Like Honey (12 page)

G
ray checked his watch. His grandmother was always late. He'd been sitting here at the restaurant for twenty minutes and just ordered his second glass of wine and another basket of bread.

“Waiting on me, I see, like a hog waits on the pigs,” she said, coming up behind him.

“Jesus, Nan, don't sneak up on me like that!” He stood and hugged and kissed her. “You're a sight for sore eyes.”

“Why thank you, young man,” she said, sitting down, then motioning for the waitress. They knew exactly what to bring her. She'd been coming here once a week for twenty years.

She was eighty-two-years-old, knew what she liked, and didn't see the point in trying anything new. “I've been telling Fanny for years that she needs to get the recipe for the pot roast here. She thinks hers is better. I beg to differ.”

Fanny was her assistant, who cooked and cleaned for her and had been with her for many years.

While they were waiting for their meal, she filled him in on what was happening on her farm, the local gossip, and relayed messages from his mom. “She misses you and wants to know when you'll be home.”

Just then, the server brought them their food.

“Saved,” he said, laughing.

“Just call her,” she said. “She'll be happy to hear from you.”

“I can do that,” he said. “Can you do me a favor?” He pulled out the book written in old Gaelic Jennifer had given him.

“What's this?”

“I'd like for you to look through it and see if you can translate that,” he said.

“This is old, maybe from the 1700s?” she replied, flipping through it. “I'll try. So you're working on the D'Amico farm?”

“Temporarily,” he said, but he knew she was fishing. His whole family was curious about what he actually did for a living. Working for Homeland Security is what he told them—and it should have been enough, but they always asked more. He braced himself.

“What does honey have to do with Homeland Security?” she asked.

“I didn't say that it did.”

“Oh, so you're taking time off to work on a honey farm in Scotland, when your family has a honey farm in Virginia?”

“I didn't say that, either,” he said. “Can we just eat?”

She laughed. He loved his grandmother and hated lying to her, so he would continue to dodge her questions.

He sipped his clam chowder.

“That Jennifer D'Amico is a hot little number,” she said.

He choked and coughed on his soup, which made her laugh even harder.

“Don't tell me you've not noticed the Widow D'Amico,” she said.

He cocked an eyebrow.
Oh yes, he had noticed.

“She's kind of my boss. Of course I've noticed how attractive she is. Smart, too.”

“Humph. Let's see what she can make of that business,” she said, then slurped a spoonful of her own soup.

“What do you know about it?” he asked as if it were just a matter of idle curiosity.

“More than I want to.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Renaldo D'Amico was quite a braggart and would often go around talking up that million-dollar business of his,” she said. “It was very gauche. I never saw what Trixie saw in the man. She came from good Scottish stock.”

He dropped his spoon onto the edge of the bowl and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “That's odd,” he said. “I've seen the books, and the business is struggling, has been for years.”

She cackled. “Thank God we are so distantly related that people don't even know it. We all knew that business was a front. But we had no idea what it's a front for. We just figured the Mafia had something to do with it.”

“What? Nan! Just because they are an Italian family—”

“Don't give me your politically correct bullshit,” she said, holding her hand up to silence him.

He rolled his eyes. “Okay. Let's hear the rest of the story.”

“What story?”

“I know there's more, c'mon.”

“I'm sure it's just local gossip, legend,” she said, waving it off. “But they say the founding D'Amico was an exiled prince. Exiled because of some heinous act. Some people say it was murder and the Mafia protected him and sent him here. He brought a wife and children. All of those children married Italians from their village, but their children all married locals. So they are not completely Italian.”

“And?”

“One of their women was accused of witchcraft at one point and was killed by the locals—nothing official, very off-the-books, not government sanctioned. Her family, the Dugans, cursed the D'Amicos and their bees. Made it very difficult on the family for years, because nobody wanted to do business with a cursed family. Idiots. Not that they didn't deserve it. The way they sometimes treated their help and the way they looked down their noses at folks,” she said, and paused a beat. “And the way the men have populated half of Scotland without a care to where they planted their seed, if you know what I mean.”

Gray cleared his throat. He didn't like allusions to sex around his grandmother. But he nodded. “Aye, Nanny, I think I do.”

When driving back to the D'Amico place, he thought of curses and clans, the Mafia, and the D'Amicos. But he was also thinking of Jennifer—and no matter how hard he tried, he could not get her off his mind.

 

Later that same day, Jennifer knocked at the beekeeper cottage door. It took a few minutes, but he answered—and he was shirtless.

“Sorry, caught me coming out of the shower again,” he said, starting to pull her to him, but she skirted around him.

He was a devil. He knew how wicked good he looked without a shirt on. He had to. He was not a conceited man, but he was extremely confident, and Jen knew when a man took good care of himself. Very good care. Lovely sculpted arms—but not bulky in any way. His abdomen was taut, and two indents on either side of his hips led his twisty, thick center—the very one that had brought her so much pleasure.

Maeve was right. Why deny herself? She didn't need a relationship, just a lover. She'd already been married and engaged. Neither had worked out.

“I brought you a gift from France,” she said, and held up the sack that contained three bottles of honey—including a rare one that Du Jardin had given her. She tucked one of the bottles in her own pantry for herself and was eager to see what Gray thought. The honey from Brittany was rare and intriguing—Du Jardin had connections there. It was made by bees that fed on wild savory growing in the dunes along the rugged Atlantic coast. It was the darkest honey she'd ever seen.

“The two things in France you must try are wine and honey,” Jennifer said with a mock French accent. “Um, er, at least according to Du Jardin.”

“He's absolutely correct. The French love their honey. I wonder sometimes if they love it more than their chocolate,” he said, his eyes grazing along the full length of her body. His eyes spoke to her—she knew he wanted her. And it felt good.

And the way she was feeling, he might just get her. Or maybe she would make the first move.

“Well, I have the wine . . .” he said. “Come outside with me.” He led her to the patio, where he had placed a table that held chunks of cheese, bread, some grapes, and a few apples—along with wine.

“Dinner?” she said, smiling.

Jennifer looked out over the scene in front of her. By now it should be dark, or at least by her American internal clock it should be. But she was glad it wasn't, because the soft fading light played on the creek and the clumps of grass, flowers, and rocks, offering a visual feast of shades and textures.

“Why not?” He sat down. “Please.” He gestured for her to sit.

First she pulled out the unfiltered milk-creamy white honey she purchased at the farmer's market in Paris.

“Unfiltered,” Jen said.

“Spoon?” He held up a spoon for her and they dipped into the jar.

The texture nearly sent Jennifer into a foodgasm. “Mmmmm,” she said, feeling as if she would levitate from the chair at any moment. So creamy, with just a touch of the stickiness she expected from honey. And the flavor was the most creamy honey she'd ever tasted.

Gray handed her a glass of wine. Red and welcome on her tongue.

“The honey is good. But I don't like the texture,” he said.

“That's what I love about it,” she said. “So creamy.”

“I don't know,” he said. “Creamy doesn't belong in the verbiage to describe honey. At least not to me.” His face soured and he slid the jar toward her. “You can have it.”

Even with a twisted face, he was perhaps the most sexy-looking man she'd ever known.

“Fine,” she said, and dipped her spoon back into it.

“Now, what is this?” he said, and pulled another jar from the bag.

“Buckwheat honey,” Jennifer said. “It's hard to find, but they say it's good.”

The lid was already being twisted off, and he brought the jar to his nose.

Jennifer took a cracker and then a sip of wine.

“Have some cheese,” he said. He dipped his spoon in and brought out the deep golden slop and watched its silky threads twirl to a stop. He brought it to his lips.

The cheese was strong and good, but Jennifer's eyes were on the honey—and the man eating it.

She watched as his eyes nearly rolled back in his head with pleasure. Shocks of pleasure pulsed through her. He liked it. And she liked watching him taking such obvious pleasure. It reminded her of the night they had spent together. The way he relished everything about her body.

When she tasted the honey, she could see why he was so enamored. Rich and earthy, almost as rich as molasses, set off by just a hint of sweetness. She let it rest in her mouth a moment.

“Good, huh?” he finally said, going back in with his spoon.

“I thought you were crazy when you talked about France and honey, but you were so right,” Jennifer said. “It's too bad Scotland's not like that.”

He laughed. “You know a lot of people still buy imported honey in Scotland. It's become cache to get it elsewhere. And yet heather honey is really considered some of the finest in the world. I don't get it. Something about the Scottish temperament.”

“Ah, it's everywhere, I think, the feeling that imported is always better. My friend Maeve could talk your ear off about how important local food is,” Jen said.

“She the one you were at the beach with?” he asked, and sipped from his wine. He was a bit glassy eyed. Was it the wine—or was he seething?

She nodded. “It was good to talk with her. She made me realize some things.”

“Like what?” He sliced a piece of cheese and slipped it onto his bread.

“Well, I'm trying to move on. I have to move forward. It's not been easy for me,” she said. Why was this so hard to talk about? Her eyes found his, and they drew her in closer. “I'm sorry I ran off so quickly. It's just that—”

“Maybe you're just not ready,” he said, reaching for her hand, holding it and bringing it to his mouth. “But when you are . . . if I'm here . . .”

Her heart slipped right down into her feet. A sinking feeling came over her insides.

She didn't pull away from him.

He held her hand there, on his face, next to his mouth.

“I have one more jar of honey,” she managed to say.

His eyebrows hitched, then he leaned into her and touched her chin, bringing her mouth to his and kissing her so tenderly it made her ache, everywhere.

She pulled away. “I don't know what to say,” she whispered.

She was feeling shaky and insecure. Maybe if she had another glass of wine. She reached for it, and he took it from her.

“You don't need this, babe,” he said. “I'm going to take care of you tonight.”

“T
ake your clothes off,” he said.

“What? Here?” Jennifer looked around. It was private. Just. But it was outside and it was May in Scotland—a bit nippy, even for the Scots.

He scooted next to her on the huge glider, slid his arm around her. “You know, people think bees hibernate. They don't. When it gets cold they just huddle around one another to stay warm.” He pulled her closer. It was more than warm where their bodies touched. The heat spread through both of them like a wildfire.

The creek was running in the background and a breeze kissed the back of his neck. Jennifer shivered as his hand slipped up her shirt and found her breast and his mouth sank onto her lips. Hot.

It might have been a little chilly, but Gray was already sweating, not cold at all. Her eyes lit as she took in his bare chest—she liked what she saw. Her hands explored his chest and arms, giving rise to goose pimples all over him. Rise to other parts, too. Her mouth found his nipple. He drew in a breath.

“Damn, you don't know what you do to me,” he breathed. His fingers reached for the buttons on her sweater, fumbling around; finally, the last button came unhooked. “Lemme look at you.” She wore a pink lace bra that made him moan. “Let's take this off.”

He unhinged it—letting her breasts fall freely. She fit perfectly in his hands—her nipples rising in the cold, sweet-smelling air. What flower was he smelling? They were surrounded by newly blossomed flowers, but he had no time to ponder them. His hands were guiding hers to his center—hot and hard, needing attention.

A soft sigh escaped from her as she ran her fingers along the length of his erection, through his jeans. Uncomfortable. He needed out of them now. When he finally shook free of them, he saw her eyes widen. He knew he was a little odd shaped, but he was large and women liked the way it pounded at the inside of them. It hit their sweet spots. She reached for him with her mouth. He pulled away.

“Are you kidding?” he said, grinning. “I'd come in about two seconds, that sweet little mouth of yours on me. I don't want to do that. Not now.”

She laughed. “Don't say I didn't offer.”

“I'll take a rain check, babe,” he said. “But what I want . . . is you to take off those jeans.”

“Yes, sir, master beekeeper, sir,” she said. She slid out of them and dropped them on the floor of the porch. She was completely naked now.

Master beekeeper
pulled at him. It wasn't who he really was. It wasn't the first time he fucked someone under false pretenses. Why did this bother him?

“I like when you call me that,” he said. And it was true. On a purely base level. He wanted to master her and protect her at the same time.

Jennifer tilted her head and slanted her eyes. “Don't get used to it,” she said. “But for now you are my master beekeeper.”

The words reached into his center where he erupted with a growl.

“Mmmm,” she said as he wrapped himself around her, then stood them both up. “Can you lie on your stomach for me,” he said with a raspy voice.

She nodded.

“It's just that I've been wanting your ass.”

“Whoa,” she said.

“Not like that,” he said. “Like this.” He ran his hands over her ass, sucking in air. “I swear you've got the best ass I've ever seen.”

He reached over and grabbed a spoon out of the honey jar and let the honey run in spirals down her lower back, then onto her round cheeks. She gasped and giggled. He brought his mouth to her and slowly licked the sticky-sweet honey off her skin, reveling in the taste of honey and Jennifer on his tongue. Pulling back every now and then to see the golden sticky stuff glisten on her backside. As he worked his way tonguing the honey from her, she squirmed— he brought his fingers to her wet center and worked at her nub, now and then dipping a finger inside her hot slippery self. When he finished lapping up the honey, he brought his fingers to his mouth and tasted her mixed with the honey. Damn.

She started to turn around. He stopped her. “Hold on. I want to see your ass while I'm moving inside of you.”

“You're so . . . specific,” she said with a throaty voice.

“I know what I want,” he said, lifting her ass and sliding himself into her almost in one motion, pushing her against him. He watched himself slide in between the cheeks of the best ass he'd ever seen.

She screamed as he went deeper, harder. He stopped. Was he hurting her?

“Yes!” she said. “More!”

Christ, no, he wasn't hurting her. She loved it.

He gave her one more stroke—but only one—and he pulled out, shooting hot liquid across her backside, just like he'd wanted to from the moment he glimpsed its perfection.

 

They tangled, front to front on the gilder, feeling the heat from their bodies surrounded by the chill of the night. Jennifer smelled lavender in the breeze as she came out of her dreamy sex haze.

She had just been thoroughly fucked—and something more. The way his hands and tongue went at her ass, she felt as if she were being worshipped by him. She liked that. She remembered Sanj and his ideas about sacred sex—and while she didn't want to be thinking about him right now, Sanj had been talking about this very thing all those years ago.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Mmm,” she said. “A little cold.”

“Let's go inside,” he said, standing up and pulling her with him.

It was finally getting dark—but the way Jennifer was feeling, she'd didn't care if anybody saw them. She was no longer poor Widow D'Amico.

They wrapped up in the quilts on his bed after he started a fire. The air was warming. Their legs and arms found their places on his bed as the fire crackled and warmed the room.

They didn't speak. They didn't need to. They knew what this was—two lonely, horny grown-ups taking comfort in one another. No need for chitchat.

Jennifer leaned farther into him and sighed. His eyes met hers and she reached for his face, brushed his cheek. Another kiss—she tilted her head and pressed her open mouth to his. She couldn't get enough of this. The man could really kiss—her insides were responding with a gush.

He sat up on his knees and slid between hers, taking her breast in his mouth with a soft, luscious moan. She loved his voice, so deep and rich, with just a touch of Virginia and maybe a bit of Scotland. Pleasure swept through her as he nuzzled, bit, and kissed her breasts. She saw that he was fully erect, which made her gasp. His cock was beautiful—and she wanted it, now.

But he had other ideas—even as she reached for it and it responded with a twitch, he pulled away and brought his mouth to her center. She found her hips reacting on their own as he licked around her clit, dipping his tongue inside of her now and then. As he began to suck and bite at her, she clawed at his shoulders, as if she didn't she would float away. Her orgasm came on her just like that—she felt as if she were a combination of floating, pulsing, and screaming. She held on to him—that had never happened to her before. She thought it might not stop.

He laughed a sexy, vampish laugh. The man knew what he was doing. Knew his business. Had wanted to see her writhing like an animal.
Master beekeeper, indeed.

He brought her legs to his shoulders and slid himself deep inside.

“You like it deep,” he whispered, almost breathless.

She nodded.

“Hang on, baby,” he said.

Afterward, in a haze of sex and sweat, they fell asleep in each other's arms. Jennifer was satiated. Had never felt like this ever. So free and sexy. Maeve was right. Sometimes sex could be just for fun.

Sometime in the early morning hours, Jennifer felt Gray poking at her. He turned her over and looked at her. “Is it okay?” he asked.

He looked sheepish, sexily rumpled. How could she say no. He began to open her legs.

“No,” she said. “Lie down.”

And he did.

She sat on top of him and brought his cock to the outside of her and rubbed it on her until she was wet. He sucked in the air.

“Jesus,” he said.

When she slid him into her, she squeezed herself around him, sending his hips lurching off the bed and her with them. But she shoved harder into him and ground down on him. She loved the feel of this man inside of her, and he was hitting her inside and outside in just the right way. She moved against him in a faster rhythm as his hands held her breasts, pinching at her nipples. She felt her orgasm coming—it had never been this easy before, but she was going to relax and enjoy. She spasmed—along with him—and relished the feeling of his heat shooting into her.

When it was over she laid her head on his shoulder, him still inside of her, and realized she was crying. So did he.

“Jennifer?” he said, and pulled her face up so that he looked her in the eyes. “What is this about?”

“I've no idea.”

And she really didn't. How could something so good push her to this bittersweet abyss?