any man's image.

Tonight, she reached for her gleaming silver “rabbit vibrator,” cool to the touch. But it warmed quickly in her juices. If she allowed herself just one thought of Gray, it made her wet. She liked the large size of this vibrator and how it filled her, along with how it stimulated the outside of her. She opened, relaxed, and allowed the vibration to tickle her imagination. What would it be like to be with Gray? Would it be this good? Better? His hands, tongue, lips, cock . . . one more thought of him as the vibrator shook her parts, and she soon unraveled.

 

“So this Grady family checks out, huh?” Gray said into his phone later that night.

“Well, officially, yes,” Kasey said. “But you're in Scotland. It's almost like a remote region of Appalachia the way some people just go off the grid. I'm suspicious when we don't find much. Maybe you need to hang out around the pub more.”

“I don't have time for that shit,” he said. “I'm the master beekeeper on a huge farm, remember? That's what you wanted. Soon we'll be getting in our first harvest and there will be days of little sleep, if we're to succeed at this.”

“We?”

“Well, you know what I mean,” he said.

“Careful. You sound like you're overly invested in this little interest.”

“Of course I want her to do well.”

“And you're sure she knows nothing?”

“Almost one hundred percent.”

“Almost?”

“There's always an off-chance.”

“What's your assessment of the situation?”

“I think she is what she appears to be. She just fell into this and is trying to save her ass. Tomorrow morning, we're going to go over the books.”

“I looked her up, you know. She's pretty.”

“That she is.”

“Alone, I imagine.”

“Yes,” he said, figuring on the direction of the conversation. “Well I better go,” he said, hoping to cut her short.

“Alone and vulnerable,” she went on. “Sounds just like your type. Watch your dick.”

What a bitch.

Images of Kasey quickly faded into ones of Jennifer as he remembered her in the firelight, leaning close to him, the scent of her mingling with the scent of the honey and the peat. And how he had thought, for just a moment, that she was going to kiss him. As usual his mind leaped from one lusty matter to the next, and he imagined cupping his hands around her ass and pulling her into him. Imagined what her arms and legs would feel like wrapped around him as he slid into her. He couldn't stand another minute of fantasizing and found himself taking matters into his own hands soon enough.

 

The next day, the weather predictions were accurate for a change and a soft gentle rain fell, which gave him the time to meet with Jennifer as they had planned. When he walked into the office, she was on a Skype session with a friend. A very pretty and curious friend.

“Who's that?” she said.

“Oh,” Jennifer said. “This is Gray McGhilly, my new master beekeeper. Gray this is Maeve Flannery, my best friend.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, and nodded.

“Same here,” she said enthusiastically.