Page 4 of Bears & Bakeries (Sweet & Stocky #2)

FOUR

Different Strokes

L ocky kicked an empty cola can down the pavement.

It had been three days since his meeting with Benedict and the shame still burned hot. Just thinking about it made him want to curl up and hide. Because here was this kind, handsome man, expecting a serious client, and what had Locky given him? An emotionally unstable sex freak who couldn’t control his nerves or his nads.

Locky still hadn’t called him back with a final answer.

He wasn’t sure Benedict would even pick up.

He knew he had to make the call. He’d promised Kai as much. And he had tried, picking up his phone a dozen times and thinking about it. About apologizing for what happened. About shoving this shame aside and imagining what it would be like to say yes .

To be taken on as a client?

To be a baker? A business owner?

To let this crazy idea breathe ?

Last night, Locky had punched in Benedict’s number, his thumb hovering over the call button. But before he could press it, his whole body had started to shake, his mind flooding with thoughts of shuttered windows and bankruptcy notices and men in rusty removal vans.

Not that Benedict was intimidating, even if his fees were suspiciously low. But maybe that was part of the ploy? Something to suck him in? Some trick that would drown him in debt and throw him back on the streets and?—

Locky snapped to reality at the sound of a slamming door. They were standing in front of an immaculate Edwardian townhouse, all rich navy siding and glinting bay windows.

Evelyn Abruzzo stared at the bronze door knocker. Other people might have muttered something under their breath, but Evelyn was more of a scream down the street kind of gal.

“And the same to you, puttana !” she bellowed, with a kick of cherry-red Doc Martins against the wood. She dragged Locky away with a whip of sundress and a flounce of silver curls. “Honestly, the people these days. Where are their manners?”

It was impossible for Locky to keep up. Evelyn was only nipple-height, but she scurried ahead like a terrier tugging on the leash.

“What exactly is a marbled murrelet ?” said Locky, glancing at her clipboard. It was hard to keep track of Evelyn’s causes. She helped out with homeless organizations and AIDs research and a million different environmental charities.

She’d spent twenty years working HR in the logging sector before finally seeing the light and joining the solar industry in the nineties. That’s probably why she took on new causes like she was making up for past sins.

“It’s a bird, Picciriddu . Scruffy little bastard, like it couldn’t decide what color it should be and just rolled around in the most boring ones. But that doesn’t mean it deserves to go extinct.” As always, her voice was fast and sharp. “And stop changing the subject. This business offer, how can you be second guessing it? You bake beautifully. The best I’ve had. Mamma, perdonami .”

Locky blushed, half from the praise and half from the mini sprint they were doing between houses. It had been a mistake to mention his meeting with Benedict, but Evelyn had a knack for extracting information. And while Locky appreciated her concern, he wanted to see how she was holding up—finally being fired from SunSpark after helping offboard everyone else.

“It was nothing,” he said. “Just a dumb meeting. Besides, the money?—”

“Which your stock option will cover.”

“Yes, but?—”

“And you don’t have to sign anything?”

“True, but?—”

“Then it’s settled,” said Evelyn, rapping at the next door and launching into a breathless speech. “Honestly,” she said to Locky, once a startled man’s signature was extracted onto her petition, “you make too much fuss. It would do this city good to have somewhere like your bakery. In America, the night is only for the young, with everyone meeting when they’re too sbronzo to stand. But what kind of connection is that? Back in Sicily, the night was for everyone, and you won attention through your wit and your charm.”

“I know, Evie. But I can’t spend all that money on myself. Think of the good I could do with it. The difference I could make.”

“You already do so much for others. How many celebrations have you hosted? How many meetings have you chaired? You can’t feel guilty for chasing your own happiness. The world doesn’t get better by good people destroying themselves, but by everyone else doing a little more.”

Locky tried to argue but Evelyn slowed their walk. She looked at him lovingly until Locky finally sighed.

Evelyn didn’t need to say anything. She was his closest friend in the city—although he’d never admit that to Kai. She knew where Locky had come from. What he’d been through. All his quirks and fears.

And while Locky did genuinely hate the idea of spending thousands of dollars on himself when others had nothing, it wasn’t the whole concern.

He looked away, feeling shame at the admission, even though she already knew the stories. “What if it all goes wrong? What if I lose everything and end up in debt and... I just can’t go back to that, Evie. I won’t !”

When Locky finally looked back, Evelyn’s eyes were soft. “And this young man making the business plan? What could go wrong with that?”

“Nothing, I suppose. But if I follow through and actually open the store...”

She took his hand with bony fingers, small but strong. Her skin was cool—welcome against his rising heartbeat. “You know our mantra better than anyone, Picciriddu. ”

Locky nodded, breathing out the stress. His pulse slowed at the affirmation: one that had helped him through the darkest time in his life. “One day at a time?”

She squeezed his hand. “One day at a time, little goat.”

* * *

Benedict stared at the dark ceiling of his bedroom.

What the fuck was that?

It was three days since his meeting with Locky, and that one question had bashed around his head ever since.

What... the... fuck... was... that?

Benedict had gone into that first meeting with Locky just like he usually did. With strict rules and tight control. With a promise that he’d keep things professional and not become too friendly. That he’d get the hell out of there when the job was done.

He wasn’t supposed to be patting cats and hugging clients and staring at their fucking dicks! That went against every rule he’d established. Every protection to keep his clients safe.

But Benedict had thrown all those protections away. It was stupid and reckless, and he didn’t know what had come over him.

Benedict checked his phone for the hundredth time before tossing it back on the pillow beside him. He’d been hoping to see a message from a certain someone. But it was blank.

The disappointment hit him sharp and strange, just as it had for the last few days. It was a disappointment he couldn’t explain. Because he’d done hundreds of initial consultations over the years, and lots of them didn’t pan out. Maybe the business idea was trash. Or maybe Benedict wasn’t the right fit for the client. Either way, Benedict had always shrugged it off.

He’d been fortunate to never struggle for potential clients, with five offers for every available slot. And it wasn’t like he needed the money. He certainly didn’t dwell on those rejections. Just like he didn’t compulsively check his phone to see whether they’d messaged.

But rather than dusting himself off and getting a different client, Benedict was just waiting around like an idiot. Because there was something about Locky that had stuck with him. Maybe it was the contrast of the man—so big in size but so small in ambition? One minute terrified to the point of having a breakdown, the next utterly at ease in the presence of a glass bowl and some cookie sheets.

Which was to say nothing of his other problem.

Benedict pressed his eyelids shut, consumed with the madness of the memory. It wasn’t every day you met someone who could get that aroused from a hug. And while they were in an emotional state, too. Benedict couldn’t imagine his own dick leaping to attention in the middle of a panic attack.

Not that he had panic attacks, of course.

He tried to shove those thoughts aside. Because Locky was still a potential client, for God’s sake, and he didn’t need to be thinking about clients that way!

But no matter how hard he tried to focus on the laptop on his belly—full of neat spreadsheets and design software—he kept coming back to that image over Locky’s shoulder.

Benedict had never received complaints about his own proportions, apart from those who needed him to ease a little more slowly into the occasion. But that brief glimpse of Locky was a different story. The man was huge , like he’d stuffed a lead pipe down his jeans. Benedict had actually seen the outline of Locky’s cock jutting through his pants pocket, like a really thick meerkat peeking out for a better view.

It was such a contrast with the rest of the man. Because you wouldn’t think someone so lacking in confidence would be packing a tool like that? If you were that hung, surely you strutted into every room like you owned it?

And yet, Locky had been so awkward about it.

At how big it was.

At how hard it was.

Benedict realized that his own cock was growing against his gray sweats, a spot of darker charcoal swelling by his hip bone.

Seriously? Now?

The outline pulsed against the cotton, bouncing up in sustained throbs, causing the fabric to cling to his cut head and show off his prominent veins.

Benedict decided that he’d just ignore it. Sure, Locky was awkward and cute and sweet and nervous and hung like a fucking ox, but that was all the more reason not to think of him that way. Because that kind of mindset was dangerous. That kind of mindset led to mistakes—mistakes he couldn’t take back.

Locky was a client, plain and simple. And he didn’t think about clients that way.

Except... was he really a client?

It had been three days since their meeting. Three days since Benedict had given him the best pitch he could. And Locky hadn’t called him back. Not to ask follow-up questions or seek clarification or to ask for more time.

Nothing.

Moonlight filtered through Benedict’s window as he mulled the decision.

Eventually, with a conspiratorial smile, Benedict ran fingers along his t-shirt covered chest—slow as he could manage, biting his lip and letting out a little sigh as the sparks gathered in his balls. He felt hot and urgent and lazy in the same stuttering breath.

This was fine, he convinced himself. Because Locky was probably never going to call him back.

So what’s the harm?

Benedict stripped out of his clothes, calm and unhurried. Not because he needed to mask the noise, but because he wanted the slow pulse of this moment to surround him. To send his head back against the pillow. To allow him to float away on the sparkling sensations.

Benedict licked each thumb in turn, tongue tip warm against his fingerprints, and rubbed lightly against his nipples, hard and prominent, hot from the skin but cold from the silver bar that pierced each.

His belly arched toward the ceiling at that teasing touch, and it took every ounce of restraint not to press down harder, to feel the arc of energy that always gave him goosebumps.

“Ohhh, fuck ...” he whispered, running his thumb tips in slow circles against the sensation. Each flick against metal caused his cock to throb up, uncaged by fabric now. There was a warm drip by his deep belly button with each solid pulse, the energy arching from his nipples to his cock to his swelling balls—so fucking full and so fucking sensitive.

The slick precum turned the circle of his Prince Albert piercing without needing to be touched. The steel slid rapturously inside his slippery cock head with each thump of blood.

Still, Benedict resisted the pull, rubbing his toes languidly against the Egyptian cotton sheets. Steadying himself. Letting the material embrace his big thighs and well-built calves.

When that became too much, he raised his knees and spread them wide—revealing himself to the otherwise empty room.

And yet, the room became much less empty when he closed his eyes, allowing himself to slip into world of dreams and fantasy.

Where anything was possible.

Where anyone was possible.

Benedict whimpered as strong fingers pushed against his thighs, shoving his knees against his chest.

The dream-like shimmer of Locky kneeled on the bed like a fucking god. His pelt of sandy blond was thick across his impressive stock, almost connecting to his beard across those beefy pecs. Light pink nipples poked through the thatch, hard and pointed and begging to be licked. His belly was hefty and hairy, leading down to golden tufts of pubic hair, unkempt and rugged.

And his cock.

Oh, fuck , his cock.

His shaft was creamy white, revealing a cockhead the size and color of a juicy plum. Its straight length was hard as hell, pulsing at everything Locky was seeing—like there was no man in the whole world more attractive than Benedict.

But even better than his body or his dick was Locky’s smile. Awkward, yes, but wide now. Warm. Absent the stress or the nerves of their first meeting. Instead, blue eyes beamed down at Benedict, glowing above a grin, toothy and dimpled and ever so slightly shy.

And in that singular look, Benedict knew that it had been his touch, his words that had tamed those terrors. Because there was no pain anymore. No hurt.

Only contentment.

Only joy.

And this, right here, was Benedict’s reward.

Locky kissed down Benedict’s calves—fantasy yes, but suddenly feeling so very real. Soft lips were replaced by a hot tongue. Benedict shuddered at the heat and the hunger as Locky moved from his hips alone.

A slick pressure kissed Benedict’s hole, calling deep into his soul.

And now, delay was impossible.

Never breaking eye contact, Locky ground his body forward, sliding his big head in—thick and overwhelming and so fucking perfect.

Benedict groaned from his core. There was no teasing here. No gentle half-thrusts to get him used to the sensation. Instead Locky slid all of himself inside Benedict—all the way to the balls in one thumping blow.

Benedict grunted hard at the overwhelming fullness, emphasized by how Locky pulled himself halfway out, stopping when his huge, bulbous glans were throbbing right against Benedict’s prostate.

Benedict tried to squirm at the sheer heat of that act, at the hardness of the direct stimulation, pressing so roughly inside him. But Locky held his legs in place, making him feel every twitch, sending a bolt of gooey pleasure into his nuts as Locky bulged against his most sensitive spot.

Benedict lost track of how long they stayed like that, willing the fantasy to life. Hours maybe. Days. Grinding slow and hard against his soul. Teasing him. Making him beg for more—for harder, for deeper. Making him say the words of command.

Fuck my brains out, Locky!

And in the fantasy, Locky obeyed.

He moved in quicker strokes, grinding back and forth against Benedict’s swollen spot, dragging his slicked piss-slit against the place that made Benedict moan the loudest.

Those moans turned to gasps at the depth and the pace of the thrusts. Now it felt like someone was smacking against Benedict’s detonation switch, the spark fizzing along his fuse—wrapped tight around his balls and buzzing up his shaft.

Benedict burbled as Locky angled himself even harder. The directness of the sensation was making Benedict shake, unable to hold back the bursts of precum, splattering to his nipples each time Locky bottomed out with his thick cock.

Benedict grabbed the man’s forearm as he was fucked harder, stocky muscle and dense blond fur. With each thrust Benedict dug nails into hot skin—urging him on, letting Locky know just how fucking good it felt.

Locky took the hint, quickening his pace. Fucking him harder and deeper and taking control of Benedict’s body.

In one movement, Locky rose from his knees, standing up without withdrawing his cock. Soon, Benedict was folded in on himself, his whole weight balanced on his broad shoulders, with his knees digging into the pillow by his own ears.

His precum dripped heavily from his straining cockhead, just half an inch from his panting mouth. The clear slick ran along the silver of his piercing, gathering into bigger drops, before finally drooling in long, sticky strands over his outstretched tongue. Those drips soon turned to clear squirts across his lips as Locky hit his prostate so aggressively that Benedict’s knees were shaking uncontrollably, like his whole body was imploding.

Benedict wanted to grab his cock. He needed to grab it. But he didn’t want this feeling to end. This mix of heaven and hell. The joyous and the overwhelming.

“Open your fucking mouth,” Locky growled, somehow finding even more pace. “I want to see you swallow your load.”

Benedict did as he was told, grasping his cock desperately, his fist already slicked. He stroked his seven inches, so thick he couldn’t close his hand around the girth.

That only spurred Locky on. “You want a mouthful of your own cum, you nasty little slut?”

“Yes!” Benedict screamed, barely able to keep his eyes open. Everything was a blur of sparkling silver.

Locky growled at his eagerness. Monstering his ass. Fucking him harder. More direct. More quickly.

“Say it again, you filthy fucker!” Locky snarled. “Tell me how much you want it!”

“I want... I want...” Benedict whimpered, his voice distant.

“Fucking say it!”

“I want...” But Benedict couldn’t inhale now. Couldn’t remember a time when he could. “Oh... Locky. Just there. Just there! Oh fuck. Oh, fuck! Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck! ”

The first jet of cum slapped Benedict across the face so hard that it sent splatters over his chest and thighs. His body seized at the force—dynamite and napalm.

Barely conscious, Benedict opened his mouth wider as the hot salt sprayed across his tongue, each jet drowning him and sending him cross-eyed. He tried to roar out in ecstasy, but his mouth was overflowing, the jets coating his face and eyebrows and hair. He tried to breathe, but all he could do was gargle his impressive mouthful of cum, spluttering desperately for air through blasts wouldn’t fucking stop.

The smash against his prostate continued. Through the orgasm. Around the orgasm. Inside the orgasm. Shaking him and shattering him over and over again. It ground him down, slapping him around until all he felt was the slow, pulsing inferno of bliss.

And then—with warm waves washing across his sweaty skin—Benedict opened his eyes.

Well, he opened one eye. The other was glued closed.

Benedict found himself folded up like a pretzel, with his favorite prostate massager buzzing violently in his ass.

He had no memory of getting it out. Not that it mattered. It had clearly done its job.

Benedict swallowed deeply on his huge mouthful of cum, savoring the heady taste, before uncoiling himself in a sweaty heap, neck sore and limbs heavy against the comforter.

His breathing slowed as he melted into the bed. And as he drifted through the afterglow, Benedict could almost sense a bearded chin resting on his chest. Almost feel the sensation of thick blond hair running through his beard—the scent of green apples and spicy wood.

That momentary comfort was interrupted by a flash from his phone, just outside the splash zone.

Benedict stared at the screen.

Locky—the real one—had finally got back to him.

And it was a yes .

Suddenly, all that warmth was replaced by something cold.

Regret.

Shame.

Knowledge that he’d fucked up—despite everything he knew. Despite everything he’d tried to change.

Benedict gritted his teeth.

This evening? This moment? It was an error of judgment. A stupid fantasy that he’d allowed himself to indulge in.

But he had to put it out of his mind.

* * *

Locky turned beneath his sheets. The air was cool, but his skin was burning hot.

He tried to ignore it—the pulse and the sizzle and the wicked little voice telling him that no one would know if he reached down and tended to the fire.

Locky was good at brushing away these temptations. At saying no when his body said yes. But it was harder when he was stressed. When he yearned for the simplicity of past comforts—sex and drink and pills—as familiar as they were destructive.

The voice in his head was sweet as wild honey. Saying how easy it would be to break his vows. How easy it would be to shatter everything he’d fought for.

But Locky was stronger than that—ten years stronger.

And he didn’t succumb.

Eventually Locky found sleep, restless and vivid and terrifying. A demon haunted him through plains of pure regret, brown eyes and brown skin. Lips like pillows and legs strong enough to lift the world.

Then came words—sweetest words.

Begging him.

Praising him.

Drawing out the shameful sensation of his own lust.

The nightmare rolled through Locky, heat and hatred, desire and devastation. And as much as Locky fought against it, as much as he called on his restraint, it was no use.

His resolve drained away.

His conviction turned to ash.

And in this terrible nightmare, this ceaseless moment, Locky allowed the lust to overtake him.

And he gave in to the demon.

He tried to stop it. Screamed to stop it! But the scene bloomed like a bloody rose in front of him—like he was watching himself from a distance.

Fucking the demon.

Devouring the demon.

Being devoured in return.

Until there was nothing left.

Locky awoke with a jolt, heart racing and forehead slicked with sweat. He knew it was just a bad dream. That he hadn’t really given in!

But right now, it didn’t matter.

Because he’d felt every stab of failure.

Every twist of regret.

In the darkness, Locky buried his face into his hands.

And he cried.