Valentine Honey : a Sweet & Dirty Novella (Sweet & Dirty BBW MC Romance) Read online

  Valentine Honey

  A Sweet & Dirty Novella

  CATHRYN CADE

  Windtree Press

  Beaverton, Oregon

  COPYRIGHT

  Copyright © 2019 by Cathryn Cade

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Contact information:

  Windtree Press

  Beaverton Oregon USA

  http://windtreepress.com

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2017 BookDesignTemplates.com

  Valentine Honey; a Sweet & Dirty Novella/Cathryn Cade. — 1st ed.

  ABOUT THE NOVELLA

  Valentine Honey; a Sweet & Dirty novella

  Featuring Stick and Sara from ‘The Man With All the Honey’

  Sara Vanko’s life and marriage are about to change… forever.

  But as Sara prepares to break the news to Ivan 'Stick' Vanko, President of the Devil's Flyers, that he's about to be a daddy again, a visitor shows up at the Flyers' Clubhouse—a cold blast from his past.

  When Sara tries to welcome her, Stick loses his famous self-control—in front of their entire club. It's more than the usually unflappable Sara can bear.

  Now this alpha biker man must admit he was wrong…and ask for forgiveness. This year, it’s Stick’s turn to make Valentine's Day a special one.

  Can he prove to her that Cupid's not stupid, and love's sweetness is worth the sting?

  Read this 20,000 word novella and find out!

  VALENTINE HONEY

  February 13th

  Sara Vanko stared at herself in the long mirror.

  He husband had installed it on the bathroom door for her, here in their shared bedroom at the Devil's Flyers' clubhouse.

  Ivan 'Stick' Vanko liked to get him some when the mood took him, and when he was through, his woman needed a good mirror to make sure that not only were her hair and makeup repaired, but that her clothing was on straight.

  Not that anyone around the clubhouse would've blinked at their motorcycle club president's old lady wandering back into their midst with sex hair, smudged makeup and her clothing wrinkled beyond repair.

  But such was not Sara's style.

  She embraced her new, sexy, biker babe look the way she'd once embraced navy and beige career-wear. But she still insisted on being pulled together before anyone but Ivan and his twins saw her outside their home.

  Right now, she was alone in their room, wearing nothing but undies. And what undies they were. Along with her biker-chic jeans, sexy tops and high-heeled boots, she'd taken to wearing lacy little panties and bras for her man to take off of her—or merely tug aside, as his mood dictated.

  On her full figure, this set was little more than a tease. She was tall, and built on the sturdy lines of her long ago Viking ancestors. The sheer red lace bra lifted her full breasts in enticing display, and the matching thong panties were a mere punctuation on her full hips and ass. Yes, this set was meant as a gift for her man.

  And God knew, with what she'd just learned, she needed to wear sexy things like this while she still could.

  She lifted her hand to toy with a wave of her long, platinum-blonde hair. Her hands were slim, and well-kept, her nails also red.

  The diamond on her left hand glittered in the light. The two-carat solitaire was flanked by two smaller diamonds set in platinum, her matching wedding band also chased with smaller diamonds.

  The rings were a symbol of her husband's love and esteem.

  And his mark of possession. Ivan 'Stick' Vanko wanted every man within a hundred feet to know she was taken. If he had his way, she'd also wear a feminine version of the leather vests, or cuts, he and the men in his motorcycle club wore.

  In fact, he'd suggested she make herself such a vest in her leather-work shop next to their home, a vest that said ‘Property of Stick’ on the back. She'd declined.

  The sly twinkle lurking in his ice-blue eyes had said he hadn't expected her to agree—but that he wasn’t giving up.

  Both in his role as president of the Devil's Flyers motorcycle club, Eastern Washington Chapter, and in his personal life, Stick Vanko liked control. He got it by being focused, determined, and impervious to what other people thought of him.

  As his wife, Sara knew darned well he'd take every inch of personal territory she gave him, and then immediately begin plotting to take more. Luckily, she was a first-born like him, and had a strong will of her own.

  But was it strong enough to weather the storm that she very much feared was on the horizon?

  Because Sara had a secret—perhaps the biggest of her entire life. One that filled her with such joy that she felt she could float up off the ground, and drift across the meadows between her and Ivan's home and this clubhouse where he ruled.

  But under the joy rode a heavy weight of tension that knotted in her stomach and at the back of her neck.

  Because right now, Ivan might not share her happiness about the secret she carried.

  It had been a rough week in the Vanko household.

  Cooped up because of colds and cold weather, the five-year old twins had been into everything—including their father’s office. This was a sanctum that was not to be invaded for any reason.

  But they had done so, and managed to damage his new laptop computer by dropping it on the floor, where one of them promptly fell on it, cracking the screen and breaking the keyboard. They were both sent to different corners of the sitting room, with several privileges taken away, and their royally ticked off father called Rocker and Rav to come and install a lock on his office door, with a keypad combination only Stick and Sara knew.

  The boys were both well now, and Ivan had a new computer with his crucial business information loaded on it.

  But just when Sara had started to relax… she realized their lives were about to change in a new and massive way.

  And if Ivan did not share her joy at this news, it could very well damage their marriage.

  These fabulous undies were visual aids as she made her announcement in a way that showed she was his, all his, and she needed him to be all in with their changed future as well.

  The room itself was also set up as a backdrop for her planned seduction.

  Even though she and Ivan and his twin sons shared a spacious, remodeled farmhouse across the field from the clubhouse, this bedroom was one of the privileges of their club status. That he'd once used it to fuck a long series of other women, Sara did her best to forget.

  She’d been with him for nearly two years, and the room was theirs now.

  This afternoon, both bedside tables bore red cloths upon which stood tall, creamy-white beeswax candles what would smell of honey when they were lit. A dish of gourmet dark-chocolate truffles, a bottle of champagne and one of sparkling cider sat on a tray, complete with two champagne flutes. A red silk robe was draped across the bed—for her to slip into while she waited for him.

  A small, gold foil gift-bag sat beside the robe.

  Everything was ready—now all the scene needed to be complete was one tall, broad-shouldered alpha male.

  She pressed a hand to her middle, and took a breath, hope fluttering along with sheer nerves. Then she walked to the bed to fetch her phone and ask Ivan to meet her here.

  Just as she reached for her phone, it vibrated, startling her. She picked it up and perched on the corner of the big bed, covered in a charcoal comforter.

  Billie's name appeared on the screen. The creator of a popular computer game, the sweet, lovely younger woman was with the Flyers' vice-president, Rocker Hayes. Even though she was one of Sara's favorite people, Sara was not in the mood to chat.

  But, being the first old lady of the chapter, Sara, like her husband, had responsibilities. This meant she answered phone calls even when she did not want to.

  Also, Billie and her sister Lesa had seen Sara carrying in her shopping bags earlier, so she knew Sara had plans for her husband that included sexy-times. The two younger women had enthusiastically approved, and Lesa lent her new iPod with a music playlist to drown out the sounds of rowdy bikers outside the room.

  Thus, Billie would not be calling her now unless it was urgent. With a look of regret at the satin robe, Sara set her phone on the bed while she picked up her black skinny jeans instead.

  "Hey, Billie," she said, stepping into the jeans and tugging them on. "What's up?"

  "Sara, are you dressed?" Billie asked, her voice hushed. Sara could hear behind her the muffled sound of other voices.

  "Working on it," Sara said, reaching for her top, a filmy creation of black-and-white flowered gauze with red piping around the square-cut bodice, and red ribbons catching up the gathered sleeves. She pulled it on and settled the snug waist, letting the hem float around her hips. "What's going on?"

  "Well, uh...I think you should probably come out here ASAP. We've got a bit of a situation developing."

  Sara sighed. "On my way."

  Sara stepped into her favorite pair of black, heeled booties with darling silver buckles on the sides, checking her reflection once again in the mirror. Perfect, even to her red lipstick. However, her plan to seduce her husband would have to wait, at least for a little while.

  Then she pulled open the door of the bedroom and stepped out into the wide hallway that ran the length of the clubhouse.

  Sara turned right and strode out into the main room of the clubhouse.

  This was basically a big, comfortable barroom. Under her supervision, it was also classier and better cared for than the usual MC clubhouse. The bar ran along the wall to her left, near the front doors. Tables and chairs grouped in the center, a couple of pool and foosball tables stood to one side, and a TV-slash-gaming area with big, comfy leather sofas and ottomans filled the area near the back doors.

  Having been built as a carpet-and-flooring warehouse and showroom, the place had glass windows and doors across the front. They were now securely barred, but still gave a good view of the parking lot and any visitors.

  Outside it was a dark, cloudy, mid-February afternoon. Snow covered the fields and lay in thawing banks on the edges of the asphalt parking lot.

  Inside, hanging lamps cast a warm, golden glow over the room and the people in it. Classic rock music pumped from speakers high on the walls, the volume set so conversation could still be heard, and pool balls clacked as two guys played a game.

  There were always at least a few Flyers here, relaxing after work or hanging out on their day off.

  This afternoon, several of the brothers lounged around the tables, glasses of beer or hard liquor before them. Some had their woman at their side, and a couple of 'friends of the club' were flirting with the bartender, a young prospect named Drew.

  However, Sara sensed immediately that the atmosphere in the room, instead of the usual laid-back vibe of a Saturday afternoon, was electric with tension.

  There was one Devil’s Flyer who could affect the mood of a large gathering that way, without uttering a word—their president.

  She looked to the club officers' table. Her husband lounged in the big oak chair that fit his tall, brawny frame just right, facing the room at large as usual.

  And as it did each time she saw him, her heart gave a happy, little clench of excitement, and warmth gathered lower in her belly.

  Ivan ‘Stick’ Vanko was often called the Russian Iceberg—both by his men and his enemies. He had the high, wide cheekbones, brutal jaw and pale blue eyes of his Russian ancestors. And since his parents had immigrated when he was a baby, and spoke Russian to him and his younger brother Pete at home, both brothers had remnants of the accent in their speech.

  And some of those ancestors may have been Vikings too. Either way, he looked like a sexy marauder. Well over six feet, he had the broad shoulders, long legs and heavy musculature of a man who worked out often and hard, and also used his strength in other ways.

  As president of the Flyers, Stick used his appearance and his deep, cold voice as calculated weapons, to intimidate and control.

  When she met him, his dark blonde hair had been long, but he now wore it short, his beard and mustache trimmed neatly on his angular face.

  As was his habit, he wore jeans, motorcycle boots and a western shirt, this one a wheat-colored plaid, under his Flyers' cut. In deference to the chilly weather, the sleeves were long, but rolled up to reveal his thick, tattooed forearms. In warmer weather his sleeves were apt to be cut off at the shoulder.

  On his left sat Bouncer, the club sgt-at-arms, and on his right sat Rocker, the vice-president, a couple of brothers across from them, with their women.

  This too was normal.

  What was not normal was the tension radiating from the three men, and the way the others at the table were turned, looking over their shoulders, also toward the front.

  Billie stood at Rocker's shoulder, looking to Sara, her eyes wide in an 'Eek!' face. Then she too, turned back toward the front of the room. Sara looked that way, saw a flashy, late-model, red pickup truck idling outside. The club’s front doors stood partly open, a waft of cold air coming in.

  The tension in the room ratcheted up another notch as Sara neared their table.

  Ivan rarely smiled, instead his pale blue eyes conveyed his good or ill humor. Right now, his face appeared to be carved from solid rock, and his icy gaze was fixed across the room, near the front doors.

  Sara stopped at Stick's side and touched his shoulder to let him know she was here—because for once, she wasn't sure he'd notice her presence. This was not a happy realization—no matter what was going on around him, if she was in a room, Ivan always knew where she was and who was near her. He was the same with his twin sons.

  But now, the heavy muscles of his shoulder were hard with tension, and he ignored her.

  Perturbed, she looked to the small cluster of people standing near the clubhouse's front doors.

  Streak, a handsome guy in his late twenties who'd recently patched in to the club, stood facing the doors, his back to the room at large. His stance was stiff, and he was gesturing toward the front doors as he spoke to whoever stood before him. Someone smaller, because Sara couldn't see him or her.

  "Ivan?" Sara said, giving his shoulder a questioning squeeze. "What's going on?"

  Unusually—causing the unhappy feeling in her chest to deepen—he continued to ignore her, his gaze locked on whatever was happening near the front doors.

  Streak turned toward them. The Flyer grimaced in a silent apology to Stick as someone stepped around him and began to sashay between the tables like she owned the joint.

  Sara stared—all this tension over a woman?

  The woman crossing the room to them was sort of gorgeous, in the way of an older woman who knew she still looked good and worked what she had. She wore a tight, caramel leather jacket, jeans that appeared to have been painted on, and stiletto-heeled booties. The golden blonde color of her long hair might be out of a bottle, but it was thick and healthy, and although she'd overdone it on the makeup and cleavage, so did most of the women who drifted in and out of the Flyers' compound, so this was not a surprise.

  Sara was also not surprised when the woman ignored the other men lounging ar ound the room, to make a beeline straight for Stick.

  Every female between the ages of seventeen and seventy who walked in the Devil's Flyers' clubhouse doors, other than at one of the frequent club parties, was either with a club member, or they wanted to be with one. Some wanted sex, some a favor, some protection.

  Since Stick was not only the president, but exuded power and raw sex appeal, many of those women either directly approached him, or their gazes followed him even as they hung onto other men. They smiled, they batted their lashes and they showed tits and ass, hoping to tempt him.

  This made Sara's palm itch, but there wasn't much she could do about it.

  She had faith in her husband—she'd demanded his fidelity as a condition of their marriage, and he'd given his word. Stick Vanko never broke his word, and he never looked at other women or touched them the way he had before committing to Sara.

  What did surprise Sara was Stick's reaction to this woman. She had his complete attention. Not in a sexual way, but in a very, very bad way. Sara knew that if she peered into his pale blue eyes, they would be colder than ice.

  And miraculously, the stranger was somehow completely ignoring the massively dangerous and hostile vibe he emitted. Was she exceptionally tough, or stupid? As she stopped before Stick, the woman set her hand on her hip in a practiced move. Her smile grew in wattage and sweetness.

  "Heya, Stick," she greeted him in the husky voice of a smoker.

  "Reyna," he replied. His deep voice slid out between them like a sheet of ice.

  Sara would not have been surprised to see everyone's breath puff, signaling a drop in room temperature. She shivered, goosebumps standing up on her arms as a chill raced over her skin—imaginary or not.

  The woman's brown eyes flicked to Sara, and she cocked her head, still behaving as if everything was relaxed and cordial.