Grand Market Bliss, page 1
Grand Market Bliss
BLISS SERIES
BOOK TWO
FIONA ZEDDE
Copyright © 2018 by Fiona Lewis
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
“Grand Market Bliss” was first published in Ylva Publishing’s Language of Love: a Flirty, Festive Anthology edited by Astrid Ohletz and Lee Winter.
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Also by Fiona Zedde
Bliss §
Broken in Soft Places
Dangerous Pleasures
House of Agnes §
Les Tales (novella collection with Skyy & Nikki Rashan) §
Nightshade (novella)
Rise of the Rain Queen
Teeth, Claws, and Blood Red Heart (short novella)
To Italy with Love (novella and stories)
When She Says Yes (stories)
*
Femme Like Her (Like Her #1) §
Stud Like Her (Like Her #2)
*
The Power of Mercy (Superheroine novella)
The Power of Mercy: a graphic novel
A Lover’s Mercy (Superheroine novel)
The Mercy Chronicles (The Mercy books in one collection) §
*
Every Dark Desire (Vampire Desire #1) §
Desire at Dawn (Vampire Desire #2)
*
A Taste of Sin (How Sweet It Is #1)
Hungry for It (How Sweet It Is #2)
Return to Me (How Sweet It Is #3)
Insatiable Appetites (How Sweet It Is #4)
Bittersweet (How Sweet It Is #5)
Pleasure and Spice (How Sweet It Is #6)
§ = audiobook also available
Contents
Morning
Evening
Morning, Again
Thank you!
Fiona Online
Bliss Excerpt
Femme Like Her Excerpt
House of Agnes Excerpt
Also by Fiona Zedde
About the Author
Morning
"Do you know what day it is?" A soft voice, threaded with a hint of excitement pierces Hunter’s half-sleep.
Does she know what day it is? Oh, yes.
Slowly, she opens her eyes and blinks, once. Twice. The sun flows into the bedroom past the new set of curtains Sinclair put up for Christmas. In shades of burgundy and warm gold, the drapes do nothing to shelter Hunter’s sleep. Because her beloved pulled them wide open to torture her awake. The afternoon light ribbons across the bed and floats dots of brightness through her half-closed lashes.
"It’s Tuesday," Hunter mutters and turns her head, hiding a smile in the pillow that smells like the two of them.
"Oh my God!" Fluttering fingers skate along her naked sides then Sinclair’s warm body tumbles down into the sheets, making the bed bounce. "It's Christmas Eve!"
Hunter laugh-gasps at the full spill of Sinclair’s weight on top of her and she gives up any pretense of sleep. Delicious woman. Her love. Sinclair is all long legs and spider arms, her loose hair rich with the scent of coconut oil and that creamy leave-in conditioner that makes her smell like something to eat.
Sinclair’s skinny fingers dig into Hunter’s sides and laughs herself into a frenzy. After two years together, Sinclair damn well knows Hunter’s not ticklish. But she's the ticklish one so Hunter gives in to what she obviously wants—a tickle fight that leaves Sinclair gasping for breath, cheeks warm and her house dress dragged deliciously above her hips.
"Yes, it is Christmas Eve." Hunter laughs and grins down at Sinclair, tries to kiss her. “With Grand Market and everything.”
“Hunter!” She shrieks and turns away her head. “Your mouth smells like something died in there!” But her thighs still fall open in welcome.
Hunter’s heart stutters in delirious joy. Sinclair is the miracle she never thought she deserved. Sharp, fox teeth and eyes like the dark sky in summer, crinkling beautifully at the corners. The deep brown of her skin has been perfectly baked by the winter Jamaican sun, silken to the touch. Her thoroughly American voice is the music Hunter hears in dreams.
"Ugh! No! Morning breath!" Sinclair squirms and tries half-heartedly to get away.
“Is this any way to treat the woman you love?” Hunter mock growls as her body wakes to desire, nipples pebbling, every part of her swimming with want.
After all this time, their morning sex is still something they both crave, but Sinclair hates to kiss Hunter on the mouth. Most mornings, when they’re both so eager for it that they can barely talk, only moan and grip and gasp, Sinclair allows her to do anything except kiss her lips. The top pair.
The sunlight pours over them, hot on Hunter’s naked skin, in the loose dreadlocks moving in waves over her back. Sinclair wriggles, beautiful and laughing, still trying to avoid her kisses.
"Hunter, stop!"
But Sinclair is laughing too hard to make it sound sincere. So Hunter nips the corner of her jaw instead of tasting her lips. The thin cotton of her dress rucks up under determined hands, revealing acres of warm skin, a flat belly, the bones of her hips that have become less noticeable since she's been here on the island.
"Why should I stop?" Hunter asks, even though she’s already ended her hunt for the treasure she wants.
"Because people are outside!" Sinclair laughs, her head tipping back to offer her throat and the tender line between her breasts. "Yes, remember?" But she moves against Hunter like she wants them both to forget about anything beyond the bedroom, her sun-warmed scent and soft skin temptation enough to stay in bed for another five minutes at least.
Okay, maybe ten.
It’s Christmas Eve and Grand Market, the annual all-day celebration of the season with food, games, and music that takes over all of their little town. Although both of their families usually gather on Christmas Day for dinner, they decided this year to invite the family queers for lunch at their house then walk into town at sundown to celebrate Grand Market together. It was Sinclair’s idea and it makes sense. We have enough gays in the family to make it a decent turnout.
So, yes, we both decided on this. But damn, does it have to be so bloody early?
Hunter asks the question out loud.
“It’s not early, love. It’s nearly two in the afternoon.” Sinclair laughs again, joyful and sweet, draping her long thigh over Hunter’s hip.
Delicate, swimming motions rub Sinclair against Hunter’s thigh. The room fills with the scent of them, hot arousal, and the sound of quickening breaths. Hunter shivers, oh so close to giving her woman what she came in here for.
But they don’t have time for any of that.
Laughter from the living room penetrates the closed door and Hunter stills, grips Sinclair’s flank to stop her from driving them both crazy. A quick look confirms that yes, Sinclair turned the lock when she came in. They have enough privacy for a quickie, but that would be in poor taste. Hunter gives the slender hips a regretful squeeze and pulls away.
The hot space between her thighs clenches in protest.
Sinclair’s thick twist-out fans dark and inky against the pillow as she blinks up in surprise and disappointment. “Already?” But there is a coyness to the edge of her smile.
Hunter buries her laughter in the fragrant curve of Sinclair’s throat. "Weren't you the one telling me ‘no’ not two seconds ago?"
"But I don't mean ‘no’ right this minute." Bright teeth sink into a lush lower lip. A familiar and addictive fragrance rises up from between her spread legs making Hunter’s salivate.
This damn woman.
“Nope. You’re not going to blame me for any foolishness of yours today.” Hunter jumps out of bed and swats Sinclair’s bare behind on her way to the shower. "Don’t make everybody think I’m in here molesting you and depriving them of your company."
By the time she leaves the shower and walks into the living room, still twisting her waist-length locs into a high crown, everybody they invited over has made themselves comfortable, laughing and talking all at once while the radio plays an old Dennis Brown tune. The atmosphere feels cozy and just plain right. Even if they did all burst in before Hunter was properly awake.
Xavier, Sinclair’s baby brother, isn't quite a baby anymore. A typical six-year-old, he's sitting on the floor at his mother's feet and playing with a set of toy trucks. Sinclair got him an iPad for his last birthday but that didn’t end his fascination with tangible games.
"It's about time you dragged your butt out here," Hunter’s cousin Ebony calls out. She's dressed in a criminal mastermind’s idea of Christmas best, thin jeans fresh from some European designer, complete with gold swirls stitched into the pockets, a white linen blouse showing off the black lace bra underneath, black combat boots. Her hair, long and straight, ripples like a dark river down to her waist. "I knew Sinclair wore you out last night, but Jeesam Peas!"
Ebony looks sufficiently like Hunter to be confusing from far away. Dark skin. Long hair. Just enough muscle not to seem weak. When Hunter’s ex-girlfriend, Lydia, first caught sight of Ebony, Lydia got on top of her faster than a rent-a-rasta on a sunbathing tourist.
"Hush up!" Lydia slaps Ebony’s a
"What?” Ebony didn’t look the least bit sorry. “I didn't say anything he hasn’t heard before."
Xavier drags his gaze away from the truck currently rolling across a bridge made up of hair combs and clothespins. "Are you wore out, Hunter?"
"No, little man." Hunter squeezes the boy's shoulder and cuts her eyes at her cousin. Do better, she silently tells Ebony as she heads for the kitchen.
Of course, Ebony just rolls her eyes and keeps on doing whatever the hell she wants. Hunter thinks again that her cousin has the perfect job for her big ego and careless ways.
In the kitchen, she finds Sinclair bent down in front of the oven. She’s baking, and the smell of Christmas cake flavors the air, rummy and sweet, but it’s the perfect curve of her butt under the thin dress that tempts Hunter. She savors the sharp tang of arousal on her tongue.
The oven bangs shut and Sinclair backs away from it, carrying the steaming cake between two potholders. Hunter wants to touch, but also wants to avoid giving either of them third-degree burns. The little metal stand rattles when Sinclair puts the cake on it to cool. Before she turns, Hunter puts herself in her woman’s path.
"Oh!" They collide and Sinclair grabs her with the potholders still on her hands. "I could've burned you with that cake, Hunter!" Her eyes are wide with concern.
Hunter pulls her in for a kiss, a light press of lips on each side of her pretty mouth. The scent of vanilla and fruit clinging to Sinclair stirs all Hunter’s appetites. She inhales more of her.
"But you didn't burn me. Come here and kiss me properly." A frown wavers on Sinclair’s brow but a light stroke of fingers along her ribs has her curling into Hunter, laughing. "My breath is nice and fresh so you can smell me anywhere you like," Hunter says.
"Why are you always so dirty?" Sinclair asks with a breathless giggle, but Hunter knows it's something she loves. Dirty in bed, in the kitchen, anywhere Hunter corners her alone. Her potholder-covered hands drape around Hunter’s neck and the softness of her body slopes into Hunter’s like a plant seeking the sun.
"For you, American girl, anytime. Anywhere," Hunter murmurs before claiming her lips.
She tastes so bloody good. Of warm desire and home and all the things Hunter had been yearning for before Sinclair came into her life. Their lips slot together, Hunter’s slick and cherry-flavored from her lip balm, Sinclair’s soft and welcoming. Lips to lips they stand, breaths slow and easy, their eyes open and smiling into each other.
"I love you," Sinclair breathes.
The tip of her tongue teases Hunter’s mouth open and gifts the flavor of sweet cakes and mint tea. With a sigh of pleasure, Hunter takes everything her love has to give, fingers sinking into warm skin through the dress, thighs widening as she moves backward to fall against the solid kitchen counter. She grunts from the abrupt contact with her hip but ignores the pain. Intense need licks between her thigh and she groans, sucking on Sinclair’s tongue and wishing that every single person in their living room would just disappear so she can make love to her woman in peace.
"Didn't you two just leave the bed? Give it a rest already." A voice comes out of nowhere and blows away the haze of desire clouding Hunter’s judgment.
After a more chaste kiss on the cheek, Hunter slowly lets Sinclair go and braces her hands on the counter behind her. Her pulse pounds thickly in her throat and between her legs and she closes her eyes briefly to savor, then push away, the sensation of thwarted pleasure.
"Don't you have someplace else to be?" She asks Tima as Sinclair ducks away, smiling, to fiddle with something on the stove.
"This is where I need to be, cuz." Tima waggles her empty cup. "Your guests need refills." She looks runway-ready with her perfectly arched eyebrows, deep purple lipstick, and sexy black dress. Nothing like the street-weary cop she is.
Hunter sucks her teeth. "We don’t have any guests here, man. Only family. Get what you want."
"That's what I'm doing.” Tima tosses her mane of straightened hair, the asymmetrical bob immediately falling back into place under her sharp cheekbones. “I didn't plan on making my way through a porn shoot just to get something to drink!"
"Don't even start—"
"Here you go, Tima," Sinclair appears with the pot of hot chocolate. "Unless you want tea this time."
"Now, this is how you play a good host." Tima holds her cup toward Sinclair. "Chocolate is good, beautiful woman to whom there is no equal."
Now she's just doing too much, Hunter thinks. "In case you didn't realize what you walked in on, this woman here is mine." This burst of jealousy is stupid, but knowing that doesn’t stop her from growling at her pretty cousin like a territorial jungle cat. Tima is arguably the most beautiful woman in the family. Plus, she's noble as hell, a good cop working in a system that usually only rewards the ones looking out only for themselves. Women always find that sexy for some reason.
After pouring some chocolate for Tima, Sinclair backs away with the pot, an arch to her eyebrow. "Quit playing." She lightly elbows Hunter in the side. "Let me go see who else needs anything."
But Hunter tugs her close again before she gets too far. As always, Sinclair’s slender body falls into hers beautifully and it’s all Hunter can do not to kiss her again. "Let me play host so you can get back to what you were doing,” she says. Sinclair’s probably been on her feet all morning while Hunter slept, snoring in bed like a guy knocked out after one orgasm. At least she was able to convince Sinclair to take the day off from work, coaxing her out of the home-office and away from her hectic freelance schedule. “I know I interrupted you earlier." Hunter takes the pot from her unresisting hand and heads for to the living room.
“Be nice to them,” Sinclair calls out to her before the swinging kitchen door settles closed between them.
“You two are so sickening, it’s sweet.” Tima follows me out of the kitchen, but I ignore her. “Acting like you’re married or something.”
Across the room, a look stutters across Nikki’s face. It’s too fast for me to read, but she bends down to say something to her son who only looks up at her like he has no idea what she’s talking about.
“Finally!” Another cousin, Cliff shouts when he sees me, or more to the point, sees the pot with the hot chocolate. “I’m dying of thirst out here.”
“How come with all these grown-ups in one room not one of you can pick up a pot to bring it out here?” I ask.
“That’s what you’re here for, darling dear,” Cliff lifts his empty cup high, pale gold eyes sparkling with humor. “Now, be a love and fill up papa’s cup.”
I throw him a disgusted look.
No matter how many times we get together, I’m a little overwhelmed by how good it feels to have our families with us. Sinclair’s and mine. Together in one house, laughing and sharing stories. I want this to last for as long as we're alive.
God, this Christmas season is turning me into mush.
When Sinclair finally comes out of the kitchen, she presses a kiss to my jaw then, leaving me with the scent of browned sugar and mint tea, floats over to sit on the arm of Nikki’s chair. Although it shouldn’t be possible, it seems like she didn’t leave her young step-mother’s side for the rest of the afternoon.
Evening
We lock the door behind us at 6:30 sharp. Xavier hops up and down, impatient with us to get going so he can join the kids a few houses down and rack up the gifts and free sweets from the shopkeepers on the square.
"Go." Nikki, her face pinched and a little tired, waves a hand to her son. He takes off like a bullet toward the small group of six or so kids flooding from the neighboring houses and heading toward the main square.
"Hunter!" A voice arcs over the fence, then a bright brown face pops up. "Hey." Our neighbor, Ruby, newly relocated from Toronto, waves a brightly wrapped package.
Beside me, Sinclair makes a startled noise then dashes back into the house.
