Tough cookie, p.1
Tough Cookie, page 1
About Tough Cookie
She’s feisty. Fierce. And trapped in the elevator of a building I own.
So I climb down the shaft determined to distract her. My tools aren’t the kind on a toolbelt, but I manage to cool Skye’s rage as we heat up this tiny box dangling two stories off the ground.
The hot young med student has good reasons to be pissed, and better ones for dodging relationships. Why should she trust a stranger 14 years older to know what she needs?
But the sexy spitfire gets under my skin, and it’s clear Skye’s hungry for my touch.
Time to prove not all men are jerks. Especially one with a few wicked tricks up his sleeve.
Tough Cookie is a short, scorching hot standalone m/f erotic romance with a little m/f/m/f/f surprise. If you like age gap, enemies-to-lovers, and menage, this one’s for you. The story contains no cheating and an HEA is guaranteed!
Tough Cookie
A Sugar & Spice erotic romance
Tawna Fenske
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
Text copyright © 2023 Tawna Fenske
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the author.
www.tawnafenske.com
Cover design by Craig Zagurski
Created with Vellum
Also in the Sugar & Spice erotic romance series
Eye Candy (Lyla and Aidan)
Tough Cookie (Skye and Devon)
Honey Do (Nina and Josh)
A note to my awesome readers
Hello, lovely!
If you’re looking for one of my fluffy rom-coms that’s heavy on heart and light on heat, you may want to stop here. No hard feelings!
See, years ago, I ghost-wrote erotic romance under a pen name. I’d almost forgotten until a surprise email from my publisher explained they’d discontinued the pen name and granted me rights to the two books I’d written. Did I want to do anything with them?
Uh…yeah!
Writing these tales in the first place was a kick in the pants, and I loved returning to the spicy world of no-holds-barred sexytimes laced with kinky fuckery. I re-wrote and re-edited the two existing books (now Eye Candy and Tough Cookie) to add more of my rom-com voice and link these standalone stories. Then I wrote a third book (Honey Do) to round out the trio.
The Sugar & Spice books are short, not sweet, and packed with heat. If you’ve read this far, I hope you enjoy these racy tales of couples exploring their sexual desires with a little help from their friends.
Happy reading, my friendly fellow perv!
Love, Tawna
Contents
1. Chapter 1
2. Chapter 2
3. Chapter 3
4. Chapter 4
5. Chapter 5
6. Chapter 6
7. Chapter 7
8. Chapter 8
9. Chapter 9
10. Chapter 10
11. Chapter 11
12. Chapter 12
Epilogue
13. Your exclusive sneak peek at Honey Do
Don’t Miss Out!
About the Author
Also by Tawna Fenske
Chapter 1
Skye
Fuck that guy.
These are the words screaming through my brain as I storm through the doors of my apartment building and make for the elevator like there’s a chocolate fountain inside.
For the record, I don’t mean “fuck that guy” like it’s on my to-do list. I’m talking about my boyfriend, CJ.
Make that ex-boyfriend.
Shit, should I even say boyfriend? What’s the word for a guy you meet on Tinder, sleep with on the second date because he has a cute laugh and a sweet corgi and you think there’s a chance this could turn into something serious, so you delete your Tinder profile and show his photo to a friend who takes one look and says, “That’s Kate Zane’s fiancé”?
Asshole.
The word is asshole, not boyfriend.
That’s the new word echoing in my head as I stomp past the handmade wood desk in the lobby of my apartment building and punch the elevator button a lot harder than I should. Not that it matters. The thing is older than dirt, and probably full of it, too. The elevator car wheezes to a halt on the first floor, doors groaning open with a sound my neighbor, Nina, describes as a ghost hacking up a hairball.
I charge inside, snagging the heel of my Garavani Rockstud Wave slingback stiletto on the plush carpeting that always catches me off-guard. Who the hell puts plush carpeting in an elevator? An idiot, that’s who.
Idiot.
I swallow hard as the door swishes shut behind me, and the car starts to move.
That word stings more than the others.
What kind of idiot falls for the same kind of guy over and over again and expects something different?
Me. I blink back tears, determined not to cry. I’m the idiot, Skye Cross, the dummy who’s smart enough to graduate from college at twenty, but stupid enough to think she’ll find her soulmate on a dating app. Like that’s even a thing.
Not that I’m looking for a soulmate, exactly. I’m a twenty-four-year-old med school student, for crying out loud. I’m hardly ready to settle down.
But is it too much to wish for a genuine connection once in a while?
The elevator shudders and I grab the handrail to steady myself. A hunk of hair falls free from my ponytail, blurring my vision with a curtain of red-gold.
Yeah, I know. It’s always the gingers with the hot tempers and the bad judgment. I’m a walking goddamn cliché. I fix my hair as the elevator starts moving again, aimed at my apartment on the fourth floor where a pan of brownies waits for me to devour the whole batch.
That’s assuming I don’t give them to neighbor Nina. I borrowed a cup of sugar last night when I ran low. Since I loaned her a stapler the day before, it seemed like a fair trade.
“Sugar? Of course!” Nina stood in her doorway wearing a skimpy black top and tiny cutoffs. “Follow me.” She ushered me through her apartment and spent a minute digging through cupboards. “Sorry for the mess. Had a party last night.”
“No problem.” From the condom wrappers on the coffee table and the handcuffs on her couch, I’m guessing it was some party. “If you can’t find sugar, I can just—”
“Here you go!” She handed me a whole unopened bag and smiled. “If you have extra of whatever you’re baking, bring some by tonight.” She winked and closed the cupboard door. “I’m hosting another party.”
“Oh. Um, thanks.” I’m not sure how to feel about bringing brownies to a sex party, but I like Nina. She hasn’t lived next door long, but seems sweet and funny and—why the hell isn’t this elevator moving?
I glance at the control panel, surprised we’re still only at the second floor. Or maybe the damn thing’s broken again and the readout can’t be trusted.
Not unlike CJ, or my own taste in men.
Seriously, what was I thinking? And he didn’t even deny it when I showed up at his apartment and confronted him about it. Just gave me that slow, sexy—make that sleazy—smile and suggested we continue the conversation in the bedroom. I told him I’d love to, just let me grab a fillet knife from the kitchen.
“Babe,” he tried, giving me another smarmy smile. “If you’d just calm down—”
“If you finish that sentence,” I hissed, “you’ll do it without a tongue.”
Calm down?
Who the fuck does he think he is?
Here’s the thing, though: I’m fine with sharing. I’ve had a threesome or two, and it’s great when we’re all on the same page. I’m a sexually liberated woman, damn it.
But with CJ’s transgression, we weren’t on the same page. Not even in the same damn book. No consent, no discussion. No, “Let’s spice things up by bringing another girl into the bedroom.” This was straight-up cheating, which leaves me feeling like a fool.
Maybe you are a fool.
The floor lurches beneath me and I grab the handrail again. “Goddamn it!”
This time I curse out loud instead of in my head. It feels better, so I do it again. “Stupid fucking piece of shit! I don’t have time for this.”
I stomp my foot, which only makes my heel wobble again. We’re not moving, so I yank my phone out of my bag and hit speed dial for the building’s management office. Maybe someone can punch the button from another floor and get this bucket of bolts moving again.
A man answers on the third ring. “Yeah?”
“Jimmy?” The fact that I’m on a first-name basis with the building’s super is a clue how often the damn elevator breaks. “It’s Skye, and I’m stuck in the elevator between two and three.”
“Gotta talk to the new owner.” There’s a slurp I’m sure comes from his ever-present Mountain Dew. “He’s in charge now.”
That’s right. An email went out that we’re under new ownership. “Can you give me his number? I’m kind of in a jam right now.”
“He’s right here.” There’s some mumbling in the background. “Skye? He’s gonna see what he can do.”
“Great.” I picture some rich dickhead making a half-assed call to a handyman’s voicemail. At this rate, I’ll be stuck here through Tuesday. “Can you ask him to hurry?”
&nbs p; “Yeah, sure.”
Jimmy hangs up and I do my best not to panic. Is there a chance I’ll run out of air in here? I look around, pretty sure that’s not an issue, but I don’t see any vents. My pulse starts to jackhammer, and my palms go clammy. Two cold fists clench my lungs and squeeze out all the air. I can’t breathe.
Hello, claustrophobia, my old friend.
“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” I chant this as I pace back and forth, my heart drumming harder with each footstep. I hate enclosed spaces. I hate tiny rooms. I hate this goddamn elevator. Why didn’t I take the stairs?
Glaring at my shoes, I curse. “Fuck you, too.”
The shoes don’t answer, which seems like a good sign. But the spinning in my brain definitely isn’t. What does a panic attack feel like? I should know this as a med student, but I’ve never had one.
My breath wheezes out in quick, panting gasps and it feels like CJ sitting on my chest waving his stupid, not-that-impressive dick in front of me in an oh-so-classy request for a BJ.
“Fuck you, asshole!” I yell, grateful no one can hear me. “Fuck you and your stupid, tiny penis. Fuck you and your ‘You came, right?’ after thirty fucking seconds when, no, dumbshit, of course I didn’t come. Are you kidding me, cockweasel?”
I’m really on a roll now, with anger bubbling like hydrogen peroxide on a fresh cut. “Fuck you and your fiancée! Fuck you and your stupid Tinder profile and your inability to distinguish between ‘your’ and ‘you’re.’ It’s not that goddamn hard!”
Ha.
“Sort of like your dick!” I add, even though there’s no one around to appreciate my joke. “Fuck you and your tightie whities. Does your mother buy those for you at Walmart?”
I’m totally screaming now, screaming and pacing like a crazy person. My hands ball into fists, and I swear to God I would junk punch CJ so hard if I saw him right now. Ben the bartender, too, and Kevin and Nate and all the other jerks I’ve met through these stupid dating apps.
But hell, I can’t just blame the dating apps. There was that psych major I hooked up with a few months ago… Sid? The fact that I’m not sure about his name should be a red flag, and so should the fact that he never called me after that first night, even though I know for damn sure I rocked his world in the bedroom.
At least I think I did. Hell, I’m not sure about anything anymore, except that I need to reevaluate my dating choices.
I keep pacing as my heart continues to gallop. The pacing isn’t helping, and neither is this line of thinking, but I can’t help it.
Should I be more panicked about my shitty love life or the likelihood of dying in this deathtrap of an elevator?
Another hunk of hair slips from my ponytail, but I leave this one alone. It’s not like I’m trying to impress anyone in this four-by-five-foot hell box. I’m all alone.
And probably will be forever.
“I’m so over this shit,” I snarl, not sure if I mean the elevator or the men. Maybe both. “Fuck all of this! We should round up all the men and load them in this godforsaken contraption and send it plunging to the basement.”
I’m not even making sense anymore as I pivot and stomp toward the control panel. There has to be something I can do to get this steel hellhole moving. Maybe if I punch a few buttons.
I’ve just lifted my hand to hit the up arrow when something thuds to the ground behind me.
I whirl around, convinced some big greasy elevator part has fallen through the ceiling.
But it’s not machinery at all. It’s a man—a living, breathing, tight T-shirt wearing man, and he’s towering over me in the goddamn elevator.
So, I do the only logical thing.
I scream bloody fucking murder.
Chapter 2
Devon
It’s far from the first time I’ve made a girl scream, but this isn’t how I like doing it.
The little redhead shrieks and jumps back like she’s been electrocuted, then stumbles on those sexy high heels with metal studs all over the straps. I grab her without thinking, roping my arms around her waist to keep her steady.
“Who the fuck are you?” she demands, pressing both palms against my chest and looking me right in the eye.
A legit question.
I’m the dumbass who bought this building. My plan was to fix things up to make it low-income student housing. A place for college kids struggling to choose between buying textbooks and affording a pack of Top Ramen. It’s a struggle I remember, even if the ink on my architecture degree dried ages ago.
“I’m Devon.” I peer into eyes the color of green beach glass and try to recall my own last name. “Devon Clark.”
If the name rings a bell, her face doesn’t show it. It’s filled with fury and fire and maybe a little fear.
That could be because I’ve still got my arms around her. I should probably let go at some point, but she’s warm and lush and I could swear she just stroked my chest instead of pushing back.
“Who the fuck are you, Devon Clark?” She draws a breath, making her full breasts swell. “And how did you get in here?”
“I’m the new owner.” I clear my throat, still holding the redhead as I aim my gaze up at the ceiling. “I came down the elevator shaft.”
The woman blinks. “Like fucking Santa Claus.”
“Ho ho ho.” I start to smile, but she snarls.
“Was that a goddamn slut shaming joke?” She shoves at my chest. “Of all the asshole things to say to a woman who’s—”
“Wait, no.” Damn, that was a bad choice of words. “You’re Skye Cross from 4C, right? You spoke up at the building meeting and asked about carbon monoxide detectors.”
Her eyes flash with surprise, and maybe something else. Desire? No, that’s not it. Or maybe—
“How the hell do you remember me?”
The correct answer isn’t “you’re hot as fuck and I never forget a name,” though that’s technically true. “I know who all of our tenants are,” I offer instead. “You’re next door to Nina Stone in 4B.”
I don’t add the part she’s probably thinking. How Nina’s wild sex parties earn occasional noise complaints from neighbors in 4A. The fact that Skye hasn’t complained makes me think she doesn’t mind. Skye seems like a woman who knows a few things about wallbanging fuckery, with her rockin’ curves and full mouth and—
I really should put her down.
I release her reluctantly, making sure she’s steady on her feet before I take a step back and shove my hands in my pockets to keep from grabbing her again. “Are you okay?”
“No, I am not okay.” She smooths down her super-short skirt and straightens her five-foot-nothing frame like she’s trying to regain some dignity. Like she’s convincing herself I didn’t hear every word she yelled when she was in here alone, raging about some limp-dicked asshole I’m assuming must be a boyfriend.
Skye draws a breath. “If you’re here to fix the elevator, where are your tools?”
She’s got me there. “Unfortunately, elevator repair isn’t in my repertoire.” I study the panel behind her, hoping for an easy fix. “I’m only on site for a meeting.”
“Great.” She huffs out a breath. “You’re saying there’s nothing you can do?”
“I didn’t say that.” I reach for the control panel and can’t help seeing how she stares at my forearms. They’re tattooed and thick with muscle from the woodworking I do in my spare time.
Skye licks her lips. “You look like a guy who knows how to fix things.”
“I build things.” I lift a hand to brush dust off the control panel and end up brushing her arm. Is it my imagination, or did she shiver? “I’m an architect.”
“Tell me you didn’t design this piece of shit building.”
“I didn’t design this piece of shit building,” I confirm. “But I’m aiming to bring it back up to code so this shit doesn’t keep happening.”
