Sugar Kisses

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1 Lips Like Sugar

  2 Sugar Coated Truth

  3 Bitter Sweet

  4 Sticky Situation

  5 Butter Me Up

  6 Preheat

  7 Fail to Rise

  8 Pour Some Sugar on Me

  9 Nothing Tastes Better Than Sex Cake

  10 Brownie Points

  11 All-Purpose Faking Mix

  12 Sweetened Condensed Bullshit

  13 Icing on the Cake

  14 Red Velvet Valentine

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Sugar Kisses

  3:AM Kisses Book 3

  Addison Moore

  Edited by: Sarah Freese

  Cover design by: Regina Wamba of www.MaeIDesign.com

  Interior design and formatting by: Amy Eye of The Eyes for Editing

  Copyright © 2014 by Addison Moore

  http://addisonmoorewrites.blogspot.com/

  This novel is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to peoples either living or deceased is purely coincidental. Names, places, and characters are figments of the author’s imagination. The author holds all rights to this work. It is illegal to reproduce this novel without written expressed consent from the author herself.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Books by Addison Moore:

  New Adult Romance

  Someone to Love (Someone to Love 1)

  Someone Like You (Someone to Love 2)

  Someone For Me (Someone to Love 3, coming July 1st 2014)

  3:AM Kisses (3:AM Kisses 1)

  Winter Kisses (3:AM Kisses 2)

  Sugar Kisses (3:AM Kisses 3)

  Whiskey Kisses (3:AM Kisses 4, coming 2014)

  Beautiful Oblivion

  The Solitude of Passion

  Perfect Love (A Celestra Novella)

  Young Adult Romance

  Ethereal (Celestra Series Book 1)

  Tremble (Celestra Series Book 2)

  Burn (Celestra Series Book 3)

  Wicked (Celestra Series Book 4)

  Vex (Celestra Series Book 5)

  Expel (Celestra Series Book 6)

  Toxic Part One (Celestra Series Book 7)

  Toxic Part Two (Celestra Series Book 7.5)

  Elysian (Celestra Series Book 8)

  Ephemeral (The Countenance Trilogy 1)

  Evanescent (The Countenance Trilogy 2)

  Entropy (The Countenance Trilogy 3)

  Ethereal Knights (Celestra Knights)

  Prologue

  Roxy

  Three things you should know about me.

  I hate people.

  I’m pretty much invisible to my parents, except when my mother tries to control me.

  And the only light in my life, my grandmother, passed away when I was twelve.

  I suppose if you reverse the order, it can explain a lot of psychological bullshit that I’m not about to delve into, mostly because I’m allergic to psychological bullshit. I’m all about carving my own path in life, and that just so happens to be through other people’s stomachs. I bake. And because ovens are not your standard dorm-issued appliance at Whitney Briggs University, I also now room with a sexual predator in the making, WB’s own manwhore, Cole Brighton.

  He takes a step toward me with an animalistic glint in his eye.

  His lips twitch with a smile. He comes in close, then closer… His eyes round out as he comes in for the kill. There’s a boyishness about him that I find unmistakably attractive, and I wish I didn’t. I wish I could say I was immune to all of Cole Brighton’s wicked ways, but God knows I’m weak and about to fold. Not to mention the fact that one naked selfie of the two of us tangled up in each other’s arms would be a great congratulations-on-your-new-relationship gift to send my ex-boyfriend.

  “I think I’m going to kiss you,” he whispers right over my lips.

  “Relax.” I press a hand to his chest and push him away. “I’m not going to kiss you back.”

  “Why the hell not?” His brows arch so far up into his forehead they almost reach his hairline. Cole looks genuinely stumped by this development.

  “Because you like the ladies, remember? And you should probably be neutered.” I start in on frosting the cupcakes he christened with an indecent nickname because, God knows, I don’t have time to properly explain the order of the universe to Cole and get my little pink tits frosted in time. “Besides, I’m not interested in a hookup. That’s not what I’m about.”

  Cole picks my chin up gently with his finger and makes me drink down his stare. “Maybe that’s not what I’m about anymore either.” I watch as he snatches his keys and heads for the door. “Look, I really believe there’s a nice person living under that layer of sarcasm.” He pauses like he wants to say more but has decided to swallow down his words instead. “I’ll be at the gym. Call me if you need a ride to wherever it is you’re going.” He pauses for a moment. “I promise you, the whole world isn’t out to get you, Rox. A lot of people would love to help if you just open up and let them in.” And with that he walks out the door.

  Let them in?

  I bet he’d like for me to open up and let him in.

  I beat the shit out of the butter in an attempt to soften it, but, much like my heart, it’s a lost cause. It needs to melt slowly, sort of the way Cole is melting me slowly.

  But it’ll be a cold day in hell when I let Cole Brighton bring my hormones to a rolling boil.

  And, unfortunately, something tells me the weather forecast in hell is about to get a little frigid.

  1

  Lips Like Sugar

  Roxy

  You know that feeling you get when you’re in the middle of a one-night stand, and the headboard thrashes into the wall, over and over, like a thousand demons begging to burst from the gates of hell?

  Yeah, neither do I.

  I twist in my bed and stomp my stilettos into my roommate’s adjoining wall, but their wild fucking spree continues undaunted.

  Cole Brighton is my new cellmate, and he’s been persona non grata since I moved in a couple of days ago. He’s been too busy entertaining the ladies, moaning into all hours of the night as if he were having a genuine religious experience while worshiping at the altar of coed vagina.

  My phone buzzes softly, and I pluck it off the bed. I’ve already ignored two texts from my mother. In all fairness, Christmas was a few days ago, and I’ve paid my familial dues for the year. It’s not that I don’t love my mother, it’s just that hanging out with her for even a limited amount of time is the equivalent of drinking a cup full of vinegar—doable and yet regrettable. She hinted over the holidays that it was high time she molded me into an acceptable socialite, and it took everything in me not to hurl all over her pointy toed Prada’s. But it’s not Mom, it’s a text from Laney.

  At the door. You in there?

  I spring up and head over. To my surprise, my sweet, older brother is right by Laney’s side. Now that they’re together again, they’re practically inseparable. True love will do that to people, glue them at the hip—not that I would know. For me true love proved to be an apparition straight from hell, and I’m not too sorry I chased it away.

  “I was getting worried.” Ryder offers a half-hearted hug as he makes his way inside. We have the same dark hair, our father’s serious eyes, and drive to succeed in business—only Ryder sort of is succeeding in business, whereas I’m floundering, about to turn belly up. But, in order to rectify that, I blanketed campus this afternoon with a crap ton of flyers advertising my new upstart, Roxy’s Cupcake Catering. There’s nothing too wild or difficult we can’t do! Only the we is actually just me, and I’m sort of determined to keep it that way because, for one, I hate people. Not all people, just
most people. The two currently gawking around the apartment happened to be off my shit list, for now—although, I’m not above demoting. Life’s been pretty crappy overall. My mother is a hard ass, so maybe that’s where I get the bad attitude. However, she never had an asshole shit on her heart, so she couldn’t properly channel her feelings of hatred and rage toward mankind like I can. Aiden Ryerson, my boyfriend of three years, is the aforementioned asshole who defecated over my beating heart, and I’d like to return the favor by way of tearing out his, but I’m not in the mood for prison—yet.

  “How’s the kitchen?” Laney asks, inspecting the tiny domesticated square that consists of a four burner electric stove and microwave. I’ve stacked my flattened pastry boxes in the corner and spread out my mixing bowls and baking utensils because I like to see them laid out like art.

  “Compared to the Easy Bake?” I smirk at the sight. “It’s an improvement.”

  I bake. That’s how I handle all the bullshit life likes to sling my way thanks to the coping skill passed down from my grandmother. I glance up at her wooden spoon hanging from a ribbon on the wall. It’s my homage to her sweet, butter-loving soul. I can’t wait to hang that wooden spoon up in my very first storefront, of course, that’s before I franchise the business and proliferate the planet with my tasty treats on my way to world domination. If there’s one thing my father taught me, it’s go big or go home. He might have a heart of steel, but he’s a got a bank account full of cash that testifies to his business know-how, and, believe you me, I’ve been taking notes.

  “Anyway”—I flail my arms around the tiny quarters—“I’m more than happy to have a kitchen. And if listening to Cole roar out sexual commands for the next few months is what it takes to have one, then I say bring on the sex toys because this kinky cooking party is just getting started.”

  Ryder chokes on his next breath.

  “Knock, knock!” Baya pokes her head through the door before stepping inside. “Just got back from dropping my mom off at the airport and wanted to see how you’re settling in.” She bops over and offers a strangulating group hug to both me and Laney. Baya is cute both inside and out. She’s bubbly as all hell, which usually makes me want to throat punch puppies, but I’ve given Baya a pass because she’s genuinely a nice person.

  “Everything’s fine. I’ve already unpacked and taken over what little of the bathroom counter there was, officially claiming female dominance over your brother.” True story. I planted my Tampax right next to his razor. It was my way of saying, hello, I have a vagina that your penis will never invade. I bleed once a month, and if you don’t stay out of my way, chances are, you will, too.

  Baya belts out a laugh. “I knew I liked you.”

  “Hey, what’s this?” Ryder calls from the far end of the living room, and we head on over.

  He runs his finger across rows and rows of scratches, etched along the door jam in groups of five with slashes through them.

  “Tally marks.” Baya makes a face. “That’s me.” She points to the bottom where there’s a line enwreathed with a heart.

  “Ah, yes”—Laney leans in as if she were reading fine text—“the infamous, notches for crotches.”

  “This is Bryson’s side.” Baya shakes her head. “Not his finest hour.” She points to the back wall, and we spin to find another, far more elaborate, series of chicken scratch. “That’s Cole’s slut meter.”

  The walls thunder around us. A groan escapes from under Cole’s bedroom door as if it were a plea for help, then panting—lots and lots of cataclysmic panting. Clearly an orgasm of nuclear proportions is on the horizon.

  “What the fuck?” Ryder looks as if he’s ready to help free the captives.

  “That’s exactly what’s going on.” Laney pulls him back.

  “No.” He shakes his head, the rage brewing in his eyes as if it were me being defiled in there. “Are you serious?” He shoots those baby blues back to the scoreboard. “This is some kind of fuck-o-meter?” He straightens as if he were struck with a cattle prod. “Get your stuff, Rox, there’s no way I’m letting you stay.”

  “He’s got an electric stove,” I fire back. “It’ll be a cold day in hell when you drag me back to that kitchenless dorm.”

  “I’ve got a Viking range that puts out fifteen thousand BTU’s and a double convection oven. Pack your shit, Roxy. You’re coming to my place.”

  Laney pinches her lips. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t want me hanging around right after they’ve just moved in together. I’ll be a third wheel on their faux-honeymoon. And, believe me, I’d much rather listen to Baya’s brother heaving himself into a sexual oblivion than my own.

  “Forget it. I like being close to campus.” True story. Whitney Briggs is right across the street, and I hate to break it to my brother, but one of us doesn’t actually own a car, and with no job it would make it far less fuel-efficient to drive if I did.

  A sharp groan vibrates through my new roommate’s door.

  “And on that note…” Baya pivots on her heels. “See you guys at the Black Bear tonight. We have one of the biggest shows of the year planned.”

  “What’s up at the Black Bear?” It’s a bar down the street that Baya’s boyfriend owns—or at least his family does. Both Laney and Baya work there part time.

  “LeAnn Cleo is going on, that’s what.” Her eyes round out as if Christmas were about to happen all over again.

  “LeAnn Cleo!” Laney jumps, and her boobs nearly knock her out in the process. Obviously a bra was optional today.

  “Who’s that?” Ryder looks unimpressed, as he should.

  I groan. “Some pop slash country sensation that sings to preteen girls at shopping malls. Her fifteen minutes were up five years ago, and it looks like no one got the memo.”

  “Oh, stop.” Laney averts her eyes. “Her newest album went double platinum in November, and she’s got every major arena sold out for her summer concert tour.” She turns to Ryder. “She’s decided to complete her education right here at Whitney Briggs while pursuing her career. She was like a ghost on campus last fall because she was trying to keep things low key, but the media got wind of it, and now she’s a loud and proud part of the WB student body.”

  “Aiden had a class with her.” I don’t know why I brought him up other than the fact I can’t seem to get him out of my fucking mind. I hate that I let him burrow in so deep, take root, and continue to kill me long after he walked out on me. I let Laney and Baya think it was a mutual decision, but a part of me would have taken him back if he wanted to keep using me like a doormat. I hate that stupid part of me. But, now that we’ve had some clearance of a few measly weeks, I can see that I’m better off without the village idiot hanging on like some unwanted appendage. I just need to figure out how to let my heart in on this news.

  The room grows decidedly silent save for some residual giggling taking place in Cole’s bedroom. I’ve been here several days and have yet to see him in the flesh. Suffice it to say his flesh has been quite in demand. I counted three different girls leaving at about two in the morning. They were all tiny, fake blondes with boobs, nails, and hair extensions all freshly purchased from the local Build-A-Slut Workshop. I never did see the skank Aiden left me for, but I’m pretty sure he, like all males, has an affinity for stock bimbos.

  Laney lands an arm over my shoulders. “Let’s get you to the Black Bear tonight and have some fun.” Her warm perfume wraps around me like a bubble, and I want to stay right here in her arms and trash men, but Ryder is here. He’s about the only male I wouldn’t trash outside of Bryson.

  “For sure!” Baya jumps up and down. “You never know, you might find the man of your dreams and fall madly in love.”

  I snarl at the idea.

  I don’t believe in fun.

  I don’t believe in the man of my dreams, and, for sure, I don’t believe in that four-letter word—love.

  I glance up at the fuck-‘em-and-leave-‘em scoreboard and surmise my new roommate feels t
he exact same way.

  Who knows, we might just get along better than I thought.

  The Black Bear Saloon is filled with the half-baked student body from a trio of universities nearby. Bryson Edwards and his brother Holt run this hangover hovel. They card everyone in the place, but I know for a fact half of the inebriated coeds bopping around with their silicon milk jugs are underage. That’s Aiden’s side business, fake IDs. I should turn him in to the feds and watch him fry in the electric chair, better yet, see how far his pretty boy looks get him in prison. I’m betting some man named “Bubba” could get a lot of bartering done by pimping Aiden out as his bitch.

  The bar holds the heady scent of liquor and perfume, an intoxicating combo all on its own. Now and again a guy walks by wearing too much cologne, and every ounce of estrogen in me stretches in his direction.

  I spot Melanie Harrison in the back with a bunch of her sorority sisters. Melanie is my only real competitor for the Sticky Quickie baking competition coming up in February. She specializes in orgasmic confections and has been wowing everyone on campus with her Ecstasy Delights.

  I growl at her before turning around.

  “Isn’t this great?” Baya orbits around me like a hummingbird, going on and on about this and that, but I can’t seem to keep track of her exuberance. My eyes have had the misfortune of fixating on an all-too-familiar dumbass in a pair of chinos with his arms wrapped around the pop tart sensation that has taken all of Whitney Briggs by a shit storm—LeAnn Cleo.