Sugar & Spice (Spicetopia Book 1) Page 2

  My curiosity still running rampant, I decided to peek behind the curtains, so to speak. I’d never been back there, but I knew The Red Velvet Queen had a dressing room, and there were a staff lounge and staging area for other employees on the other side. Those rooms connected to the underground tunnels the staff used to get from building to building, avoiding the crowds. I just needed to find the entrance, and sure enough, once I lifted the heavy velvet material, I saw the metal door just waiting to be opened. When I twisted the handle and found it unlocked, a bolt of excitement spiked from the top of my head all the way down to my fingers and toes.

  It didn’t take me long to get my bearings and see that the dressing room door was standing wide open. I figured that meant the queen had already left for the day, but when I got to the door, I noticed her ample backside sticking up, set off by the narrow, tight laces of her corset as she bent over. I couldn’t be bothered to ascertain what she was doing because tearing my eyes away from her gloriously curvy ass was an impossible feat.

  So, allow me to clarify something right here and now: skinny girls with waify, boyish figures were not my jam. I’d always had a sincere appreciation for curves—the curvier the better. I was a student and lover of fine art, and in my estimation, nothing was finer art than full, mouthwatering breasts and juicy, fleshy asses. I subscribed to the Sir Mix-a-Lot theory of the feminine physique, if you get my drift. “Baby got back,” and all that.

  “Oh!” she exclaimed, finally sensing my presence. She whipped around, the look of shock on her face flipping a primal switch deep inside me. There was no denying my rampant desire to bend her over that counter, hike up those many layers of her elegant gown and have my way with her.

  And if I’d been able to introduce myself as Cyrus Sweet, one-third heir to the Sweet Enterprises fortune, I’m sure I’d be able to pull off that maneuver with flying colors.

  But I’d already introduced myself as Marcus Young, summer temp bakery cashier. This was a problem. A big problem.

  “Marcus?” she gasped, and I could see her body vibrating with her surprise. She dropped the purse she’d just retrieved when she bent over as if she couldn’t quite get her fingers and lips to work in tandem.

  “I’ll get it.” I moved toward her, swiftly grabbing the bright yellow canvas pocketbook from the dark green carpet before lifting it into her still-trembling hand.

  “I didn’t think anyone else was here,” she admitted. “Normally I’m not so paranoid.”

  “It’s fine...” At least I remembered the British accent this time. I bet by the end of my mission, it would be second nature to me. Maybe I’d just go ahead and take it to Greece with me when I went to study sculpture. I wondered if Greek women were as enamored with British accents as American women were. Probably not. After all, they had Greek men to fancy. I hoped I could compete, but, in consolation, I could always rely on the whole being rich thing to woo any Grecian goddesses I encountered.

  “Are you lost or something?” She scanned my face, blatantly searching for my motives.

  Why was I creeping around her dressing room, I’m sure she wanted to know. When she caught the smoldering look in my eyes, her mouth curled into a smile. I was close enough now I could see the details of her features: the pronounced Cupid’s bow of her lips, her delicate nose and cheekbones, the curve of her arched brows, and her thickly lashed eyes that were a silvery gray, nearly lavender color, a stark contrast with her raven locks.

  She was exquisite, radiant, even after working all day. I wondered if she had her own makeup team who came in to freshen up her face during her breaks. I wondered what she looked like under all of it, if those black curls falling gently onto her bare shoulders were natural.

  I didn’t care one way or the other, though. I wanted her, and I was pretty sure she could tell. Furthermore, I was pretty sure my desire was reciprocated.

  She had a worldly, wanton look in her eyes as I continued to assess her face and her body, my eyes slowly wandering up and down her figure as though I was studying art at the Louvre, which I did in college during a semester abroad, naturally. She seemed to enjoy the attention; it was probably a welcome change from having millions of snot-nosed kids stare at her all day.

  “Marcus?” she repeated because I hadn’t answered her question.

  “I am lost...actually,” I admitted with more confidence than I should exude while wearing this god-awful pink polo shirt, “...lost in your eyes, that is. They are such an unusual color.”

  She let out the very tiniest scoff, as if she couldn’t believe I had the audacity to toss out such a horrible attempt at flirting. But then her features softened as she soaked up my cheesy line like a sponge.

  “Are you heading home for the evening?”

  I wanted to kiss away every word that appeared on her lips. How could I leverage this without blowing my cover?

  “How long have you been The Red Velvet Queen?” I asked instead of responding to her inquiry.

  “About six months,” she answered. “Why?”

  “It seems like a role you were born to play.” I reached out, gesturing for her hand, which she surrendered to me with a skeptical look on her face, but a surrender nonetheless. I spun her around in place, watching her voluminous velvet skirt rustle around her legs. Oh, how I wished to know what those legs looked like...if the skin was as soft and porcelain white as her shoulders and the elegant curve of her neck.

  “You certainly have a way with words, don’t you?” She shook her head, trying to hide her smile. “Are you really British?”

  “Do you think I’d come in here and fake a British accent?” I retorted. I mean, would I? Of course I would.

  She giggled. “I don’t suppose so.” Her gaze swept up my body again, and the smile remained afterward, proving she liked what she saw. “I do need to go, though...”

  “Do you want to grab a drink?” As soon as I asked, I realized what a horrible idea it was considering I was driving that god-awful beat-up truck. I would rather have a sharp stick poked in my eye than drive her around in that thing. I considered negotiating with my parents to let me drive a nicer car tomorrow. Maybe not their Mercedes or Jaguar, something a little more understated but still classy. The Acura maybe? Or the Infiniti? Clem has an older-model Lexus in his garage he’s not using...

  “I can’t,” she answered, her smile finally dissipating as though she was genuinely disappointed. “I need to get home. I’m really sorry. Raincheck?”

  “Would you think I was crazy if I asked for a goodbye kiss?” I blurted out.

  I had never been turned down for a kiss, and though I didn’t have the cash or family fame to back up my request like usual, I did have the accent and the beginnings of a beard. From what I understood, most women were defenseless to these things.

  “You are quite forward, Marcus.” She came one step closer to me, and she couldn’t decide whether to focus on my eyes or my lips. It was a good sign. “What is it you said you do here at the park?”

  She’d probably seen so many faces today, she couldn’t even remember the conversation we had this morning. That was good for me—I wouldn’t have to admit I was a cashier at the bakery down the hall.

  “Never mind that... Work is done for the day; let’s not think about it.” I reached out to stroke a finger down her cheek, but before I made contact, she visibly bristled.

  Oh, shit. I might be going too far. Apparently this pink polo shirt screams pathetic loser. I should have known better.

  “I’m sorry, may I?” I corrected myself. Manners never hurt anyone, right?

  The thought of calling for security did very briefly cross my mind when Marcus went to touch my face. Who the hell is this guy? I’d never seen him before this morning, and I had a feeling he was one of the new summer temps. I heard they never stick around too long. When he evaded my question, that convinced me even more that he was a temp.

  He was not only persistent, but quite gorgeous with his dark, tousled hair, matching scruff ou
tlining a strong jaw, and, of course, glasses. Glasses on a guy were always a total swoon-worthy thing for me. I always imagined it meant they liked to read. Probably a bad assumption on my part, but nerds had always been my type.

  He was just standing there staring at me, waiting for permission to kiss me. The look on his face was a cross between boyish incorrigibility and a devious scoundrel—basically, a combination that was nearly impossible for me to resist. Especially since I wasn’t used to someone else making the first move. In my other line of work, I called all the shots. I made all the demands.

  Otherwise, it had been a long time since I’d experienced anything close to intimacy. Anything close to this attraction that was pulling me toward him like a magnet.

  He didn’t repeat himself, but his eyes stayed steadily on mine, peeling away layer after layer of my possible defenses. It was clear the moment I softened, the precise second I surrendered, because a smile curled on his plump, luscious lips as he reached for my cheek again. A gentle touch tilted my chin up to receive a feathery brush against my mouth.

  It was so much lighter and more delicate than I ever imagined that I let out a surprised gasp, which apparently inspired him to sweep me up in his arms and deepen the kiss to something that, if I had ever experienced anything like it, it had been countless lifetimes ago.

  His kiss was ravenous and needy, his arms tightening around my waist as his firm chest pressed into the boning in my corset, squeezing the air out of my lungs. His other hand threaded itself through my long, curly hair, pulling my head back to expose my neck. Seconds later his mouth marched down my chin to my throat with nips and nibbles delivered along the way. My knees began to buckle under the weight of my full skirts and his relentless kisses.

  Fearing I might collapse, I gasped again, the air filling my lungs with just enough oxygen to command my brain to take control of the situation. I jerked back, leaving him in mid-kiss, his eyes slowly fluttering open as if to ask what just happened?

  “I’m sorry.” His voice was a deep growl, as if he wasn’t actually sorry at all. “I just lost all control there for a moment.”

  The worst part was...so did I.

  I wasn’t the type to lose control. Both of my jobs—well, actually, all three of my jobs—were based on my ability to maintain control. Strict, unwavering control over my thoughts, my body, and my goals.

  “Marcus,” I simultaneously straightened my back and tugged down my corset, which had inched upward during our entanglement, “I really must be going. Can you find your way out?”

  He nodded, but his lips were toying with a smile as if he didn’t believe I was actually going to leave.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said, confirming that I was indeed heading out for the night.

  “But you didn’t tell me your real name,” he called after me.

  I thought about tossing it over my shoulder to him as I made my way through the labyrinth backstage area of the castle, but I thought better of it.

  I had things to do. People to see. Battles to fight.

  “Yes, Mistress.”

  The whip cracked over my sub’s crinkled, sallow skin with a sharp pop that almost snapped me back to reality. I had spent the entire drive over here trying to get myself in the right frame of mind for my session with Mr. Barry, but I had failed miserably.

  I couldn’t get that kiss I shared with Marcus out of my head.

  The one that started with the light-as-a-feather brush against my lips like an artist just barely dabbing paint onto the canvas.

  So meticulous. So exacting.

  And then the gradual, sweeping crescendo, the way every nerve was engaged, Marcus the Maestro conducting my body like an orchestra that swelled under his touch. I still felt those tingles coursing through me, and it had been nearly an hour now since I fled down the dark hallway of the castle, hoping to god I didn’t run into any of my coworkers.

  I was afraid they would see the desire written all over my face.

  “Mistress?”

  Mr. Barry’s pale gray eyes looked up at me as I walked around him. He was waiting for my next command. He was waiting to get his money’s worth.

  I pushed the thoughts of Marcus deep down into my soul and mustered up that raw, unyielding grit I’d practically trademarked. I can get through this. I will get through this.

  Later that night when I pulled into the last open parking space in the apartment complex, I rushed up the stairs to my front door. The porch light had burned out. Again. I swear, it’s always something.

  I unlocked the door and tiptoed in. It was nearly ten o’clock, and my mother was sprawled out on the sofa. She stirred when she heard me approach, even though I was trying hard to be quiet.

  “Go to bed, Mom,” I whispered.

  “How was everything?” Her voice sounded groggy. It was so hard for her to sleep anymore, I hated waking her up. I’d tried to be quiet, but these thigh-high lace-up boots with four-inch spike heels were not exactly conducive to sneaking up on anyone.

  I couldn’t wait to get out of my second costume for the day and just breathe free, no restrictive laces or boning digging into my ribs. I just wanted to be naked. I’d have to coax Mom into her own room first.

  “I’m fine, Mom. How is River?”

  “He was coughing earlier, but he quieted down eventually.”

  I sighed. I hoped he didn’t have another fit tonight. We’d had to use his nebulizer in the middle of the night twice last week. I really needed to sleep tonight. We all did. Tomorrow was another long, grueling day.

  I slipped out of my boots, relishing the feel of the cool linoleum under my stocking-clad feet. This time when I tiptoed, I barely made a sound. River didn’t stir when I traipsed across his carpeted floor and bent to check on his breathing. There was a slight rattle in his lungs that never fully went away, but otherwise he seemed to be fine. His older brother Reed stirred, pulling the blanket back around him as he flipped over to face the wall.

  “Love you,” I whispered into the dark room. I hoped their little ears picked up my voice and carried it into their dreams.

  Three

  Last night before I left, my father called me into his office to remind me of my mission in the park: to determine which employee was organizing meetings and possibly planning a strike or some other type of retaliation. I had a feeling he wanted to get rid of whoever this troublemaker was before any further damage could be done to employee morale or our family’s reputation.

  “I’m working on it, Dad,” I sneered at him. “I’ve only been there one day. Cut me some slack.”

  His mouth set into a firm, thin line. “I just know you have a tendency to get off track, Cy,” he admonished me. “Like how you switched your major three times in college, and how one minute you’re in Tahiti studying Polynesian art, and the next minute you want to jet off to Greece.”

  “I know, Dad.” I reached out to lay my hand on his shoulder. “But having that money you promised will really help me make the most of my trip to Greece, so trust me, it’s a powerful motivator. I plan to start asking around tomorrow. Today was just reconnaissance...you know, getting the lay of the land. I’ll start putting feelers out tomorrow.”

  “Okay, Son,” he’d said, fixing his dark eyes on me. “Don’t let me down.”

  That conversation was still ringing in my ears when I pushed open the back door to the castle and weaved my way through the labyrinth of tunnels and hallways until I made it to The Bard’s Bakery.

  “See? I made it back!” I waved to my boss Colleen before I reached beneath the counter to pull out the apron I’d tucked under there the night before.

  “If you’re looking for your apron, it’s hung in the back room where it goes. Hooks to the right of the freezer,” she told me flatly.

  “Oh, okay, sorry. Guess I forgot.” She seemed to accept my sheepish smirk with a tilt of her head and just the faintest hint of a smile. I came out of the back room tying the apron around my waist. It was time to put on the
charm and start gathering some intel.

  I scrubbed down my hands in the stainless steel sink. “So how long have you been working here?” My accent was especially thick today. Thanks to my British roommate in college and a couple of trips across the pond, it was pretty damn natural-sounding too.

  “I’m coming up on my eighth anniversary,” she answered, “so you could say I’m a Sweetopia vet.”

  I observed as she began to roll out some dough. I admired the way she had all the cookie cutters lined up on the counter ready to be used. There was a crown, a castle, a throne and a dragon. I only knew those were the cookies we sold because I saw the finished products yesterday. It was pretty unbelievable that this big mound of dough could become something so detailed and intricate-looking.

  “Have you always worked in the bakery?” I continued, trying to get her to loosen up. She was friendly enough, but I could feel tension radiating off her.

  “I worked in the ticket office my first year,” she revealed, wiping her flour-covered hands on her apron. “What about you? Is this your first job?”

  “Oh, well,” I stammered. I didn’t want to talk about me for a change. “Sort of. I just graduated from college.” It was a lie, but it would help explain my lack of job experience.

  “Uh huh,” was her reply.

  Like I said, she was nice enough, but she gave off serious disapproval vibes. It was almost like hanging out with my parents, though I was pretty sure she wasn’t old enough to be my mom. She was probably...late thirties? Early forties? I wasn’t good at guessing stuff like that. She had shoulder-length reddish-brown hair and kind brown eyes.

  I glanced down at her hands as she began to press the cookie cutters into the dough and move the sliced cookies to a large metal tray. Her hands were chafed and raw, like they’d been washed too many times, and she wore a modest diamond engagement ring and matching silver band on her left hand. So, she’s married. I was starting to feel like a regular Sherlock Holmes.