His Little Tart (18 page)

“Yes, my love.”

Love. Did he mean that? Could she say it back, up the ante by saying the three words and acting as if he’d said them first? It was tempting. She held her tongue, though. He clearly cared for her. That would be enough, right now.

“Tell me what’s got you worried, and I’ll help you and support you however I can.”

“Really?” It was her problem. She rather doubted he wanted to make it his. And worse, it sounded like he had plenty of money, and if she told him, it would sound like she was practically asking him to pay her debts. She couldn’t do that.

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“Really.”

She bit her lip, staring at him.

“I’m perfectly capable of doing that all over again,” he said. “Starting right now.

As many times as we have to. You have no choice but to tell me.”

She looked into his eyes and didn’t doubt it for a moment. It would be fun, some other time. She opened her mouth to ask, “Promise?” and then clamped it shut again.

This wasn’t a time to be a smart aleck. She had a feeling that if they managed a relationship, she’d be in for plenty of spankings, and lots of orgasms too.

“No choice, love.”

She took a deep breath, and then she told him the whole story. Since she had no choice. It all came out, from her owing taxes to her dreams of someday owning her own bakery, with cupcakes all lined up enticingly in the window. And then she looked at him, fearing what he’d say next. She didn’t know what was worse, being told she could deal with her own failure or being casually rescued by someone who thought a thousand dollars was trivial.

“Tomorrow morning, if I could, I’d like to look at your books and try to figure out what’s going wrong, and work up a proposal we can show to some bankers. You shouldn’t be operating out of your apartment. You should have your own bakery and the best equipment.”

She shook her head. “Do you think I haven’t tried? No one will loan me that kind of money. I’ve talked to bankers in Washington, Baltimore, and Philadelphia, and even New York. I’ve been willing to relocate, but they took one look at what I’ve done so far, and they aren’t interested.”

He shrugged. “Then they’ll have to look again. Or we’ll talk to different banks. But you are not going to stop baking. One way or the other, we can solve this problem.

You’re too good at it to give up.”

“I think I’m pretty good,” she admitted.

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“You’re absolutely first-rate, my little tart. I have eaten desserts at the best restaurants in Paris, London, Amsterdam, Rome—and yours are as good as any. We will find a way. Do you trust me about that?”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll sleep at your place tonight, and we can get an early start on it.”

She blinked. She hadn’t cleaned in a couple days, and she definitely hadn’t been planning on visitors. “Um.”

“Just say yes.”

“Yes,” she said doubtfully. It was so easy, though, to do as he told her. And she wanted him there, anyway, in her home and in her bed.

“I’m a guy, love. I don’t care if it’s messy.”

She laughed. “Okay.”

“That’s settled, then. Now let’s go play.” He grinned.

“Tarts first.”

He raised his eyebrows and gestured expansively with his hand toward the door that led toward the dungeon.

She pursed her lips, suppressing a laugh, and punched him playfully in the chest.

“Not that kind of tart. Little pies. You have to eat one before we go play.”

“You’re setting the conditions now, Constance?” His eyes looked dangerous.

She stood her ground. “Just the one, Sir. Just the one.” She wanted him to taste what she’d made. She’d labored over them all afternoon, being so finicky she’d thrown out half the strawberries as not quite good enough on the hopes that he’d be there. He was going to have one, even if she got spanked again for it—and her bottom was already sore enough.

A slow smile came over his face. “Very well, love,” he said with a nod of acceptance. “But I want to eat it from your hand.”

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Constance’s stomach fluttered. That sounded perfect. She sneaked a look at her watch. It was cool in the kitchen, and she estimated the tarts would be ready a few minutes early. “May I fetch you a tart, Sir?”

“You may.”

She was aware of his gaze on her backside as she walked away. Her butt felt warm. She wondered if it was going to hurt to sit tomorrow. She frowned. She didn’t mind if it did, but she didn’t want to think about tomorrow. She wanted to trust him that it really would be all right, but she didn’t see how at the moment. And if she let herself think about it, she knew she’d be planning all the ways it could possibly go.

She washed her hands thoroughly. Then she touched one of the tarts lightly and rested her finger there for a moment. It wasn’t quite perfect, but if Aidan ate his now, she’d probably end up serving the others a few minutes late. She didn’t want to think about that, either—walking in with a plate full of tarts and nothing on her bottom. She picked up one tart, placed it on a small plate, and walked back to Aidan with it. There were people who got all bent out of shape that someone was touching their food, she knew, but there wasn’t any substitute for feeling how hot something was yourself. Or kneading dough until it felt right to a squeeze, regardless of how long you’d been at it.

Sometimes, baking was like playing in the mud, and she didn’t think she’d ever grow out of that.

She was beginning to get the idea that sex could be like that too. Messy, fun, and very naughty.
I’ve been missing out. Or maybe I was waiting for the right partner.

Aidan’s eyes were on her as she walked back. The heat of his gaze made her extra aware of her breasts and especially of her bare pussy. Her patch of black curls was all that protected her modesty, and that wasn’t much protection. She straddled him, aware of the bulge in his pants. She was tempted to grind herself against him there, teasing him. Of course, she might end up teasing herself, because she knew full well he’d decide whether she could come or not, and he’d proven he was more than capable of saying no. It was strange how that made it extra sweet when he finally said yes.

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He arched his hips and nudged her, the hard, rough ridge of his pants against the delicate folds of her pussy. “Feed me.”

“Yes, Sir,” she said. Sir didn’t seem adequate, the way she was feeling, but she wasn’t sure why she hesitated about calling him master. It had slipped out once or twice. If she said it again, she’d feel like she was saying she couldn’t handle her own problems. And maybe she couldn’t, but she didn’t want to admit it. She lifted the little tart off the plate and held it to his mouth, letting him bite off a bit of crust with a trace of filling. She smiled at his expression of pleasure. Left to bake too long, the edge of the outer crust could get bitter and unpleasant, as it received more heat than any place else and usually dried out the fastest. Less, and the filling would be undercooked.

He took another bite. His bite created a small hole, and she dipped her pinky finger into it and brought it to his mouth. The filling was hot, but not hot enough to burn. He sucked it off her finger greedily.

“This is the second-best tart I’ve ever tasted,” he told her, his voice grave.

“Second?” She supposed he had been all over the world and all, but she was hoping to give him as memorable an experience, in its own way, as he’d given her.

“Yeah, second. Now let me taste the first again.” He slipped his hand into her hair and pulled her in for a kiss. She could taste the strawberry-rhubarb on his tongue as he plundered her mouth, taking what he wanted, not letting her go. Not that she wanted him to. Even if she ran out of air, at least she would faint in the right place. His kiss made her peaks tingle, and she ached to rub them against him.

He let her go while she could still breathe.

“More,” he commanded. She’d almost forgotten about the tart, although she’d managed not to spill it from the plate. Good thing she had the taste of it in his mouth to remind her. She fed him, bite by bite. He held her bottom, squeezing, reminding her of the spanking she’d received earlier and making her feel his hardness between her legs.

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“Do you want me to do something about that, Sir?” She set the mostly eaten tart back on the plate to free a hand and then gave his cock a squeeze through his pants. She was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

“I want to be in your mouth,” he told her.

She set the plate down on the arm of the chair and slid downward. The cushion where Alex had been kneeling was still there. She unzipped his zipper and pulled out his cock, long and magnificent, his pulse pounding through the big vein on the bottom.

She held it while she cupped his balls, heavy in her hand, the skin tight around them.

Finally, she slipped her mouth over the head, pressing back the foreskin with the edge of her lips. She knew she couldn’t take him all in, as much as she’d like to. Maybe that was something she could learn with practice, but not now. Hopefully, strawberries, rhubarb, and sugar would distract him from her lack of technique. She sucked, taking him in until the tip tickled the back of her throat.

She peeked up at him and saw that she had his full attention. His hands were on her head, his touch soft, not pushing or pulling on her. She slid him in and out, rotating her hands around his shaft, hoping that felt good. When she took him too far in, she backed off, trying not to gag, and let him out of her mouth. She laughed nervously, suddenly worried he’d think she was hopelessly bad at the thing she suspected men liked most.

“That feels heavenly,” he told her.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Squeeze just a little tighter.”

She could do that. She’d been afraid of hurting him.

She slid her mouth over the top again and savored the warmth of him and the sweet smell that was a strong mix of musk and sex. She closed her eyes the way she did when she tested a new dessert, so she could concentrate on how he tasted, his precum thick and salty. She felt him getting bigger, his cock pulsing in her hands.

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“I’m about to come, little tart. You don’t have to swallow.” She felt his hands shake as he took them off her head, and she knew he was using all his self-control to stop from coming before she had a chance to move away.

I can always chase the taste out with a tart, she thought, even though she hadn’t originally been planning on having any. But she panicked and pulled back as the first spurt came out of him. It hit her chest, warm and sticky, and then she covered him with her mouth again as he groaned. His cum was thick and pungent as it hit her tongue, but not, she thought, too bad. She squeezed his balls gently while she sucked on him and pumped with her hand, wanting to prolong his pleasure.

“That’s incredible,” he said.

She looked up at him when she was sure he was finished and swallowed. The look on his face reinforced his words, and she allowed herself a smile as she knelt back.

He pulled her up into his lap and kissed her with a ferocity that surprised her. She hadn’t expected that he’d want to kiss her after that—at least not until she tasted of strawberry-rhubarb instead of his cum. But he devoured her hungrily, and once she accepted that he didn’t mind, she kissed him back with passion.

“Wow,” she murmured. Spotting the last bit of the tart, she picked it up and held it to his mouth. It was more than a bite, but when he opened his mouth, a bit of mischief came over her, and she poked it all in with her finger.

THE TASTE OF the tart reminded Aidan that the others hadn’t had any yet. They were in for a treat. Not as much of a treat as he’d gotten, but still. He beamed at Constance with possessive satisfaction, feeling decidedly smug. The cliché “what’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this” popped into his head. How did her talent go undiscovered? He’d thought she was running around delivering her pastries because she wanted to watch people eat them, or because she enjoyed being on the road. He hadn’t considered it deeply, but one way or the other, he assumed it was a choice she’d made.

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One thing that was clear to him was that Constance was fiercely independent. She was determined to make it on her own. It had been tempting to tell her that he’d become her investor. He didn’t doubt he’d make money in the long run from his investment, either, especially if he negotiated some financial oversight. But if he did, he’d be depriving her of what she needed more than money, and that was the satisfaction that came with success. The start-up capital would have to come from somewhere else, and he had an idea of how to make that happen.

First, however, he wanted to show her a wonderful evening. He didn’t have any toys with him—his luggage was on its way to Los Angeles, apparently. Waiting for it was why he’d been late to the Allisons’, but eventually, he found someone from the airline who explained what had happened, if not exactly why, and had assured him that everything would be back in Maryland the next morning. But he didn’t need toys. He could make do with his bare hands and the condom he had in his pocket.

“Let’s get the others their tarts, love,” he said. Someday, he’d spend a whole evening with her on his lap, but he’d have to put that off for now.