Sweet Obsession Read online

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “From previous victims?”

  “Victims?” She laughs, throwing her head back and revealing the graceful line of her neck. “You make me sound like a man-eater. I’m not that bad. Here.” Her finger dips into the frosting, then slides into her mouth.

  Her eyes close through a moan.

  Jesus fuck.

  I press a hand to the front of my shorts.

  When was the last time I got hard in a matter of seconds? When I was eleven and I saw my first pair of tits? I’m normally way more disciplined than this juvenile display I’m exhibiting, but shit if that isn’t the sexiest noise I’ve ever heard in my life.

  She pulls her finger from her mouth. Our eyes lock. Saliva pools on my tongue, and I force a swallow before I actually start to drool.

  “See? Can’t be poisoned now, can it?”

  I smile, and her eyes quickly dart to my mouth. “I suppose not.”

  She allows me to take the box. I close the lid and study the logo.

  “Thank you. I’ll enjoy these later.”

  “I’d like to enjoy you now.”

  My eyes widen. I nod in the direction behind her. “Don’t you need to be getting back to work?”

  She shrugs. “I can spare a few minutes.”

  “A few minutes? You wound me, Brooke. Give a guy a little credit, yeah?”

  A grin twists across her mouth. Christ, that mouth is wicked.

  “Okay. How long do you need?”

  “With you?” I slowly move my eyes over her body.

  This is the first time I’m really appreciating every gorgeous inch of her. The swell of her breasts, the black material of her top stretching, barely confining, and in the end, making me ache with a need I’m not sure I’ve ever felt. The gentle curve of her hips I want to splay my hands across, then move over, grip, and dig my fingers into. She’s shapely and soft. Delicate and dangerous.

  How long do I need? I could look at her for a lifetime.

  “Mason.”

  My eyes re-focus on her face, the amusement in her eyes. “Mm?”

  Shit, how long was I staring? Who’s the wolf now?

  “Hey, Brooke!”

  A voice cutting across the street jolts my attention off her. Brooke turns her head. I lift mine to see a man holding the bakery door open, leaning his head out. He doesn’t look too pleased.

  “Hurry up already. You’ve got that birthday cake to work on today, remember? It’s getting picked up at ten and Dylan is swamped.”

  “Shit,” Brooke mutters. She spins back around. “Sorry. My few minutes are up.”

  Damn. She needs to get back. I have a ton of shit to do myself, but I’m not done with this one. Not by a long shot.

  “What are you doing tomorrow night?” I ask.

  “Why?”

  “I have my first class at seven. I’d love to see you.”

  Her arms cross over her chest. She tilts her head with a smirk. “Private class?”

  I frown, then glance back at the sign. “Honestly, I hope not. If this is going to work out for me, I’m going to need a good amount of interest. I handed out a bunch of fliers this weekend.” I turn back to her. “Do you think it’s too much to expect at least a handful of bodies on my first go?”

  Not that I wouldn’t mind having a one-on-one session with Brooke, but I do have a lot riding on this. There is no back-up plan.

  “You personally handed out these fliers to women in Chicago?”

  I nod. “And men.”

  I spent my entire Saturday going in and out of shops at the mall, standing outside of the local market like a bum seeking a hand-out. The women I talked to seemed at least partially intrigued. The men, not so much.

  I had several papers crumpled up and tossed into the rubbish bin directly beside me, while I watched.

  She runs her gaze down my body, then slowly back up. Her eyes, dark and mischievous. “I don’t think you’re going to have much of a problem packing the house.”

  “Brooke!” the urgent voice calls out again.

  She whips her head around. “Jesus! All right! Go eat another danish!”

  The man glares at her, then mumbles something I can’t make out over a car-horn in the distance before fleeing into the shop.

  Brooke turns back around, her curls bouncing against her top as she shakes her head.

  I shift the box to my left hand, holding out my right. She takes it immediately. “Tomorrow night then?”

  Her hand gently squeezes mine. “Maybe.”

  She stares up at me. I stare right back, running my thumb along her skin.

  “Are you going to let me go?” she asks.

  A strange pressure tightens around my chest.

  I keep my hold on her, maybe even securing my grip a little firmer.

  Try and run, little sheep.

  My lip twitches. “Do I have a choice?”

  “No.”

  “No?” I release her hand, but only to pinch her chin between my thumb and finger. I lean down, slowly inching closer. “But what if I don’t want to let you go?” I ask quietly. “What if I can’t?”

  Her eyes focus on my mouth, an inch away from hers. “Too bad. I’m not giving you an option.”

  “Do you always decide how this works?”

  “Yes,” she says, her voice now a whisper.

  I know she’s expecting me to kiss her. The way she’s wetting her lips, tilting her head up to meet mine. The urgency of her breath.

  I could kiss her, God knows I want to, only . . .

  I’ll want more. More than just a kiss. More than she’s been offering me since she made her existence known.

  I force her face to turn left and slide my mouth to her cheek. “Tomorrow night. Seven o’clock. Don’t make me come looking for you.” I press a chaste kiss to her skin.

  She looks up at me as I lean back and drop my hand. Her eyes narrow. “You better deliver.”

  “I always do.”

  I watch in a daze as she crosses the street. Her ass, this perfect heart-shaped entity, makes me rethink my decision to go a day without tasting her. I imagine peeling her out of those jeans and pressing my lips against her skin. The quiet slap of her body against mine as I bounce her on my . . .

  Jesus. Again with the hard-on?

  I carry the bakery box inside and upstairs to my loft, adjusting my cock in the process.

  Juvenile. If she bent over, you probably would’ve busted a nut right there on the street.

  Standing in front of the rubbish bin, I hesitate, look down at the box in my hands, then glance over at the fridge.

  Brooke made these. And fuck, how sexy was she when she made that declaration? Her voice vibrating with pride, then melting to something softer.

  I don’t eat stuff like this anymore. I don’t even keep it in the house. My lifestyle transformation seven years ago included a major re-haul of my eating habits. Out of sight, out of mind has always worked best for me. I haven’t eaten a cupcake in . . . actually, I can’t even remember the last time I ate a cupcake.

  But she made these. She was so proud showing them off.

  Decision made, I stick the box on the shelf in the fridge, concealed by condiments.

  I palm my phone and send Tessa, my closest friend from where I just moved from, a quick text.

  Me: Just met a woman who might have bigger balls than you.

  She responds within seconds.

  Tessa: Doubt it.

  I chuckle in the silence of my loft. Seeing the three missed calls from my mum, I dial her number as I slump down on the corner of my bed.

  “Hello, sweetheart. How are things?”

  “Great. You know, settling in. The studio is beautiful, Mum. You’d love it.”

  “I’m sure. No issues with anything? It’s okay if there is. You know, a lot of major corporations fail in the beginning, or at least have little mishaps. Doesn’t mean they aren’t meant for greatness.”

  My mum worries. Espec
ially when her youngest child lives nearly sixteen thousand miles away.

  “No catastrophes yet. Give me a day or two.”

  “Oh, Mason.” She sighs heavily.

  I smile, resting my elbows on my knees. “How’s Dad and Ellie?”

  “Good. Ellie just got a new job at one of the markets near her home. She seems to like it.”

  “Yeah? That’s great. Tell her to call her little brother when she gets a minute. I miss her.”

  Two quick beeps of a car horn sound somewhere outside the building. I pad to the only window in my loft and spot a delivery truck parked below.

  The equipment I ordered.

  “Hey, Mum, I need to get off here. I’ll talk to you soon though, yeah?”

  “I love you, sweetheart.”

  “Love you.”

  I disconnect the call and slide my phone back into my pocket.

  The mats, towels, and wedges I ordered all arrive within a few hours of each other. I sign the slips the drivers provide and set about organizing everything, then re-organizing.

  Having seven sisters has made me meticulous with arrangement.

  The studio itself is gorgeous, with bamboo flooring I had installed before the move. The hardwood that was originally in here never would’ve worked for the humid conditions I’m anticipating. The wood would’ve swelled and cracked. I probably would be out a couple thousand replacing it.

  Not an option for me at the moment. Between my lease and the rent I’m paying for the loft above the studio, the flooring, the equipment for class, the sign . . .

  It’s fucking ridiculous how expensive an aluminum sign costs. Highway robbery at its best.

  I take to the footpath after grabbing a quick bite to eat.

  Apple slices and some almond butter. The last of my stash of what I brought from Alabama. I jot down a note to pick up another jar, along with a few other items.

  The sky is warm and clear. The street noisy, a steady line of traffic obstructing my view of the bakery. Of the window I want to peer inside, once, just one glance to see Brooke in her element.

  Joggers move past me on the path, ignoring the hand I hold up to stop them, my other clutching the stack of fliers. Everyone seems tuned into their own world, the music pumping through their headphones, and ignoring everyone around them. I’m not sure how many fliers I ended up handing out over the weekend, but I drew up two hundred.

  My stack feels light.

  Good sign. Possible bad sign if they all ended up in the rubbish.

  I step inside a small bookstore a few businesses down from mine. Old editions are propped up on display in the window. Wuthering Heights. To Kill A Mockingbird. Moby Dick. The woman behind the counter lifts her head at the sound of the bell.

  “Good afternoon.”

  “G’day, Miss. How are you?”

  She slides her glasses back on her nose, grinning. Her silver hair is cut shorter than mine and spiked on the top. “I’m terrific. What can I help you with today?”

  I pass a flier across the counter. “I just opened up a studio just down the way there. First class is free, if you’re interested. It’s tomorrow night. Have you ever tried yoga?”

  She shakes her head, laughing as she sets the flier down in front of her. “Oh, Lord no. I don’t think I can make my body move like that anymore. I’m nearing sixty.”

  “It’s really easy. God’s honest truth. It’s more about the breathing than anything.”

  I hear her pick up the flier again as my eyes fall to a photo aside the computer.

  “Is this your daughter?” I ask, picking up the frame.

  “Yes, that’s my Amber. She’s beautiful, isn’t she?”

  My mouth twitches as I study the picture. I look up at the woman. “She is. Would she be interested in attending a class?”

  “Oh, um, maybe. I could ask her. She’s busy tomorrow night though.”

  “That’s all right.” I set the frame down and grab a pen, turning the flier over. The ink saturates the paper. “Here’s my number, and email. I check that daily. Stop in and see me or give me a call. We’ll work something out, yeah? I’d love to have her.”

  The woman takes the flier and the pen, then shakes my hand. “Okay. That sounds great. I’m Trish. Welcome to the neighborhood.”

  “Mason, and thanks. Everyone seems . . .” I pause, my mind racing to Brooke.

  Those eyes, hungry and calculating as she circled me, sizing me up.

  After a hard swallow, I continue. “Friendly. Very friendly.”

  Trish chuckles softly, dropping her hand. “That we are.”

  I wave on my way out, tucking the remaining fliers against my body.

  BROOKE

  “I’m going to run out for lunch today,” I announce as I secure the lid on a container of icing and slide it on the shelf in the fridge. I close the door. “Is it okay if I take forty-five minutes instead of thirty?”

  Dylan glances up from the worktop. “You’re buying lunch? What happened to packing every day to save money?”

  “I did pack.” I grab my bag off one of the stools and pull out a can of soup. Progresso, Italian Style Wedding. “See? I’ll heat this up when I get back. I need to get something to wear to yoga tonight.” I set the soup on the wood.

  Me, buying work-out clothes. Seems ridiculous. My idea of cardio has never involved clothes.

  “You can borrow something of mine if you want.”

  “No, thanks,” I reply, sliding off my apron and hanging it on the hook by the fridge. I grab my bag and slide the strap up my arm.

  Dylan sticks her hand on her hip, the fingers of her other hand drumming the wood. “What exactly are you planning on buying? I have a ton of running shorts and T-shirts. And we’re the same size, practically. Save your money and just borrow something.”

  “I’ve seen the clothes you wear when you go running. Your tops barely give the illusion of breasts, and I plan on highlighting mine tonight.”

  I also plan on leaving the tags on whatever I end up buying. Wearing an outfit for an hour, or less, depending on how long it takes Mason to kick everyone else out and strip me naked hardly classifies as a non-refundable purchase.

  “Oh.” Dylan smiles. “I see. Really, Brooke. Why don’t you just save yourself the hassle and walk over there naked? I’m sure what’s his name won’t mind.”

  “Walk over where naked?” Joey steps into the back, eyeing up the bag on my arm curiously.

  Shit.

  He raises an eyebrow. “Going somewhere?”

  “No,” I lie to the man who for the past two months has taken it upon himself to monitor my spending. “Just . . . putting this up front.”

  “She’s going to buy an outfit to wear to yoga. Something that gives the illusion of breasts.”

  I whip my head around and glare at Dylan. “You have a big mouth, you know that? And I hardly need an illusion.”

  Please. My biggest asset has never failed to get me the attention I want, when it’s showcased properly. Dylan’s baggy T-shirts are a tragedy to the female race. She has always had a killer body, but she looks like a potato with legs in those things.

  Joey takes a step back and blocks my exit. Dylan chuckles off to my left.

  “Really? What happened to saving up so you can move out?”

  “I’m planning on returning it tomorrow,” I explain, stepping closer to him. “This is a necessary purchase in the name of sex. Sacrifices have to be made. Besides, I read somewhere that if you don’t use your credit card at least once every few weeks, the banks assume you’ve died and will close down all your accounts. I’ll lose my savings if I don’t go through with this.”

  My eyes evade his, roaming casually around the shop.

  I don’t understand why I have to explain one freaking purchase to either one of them. I’m an adult, for Christ’s sake. I’ve been extremely disciplined the past two months. The only thing I still buy is our morning coffees, and I never hear either one of them riding my ass about that. One
calculated credit card charge isn’t going to kill me. And hello! Are they both not hearing the plan I have to return this shit tomorrow?

  A throat clearing grabs my attention. Joey stares at me for a long second, his thick shoulder wedged against the door frame. “You don’t read.”

  I throw my head back. “Ugh. Whatever, I’m going. I’ll be back in forty-five.”

  “Thirty.”

  I look over at Dylan. She smiles around the spoon in her mouth.

  I roll my eyes. “Fine. Thirty.”

  Damn it. It’s going to take me at least ten minutes to get to the mall. A girl who has never once shopped for a sports bra needs ample time to peruse. Do they even come in cup sizes? Is it a one size fits all deal?

  Joey moves toward the worktop, freeing up my exit. “I’m going with you tonight.”

  My feet skid to a halt in the doorway. I crane my neck to look at him. “Excuse me? What’s that now?”

  “Going with you,” he repeats dryly, grabbing a spoon and dipping it into the vat of frosting Dylan just whipped up. He tastes it, makes an appreciative noise in the back of his throat, then looks over at me. “Billy will be at the office until God knows when. I’ll be bored sitting at home. Plus, I’m intrigued. Hot yoga. Even hotter instructor. You, trying to get his attention while working out for the first time in your life. Sounds like a good time for Joey.”

  My teeth clench.

  Oh, great. Like I need more people to shove out the door tonight for some much needed privacy.

  I stare at the side of his big, nosy head. “You know, when you talk in third person, you sound like an idiot. Especially during sex. Joey’s so close. Joey’s going to come.”

  Dylan gasps, her mouth stretching into a ball-busting grin. She shoves against Joey’s chest. “Oh my God. Please tell me you don’t do that. That’s fucking awful, Joey. Jesus!”

  “I do not do that!”

  “You make Joey feel so good. God, suck Joey’s . . .”

  I purse my lips when his eyes flash with the threat of revenge.

  Shit. Tonight. Yoga. He could seriously derail my plans to get some if he refuses to leave.