Sweet Dreams (A Sugar Rush Novel) (28 page)

“Jesus, Peach, you’re so goddamned perfect,” he muttered, stroking his finger right down the opening of her slit. “I could bury myself inside you for days.”

She quivered in reaction to his touch, turning to look at him over her shoulder. Her brown eyes were wide and luminous in the dim light, and a strained note of urgency threaded her voice.

“Do it,” she whispered. “Fuck me, Luke, please.”

He fumbled to put a condom on, then got to his knees behind her and grasped his shaft, wincing as the pressure increased in his lower body. He gripped Polly’s ass with one hand and tortured himself by rubbing the head of his cock over her damp folds, slipping it partway into her slit before pulling back out again.

“Luke,” Polly groaned, lowering her head onto her folded arms, a movement that caused her back to arch and her ass to push even closer to him. She shifted her hips, as if she were trying to thrust herself onto his erection.

Then he couldn’t hold back any longer. Heat coursed through him as he grabbed her hips and thrust deep in one, hard motion. She cried out, her body jerking forward, and she grabbed one of the tent poles to brace herself.

Blinding lust descended over Luke. He started to fuck her, driving into her as far as he could, his balls smacking against her tender flesh. His world distilled to the tight grip of Polly’s channel around his cock, the feel of her ass hitting his stomach with every thrust, the sound of her cries filling his ears. Sweat dripped down his chest.

The raging fire inside him drowned out the crash of music outside, the sound of passing voices. He stroked his hands around to her breasts, fondling the heavy globes as they bounced in rhythm with his thrusts.

He eased one hand between her legs to her clit again, bringing her to another orgasm that had her shrieking anew. Only when her body tensed, as if the position were starting to hurt her, did Luke pull out of her.

She turned and eased onto her back, her hair a tangle of curls around her flushed face, her body trembling with excitement. He pulled her in for another kiss as she parted her legs and opened for him. And then she was wrapping herself around him, her hard-tipped breasts jostling against his chest as he pushed his cock into her again and again. Their skin rubbed together, sweaty, grimy, and hot with sunburn, the friction heating Luke’s blood with a thousand fires.

“Ah, fuck, my little Polly.” He gripped the sides of her head, pressing his forehead to hers as the pressure mounted. “Take me.”

“Yes,” she gasped, winding her legs around his hips. “God, yes . . . you’re so big, Luke, I feel you so deep . . . oh . . .”

She bit down on his shoulder, the mild pain of her sharp teeth jolting him to the edge. With a groan, he thrust again and shot deep inside her, the sensation tearing like an explosion through his body. He braced his hands on the sides of Polly’s head, his chest heaving as he barely managed to restrain himself from collapsing on top of her.

He fell to the side with another groan and flung his arm over his eyes. Beside him, Polly’s breath rasped through the air, her body trembling in an equally intense rhythm. Slowly the world came back into focus, the sound of music and conversation drifting into Luke’s ears.

He sat up, turning to Polly and letting his gaze move over her naked, glossy body. He reached out to rub her breasts, liking the way she arched into him as if anticipating his touch. They looked at each other, faint tension suddenly stretching through the air.

Then Luke broke eye contact and rolled onto his back. He stared at the stretched canvas of the tent above him, unnerved by the emotions crowding his chest, the growing feeling that he didn’t want to leave the haven of Polly and return to his normal, workaholic life.

She shifted closer to him and tucked her face against his chest. Trembles continued to course through her warm body.

“Hey,” Luke said.

She lifted her head, wariness coloring her eyes. He stroked her hair away from her face and ran his hand over her soft cheek.

“Thanks,” he said. “This whole day has been incredibly fun.”

“Do you miss your phone?”

“What phone?”

She smiled. As she settled against him again, Luke pressed his lips to her forehead. No, he didn’t miss his phone. But someday, and in the not-too-distant future, he sure as hell was going to miss Polly. And probably more than he could stand.

A DREAM-LIKE FOG SURROUNDED
Polly as she went down to the bakery early Monday morning. Sunday had been as magical as Saturday, if a little more fatigued. She’d thought Luke might get antsy about the lack of Wi-Fi, but it had appeared to be the last thing on his mind. Instead he’d wandered the grounds, danced with her, played hacky sack, made treks to the food stands to buy coffee and sandwiches for everyone in their camping circle, and given her warm forehead kisses while simultaneously patting her rear.

Polly had never before had such a good time at Codswallop. She almost started thinking about going with Luke again next year . . . until she remembered they might very well not be together then. They might not be together next month.

Uncertainty flickered through her as she let herself into the bakery. Maybe it was about time she and Luke had a discussion about where things stood. He’d told her he couldn’t give her anything long-lasting and that his relationships had “parameters and deadlines,” but what did that mean? When was the deadline? And what the heck was a “parameter” anyway? She’d have to look that one up.

As Polly prepped for opening, Clementine came in with the announcement that a news reporter and cameraman had stopped into Wild Child on Saturday afternoon, claiming they were working on a segment about the new interest in reality baking shows.

“I tried to call you, but your phone was down and I know the connection at Codswallop is iffy at best.” Clementine stowed her bag under the counter. “Apparently the reporter is a cousin of one of the Knight Security men. She was hoping to interview you and didn’t want to wait until Monday. So I gave them permission to film because I thought we could use the publicity.”

“We still need all the help we can get.”

Because one day, Polly would have to keep the bakery going by herself. Clementine would be gone, and Luke wouldn’t be here to answer questions about budgeting or profit margins.

During a mid-morning lull, she sat at a mosaic table with her laptop to continue putting vendors into the new accounting software.

“These are different.” Hannah sat at a table by the window, her feet propped on the sill and a book open in her lap. She waved a cookie in Polly’s direction. “What did you do to them?”

“Cheaper ingredients,” Polly replied. “Mom always used the best ingredients, but I couldn’t afford them anymore and had to downscale.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“Believe me, I know.” Polly glanced up at the sound of the wind chimes jingling above the door.

Luke’s brother Evan was holding the door open. A dark-haired woman wearing a stylish wrap dress, gold-rimmed eyeglasses, and dangling earrings entered, sweeping her gaze over the display cases. She was accompanied by a slender, blond man decked out in a suit and bow tie, holding a large carrying case.

A memory of her encounter with Julia spread over Polly like a bad rash, but she reminded herself to give these people a chance. Luke had been kind enough to set up a meeting with interior design firm partners about remodeling Wild Child, and Polly couldn’t be churlish enough to refuse.

“Hey, Polly.” With a smile, Evan approached her table and lowered his head next to her ear. “I’m here as a peacekeeping force, in case these two give you flashbacks to Julia.”

Polly narrowed her eyes at the couple who were wandering around the bakery, looking at everything with a critical eye.

“As long as they don’t use the phrases
roach clips
or
reefer madness
, we’ll be fine,” she muttered to Evan.

“Miss Lockhart?” The woman approached. “I’m Eleanor Pendergrass. My partner Simon Peabody. Pendergrass and Peabody Designs. We’ll just have a look around, if you don’t mind.”

“By all means.”

Polly went around the counter to get a few of her éclair-doughnut pastries from the cold case. She set the plate in front of Evan before sitting beside him. Still wary, she watched the two designers strolling around the bakery, examining the worn, mismatched furnishings and mandala tapestries.

“What are they going to do?” Hannah paused beside Polly.

“Nothing yet. They’re here to consult about remodeling the interior.”

An odd tension radiated from Hannah. “You’re remodeling?”

“We have to.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s part of improving the business.”
If you’d been around, you’d know that.

Polly clamped down on the remark and gestured to Evan. “Hannah, this is Luke’s brother Evan. Evan, my sister Hannah.”

“Pleasure.” Evan rose and extended his hand.

Hannah nodded and shook his hand, pulling away more quickly than was polite.

“These are amazing.” Apparently unoffended, Evan sat back down and held up one of the pastries. “I’ve never had anything like this before.”

“It’s called a Declair,” Polly said, pleased by his praise. “My new creation. I’ll get you some more.”

She took his empty plate and went to pile it with fresh Declairs.

“Not even grunge chic.” Eleanor Pendergrass turned a paper lantern around in her hand. “Just
grunge
.”

Simon peered with faint distaste at an upholstered chair so well-loved the fabric was worn down to the threads in places.

“Retro-tech might work here,” he said, “or perhaps French Rococo with fringed curtains and gilt molding.”

Polly and Hannah exchanged glances.

“That’s not really what Wild Child is about,” Polly told Simon gently.

“Perhaps a minimalist approach then.” Eleanor retrieved a drawing pad from the carrying case. “It creates a very soothing environment. Luke explained that you would be streamlining your products, so you might consider focusing on the actual baked goods. The primary materials would be steel, glass, and concrete—very in vogue with corporate retail design at the moment—and black backgrounds with spotlighting would showcase the products.”

“This isn’t a corporate—” Polly began.

“Excellent.” Simon nodded at Eleanor with approval. “Minimalist design creates a very Zen-like atmosphere. We’ll get rid of all this stuff on the walls and that artwork so we can have a chic, monochromatic palette that showcases your products. Black tables, silver chairs, a sleek new logo.”

“I’m sorry,” Polly said. “But Wild Child really isn’t about chic or sleek.”

The two designers looked at her. Simon arched an elegantly plucked eyebrow.

“So what are
you
thinking, doll?” he asked.

“Well, sort of what we already have, but upgraded?” Polly ventured.

Eleanor and Simon exchanged glances.

“Darling, there’s really no such thing as
upgraded
grunge,” Eleanor said. “That’s the point of grunge. It’s dirty and messy.”

After her encounter with Julia the other day, Polly was in no mood to have more criticism being hurled in her direction by people who thought they were better than her.

“My bakery,” she said, her voice icy, “is neither dirty nor messy.”

“I didn’t mean to imply that it was,” Eleanor assured her. “But it’s definitely outdated, moth-eaten and, frankly, a bit depressing.”

Okay, Polly could concede that point. The Wild Child décor was fifteen years old, and aside from the rotating, consignment artwork on one wall, none of it had ever changed. Even she could see that it was looking rather shabby.

“That macramé is yellowing.” Eleanor waved her hand at a plant hanger in the corner that held a limp spider lily. “Not to mention . . . it’s
macramé
.”

“So get a new one,” Hannah said crisply. “And go with bohemian.”

Eleanor and Simon stared at her. Hannah was leaning against a table, winding a strand of hair around one finger, her eyes narrowed on the two designers with faint hostility.

“Excuse me?” Eleanor pursed her lips.

“Boho.” Hannah waved her hand in the air. “Plants, multi-tonal prints, a couple of hammock chairs in the corners, globe lights. Take out one of the display cases and add some rough-hewn tables and chairs for more seating, maybe a couple of repurposed coffee-tables. You know.” She shrugged. “Boho
chic
.”