Mr. Sugar: A disturbing psychological thriller with a twist of dark romance

by L. D. Fox

  “The usual.” The waitress said with a shrug. “Chocolate, vanilla, banana, strawberry, bubblegum, lime.”

  “Mmm.” She glanced beside her. Drew stared up at the waitress with almost reverential concentration. “Strawberry or bubblegum?”

  “Bubblegum,” he replied, without hesitation.

  She began rubbing his dick in earnest, hoping to hear a groan. Getting nothing.

  “Not strawberry, Mr. Sugar?” Then she leaned in, putting her ear by his mouth. “Which one would you rather taste in my mouth?”

  The waitress cleared her throat and began shifting her weight from left foot to right foot as if she was long overdue a trip to the restroom. “Strawberry then?”

  “No.” Drew’s fingers had finally worked their way to Angel’s underwear. He stroked her through the fabric, sending an electric surge through her body at the touch. “She’ll have bubblegum.”

  “Sure thing.” The waitress grabbed Drew’s empty cup without bothering to ask if he wanted a refill. The cup and saucer clattered against each other all the way to the end of the diner.

  “You like bubblegum?” Angel asked, having to work the question through a tight throat as Mr. Sugar’s fingers teased her.

  “I like you.” He dug his fingers into her thigh, tugging open her legs. Then he pushed her underwear to the side, exposing her to diner’s warm air. “Fuck knows why, but I like you.”

  “That’s sweet.” She couldn’t look away from those dark eyes.

  “Nothing sweet about it.” Two of his fingers slid inside her. “It makes me feel dirty, liking you as much as I do.” His lips brushed her ear as he hissed into it. “And I hate myself for it. But I can’t stop. I get hard just thinking about you. Smelling you makes me want to fuck you hard enough to make you bleed. How’s that any kind of sweet, Angel?”

  Her eyes fluttered, and she tried to find his zipper so she could get her hand inside his pants.

  “No.”

  Her fingers froze.

  “Eat your food.”

  “You kidding me?” Her voice was unsteady as he began working his fingers in and out of her. “I don’t want food.”

  “You need to eat.”

  “I’m not touching that.”

  “Not Dumpty. You can leave him on the plate.”

  Was he laughing at her? Her jaw clenched tight, but it was impossible to feel angry at a man who was sending such delicious thrills through her body.

  So she released Mr. Sugar’s — at least she’d managed to make his dick strain against his pants — and broke off a piece of syrupy pancake with her fingers. She brought it to her mouth, slipped it inside.

  She’d almost devoured the first one on the stack when the waitress returned. She’d expected Mr. Sugar to pull out. Perhaps start paying some attention to his own food. Maybe even blush. Instead, he began massaging her clit while the waitress set down her pastel-blue milkshake.

  “I forgot to ask if you wanted a refill,” the waitress asked, not looking up from her pad.

  “Nah. I’ll have some milkshake. Can you bring us another straw?”

  The waitress nodded — there was a touch of red to her cheeks — and hurried away.

  A small moan broke free from her mouth. “God,” she whispered, letting her head fall back against the seat and spreading her legs even wider.

  “You’re not eating,” Drew whispered in her ear.

  “Fuck.” She sat forward, stifling a moan at the jolt of pleasure that brought, and used her nails to take a chunk out of the next pancake.

  “Don’t eat with your hands.”

  “Fucking serious?” But she was already grabbing hold of her cutlery and attacking the stack of pancakes with it. She shoved an enormous piece of pancake in her mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she moaned through her food as Mr. Sugar’s thumb began drawing her close to what she already knew was going to be one helluva spectacular orgasm.

  “Here you go.” Something tapped on the table.

  Angel’s eyes flared open, fixing on the blushing waitress. Then she laughed, pointed at the pancakes with her knife. “These are fucking orgasmic.”

  The waitress blinked at her and spun away, practically running from their table.

  “Don’t swear, Angel.” Drew slid the milkshake over the table, nestling it between their plates. “It’s rude.”

  “You have three fingers inside me, and I’m not supposed to—” she cut off, her mouth gaping open as the first trickle of an intense almost-climax spurted through her. The plates rattled as she brought her elbow down hard on the table, trying to lever herself from the seat so Mr. Sugar’s fingers could work her easier.

  “Oh God,” she whispered, her eyes squeezing shut.

  “Have your milkshake.”

  She was in no position to argue. Her eyes fluttered open. He held out a straw for her. She dipped her head, drank at it, swallowed hard. When she lifted her head, Mr. Sugar’s mouth waited for her.

  He captured every moan of that sparkling orgasm as it flooded through her. Captured it and drew out more. Her knee struck the bottom of the table as she convulsed, sending Drew’s fork onto the floor. Her mouth fell open, but Mr. Sugar’s lips drew it closed again.

  They were still kissing when his fingers slithered out of her, hot and wet against her thighs. She fumbled blindly on the table, found a napkin, and tried to dry his fingers with it while her body shivered like she’d been caught in the cold.

  He moved his fingers away, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them clean like he’d been eating ribs. Then he took another napkin from the table and cleaned her, wiping her as gently as that first touch had been. He moved her underwear back in place, brought her legs together.

  She squeezed them hard, trying to will herself to calm down. But that just sent another thrill through her.

  “Bathroom?” she managed, her voice thick and desperate.

  “No.” Mr. Sugar took a long tug at her milkshake, then reached over and wiped something from the corner of her mouth. “Eat your food.”

  So she did. Despite her muscles barely cooperating, she managed to get food into her mouth until her plate only had strips of bacon left on it.

  Poor Dumpty.

  Mr. Sugar ate his pie with a smug smile, his eyes sparkling every time she happened to glance at him.

  “What if you didn’t have to go back to school?” he asked when the last bite of his pie was poised a few inches from his mouth. “Would you stay there, at the lake?”

  “Sure, whatever.” She waved a dismissive hand, falling back in her seat and letting out a sigh. “I give absolutely no fucks.”

  “Language…”

  “Sorry,” she mumbled, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

  “You could study correspondence, couldn’t you?” he went on.

  She turned to look at him, crossing her legs with some difficulty. Her thighs had turned to water. “I guess. If I wanted.”

  “I would give it to you.”

  Pushing herself up with her hands on the seat, she leaned away from him for a moment. “What the hell are you—?”

  “But only if you stayed there.”

  She blinked at him. “At your lakehouse.”

  “At my lakehouse.” He nodded, slipped that last piece of pie into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Took a long sip of milkshake — all without looking away from her. “Why not?”

  “What if I wanted to go to classes?” she asked woodenly.

  “Why?” He shrugged. “You won’t need them.”

  “Why won’t I need them?” she said quietly as a shiver wormed its way up her spine like a sluggish caterpillar.

  “Because you’ll be taken care of.”

  “Taken care of?”

  “Financially. You’ll be a kept woman.” He glanced up, smiled broadly. “Thank you, that was lovely.”

  Angel heard plates clattering, but she couldn’t look away from Mr. Sugar’s face. This expression was new — it wasn’t quite gloating and wasn�
�t quite self-satisfaction.

  Whatever the fuck it was, she didn’t like it one bit.

  When he was paying for the bill the waitress had left in her wake, Angel finally managed to look away. Her gaze flew to the window.

  The world outside had gone misty and gray. When had it started to rain again?

  “You don’t have to decide right away. You can tell me on Sunday.” Drew tapped the side of her leg with his knuckles.

  When she looked at him, he gestured her to move out of the booth. She did so, grabbing hold of the side of the table when her legs at first refused to take her weight.

  Mr. Sugar slid out of the booth, grabbed hold of her waist, and drew her close. They walked like that out of the diner, drawing the eye of every patron and employee in the place. He pushed open the door, holding it open so she could step outside. Then he slung his jacket over her shoulders and herded her to the car.

  The car door slammed hard beside her. The sound echoed in her head. And it sounded more like a prison cell being slammed shut than a car door.

  Drew slid into the car, glanced across at her, and smiled.

  “Ready?”

  She managed a nod. “Sure.”

  “Good. One more stop to make, then we’re going home.”

  Angel gave him a furtive glance as he slid his hand behind her seat to reverse from the parking bay.

  Fuck that; she wasn’t ready at all.

  27

  D-U-N-N-E

  “What are we doing here?” Angel asked quietly.

  She uncrossed her legs, tugging at the hem of her skirt as if she wished it wasn’t riding mid-thigh.

  Drew put the car into park and tugged down his visor. He adjusted his tie, smoothed his hair to the side, and flipped the visor back with a snap.

  “Mr. Sugar?”

  “It’s Drew. And, no matter what I say in there,” he said, staring at the office block in front of them, “you just nod and smile. Got it?”

  Angel’s voice became tight. “What are you going to say?”

  “If I told you…” Drew turned to her and gave her a cold smile. “It wouldn’t be a surprise.”

  He had to prompt her to get out of the car. As it was, she walked a few steps behind him, arms crossed tightly over her chest as if the cool breeze was working its way through the chiffon of her skirt.

  The receptionist at Harry’s small law suite gave Angel a blatant once-over and then turned a disapproving glare to him when he slid his arm around her waist.

  “Here to see Harry,” he said, smiling at Angel when she twisted out of his grip and put a foot of distance between them.

  The receptionist pressed a button, leaning closer to the intercom as she announced, “Your eleven-o-clock’s here, Mr. Reynolds.”

  “Thanks, Dee,” came a crackly voice in return.

  Seconds later, a set of double doors leading out of the reception area burst open.

  “Drew!” The man that came out to greet them had seen too many glasses of brandy in his life; his ruddy face was crisscrossed with tiny veins which made his watery, pale-blue eyes seem that much paler. “Come on in.”

  His eyes slid past Drew, fixing no doubt on Angel where she slouched against the reception counter. The small law office was empty beside them and the receptionist — but Harry glanced around as if wondering if the girl was here to see him too.

  “Oh, this is Angel.” He twisted, beckoning the girl closer.

  Angel gave him a small smile and stepped forward, flinching when he slid his arm around her waist again. He squeezed her and gave Harry a big smile.

  “Angel,” the man murmured, stepping aside and spreading his arm so Drew could walk into the office. “Odette — some coffee in here, please?”

  “Soda,” Angel said. “If you’ve got.”

  “And a soda,” Harry called out when the receptionist clacked past them in high heels.

  Harry’s office was furnished in dark, polished wood. There was one window, and it looked as if the blinds were always partially closed. Pity — what Drew could see through those slats were a few high rises and a vast stretch of open sky.

  He pulled out a chair for Angel. She gave him a surprised, sidelong glance and then sank down in the overstuffed leather chair, crossing her legs and gripping the armrests like a defendant waiting to hear what sentence the judge was going to hand down.

  “Great to hear from you again, Drew.” Harry sat opposite them, his chair creaking loudly when he swiveled it to face them. “Megan sends her love, of course. The kids don’t, but that’s kids for you these days.”

  “Thanks, Harry.” Drew sat beside Angel, but perched on the edge of his seat, and laid his hands on the cool desk. “And thanks for seeing us on such short notice.”

  Harry nodded vaguely, his eyes darting to Angel at the word ‘us.’ “Of course. Now, what can—” but then the man’s eyes lit up, and he waved away the rest of his sentence. “Over here. Thanks, love.”

  The receptionist gave no indication as to what she thought of the term of endearment when she arranged the cups of coffee, a jug of cream, and a tub of sugar on the table. She slid a can of soda and a glass of ice over to Angel, giving the girl an expressionless look over her half-moon spectacles before leaving the room as loudly as she’d clacked her way inside.

  “The door, Odette?”

  The woman’s heels paused and then returned. The locks on the door clicked quietly when she tugged them closed.

  Harry sighed and began spooning sugar into his coffee cup. “So… to what do I owe this honor? I mean, the last I saw you—” the lawyer broke off hurriedly, flushing for a moment before clearing his throat. “What’s up?”

  Drew stood to draw his cup closer and then perched on the edge of his seat again. Stirring a swirl of cream into the black filter coffee, he said, “I need to make a few amendments to my trust.”

  “Amendments?” This, while Harry’s eyes began roaming over Angel.

  “I’ve just come from my realtor.” He tapped the file he’d brought inside with him. “She’s going to the records office today to process this—” he sucked air through his teeth “—what’s the blasted thing called again?”

  He slid the file over to Harry, who tugged out the single photocopy and set it down with barely a glance.

  “A quit claim? You’ve bought a new house?” The lawyer laughed. “You know you could just have put it straight in the trust’s—”

  “For the lakehouse, Harry.”

  Harry’s spoon froze. He drew it out of the cup and tapped it carefully against the rim. “The lakehouse,” he repeated, eyes now intent on Drew. He picked up the piece of paper again, his eyes scanning down its length. “I thought you were selling?”

  Drew shifted, taking a small sip of coffee. “Changed my mind.”

  “So you’re adding it to your trust?”

  “All my assets are in there — why shouldn’t the lakehouse be?”

  “No, of course,” Harry said, clearing his throat through the last word before taking a swallow of coffee and twisting to the discreetly placed intercom at the corner of his table. “Dee, love, could you draw Mr. Sugar’s file, please?”

  He gave Drew an apologetic smile as if Odette should have realized he’d need the file and it was just plain impossible to find good help these days.

  “Does it take long, adding something like this?”

  “Nah. I just need to draw up a trust amendment for you to sign. Then, once we’ve done the redeclaration—”

  “There’s more.” Drew had some of his coffee while Harry blinked at him.

  “Okay.” The man sat back in his chair. “More? More how?”

  Drew turned to Angel, gave her a fond smile, and laid a hand on her thigh. The girl glanced at him and smiled back after a second’s hesitation. “I need to add a beneficiary.”

  The surprise in Angel’s eyes was so brief, he almost thought he imagined it.

  “Two birds, one stone,” Harry said, drawing his eyes away
from Angel’s placid expression.

  “Excuse me?”

  “We’ll do it all on one amendment. Save the rainforests and all that jazz, right?” Harry leaned over and pressed the intercom again. “Dee?”

  Dee’s heels announced her. She came inside, setting a thick file down on the side of Harry’s desk before clacking out again. She had the flattest ass he’d ever seen on a woman, but it didn’t seem to bother Harry; the man stared at her like she was Aphrodite incarnate.

  “Lemme see,” the man murmured, opening Drew’s file and paging through it. “Just the lakehouse, then?”

  “Yeah, I’ll hang onto the penthouse in New York for now.”

  Harry glanced up, giving a perfunctory chuckle at this. He slid a yellow legal pad from the top drawer of his desk and began scrawling on it in an illegible hand that Odette would no doubt have to decipher after lunch today. “Transferring property, lot number—” Harry glanced back to the photocopied quitclaim deed, ran a thick finger down the page and then went back to his pad “—and then adding a beneficiary. Name of beneficiary?”

  “Angel Dunne.”

  Harry began writing, paused, and then looked up. First at Drew, then across at Angel. “Dunne?”

  “D-U-N-N-E.” He took a sip of coffee. “Do you need her social security number?”

  From the corner of his eye, he could see Angel shifting in her seat.

  “Drew?” she whispered. “Can I speak to you—”

  “Not now, sweetheart.”

  “Dunne,” Harry mumbled, his pen scratching wildly over the pad. “Uh… and… what is Ms. Dunne to receive—”

  “Drew,” Angel repeated, louder this time.

  “The lakehouse. Or proceeds, of course.”

  “Lakehouse,” Harry repeated quietly. “The one you’ll be adding, of course. All right. Uh… how should I note your relationship…?” The man trailed off and set his pen down when he didn’t respond immediately.

  Drew lifted a finger. “About that.”

  He took a last swig of his coffee, slid a hand into his pocket, and took out a small, velvet box.

  When he turned to Angel, the girl’s eyes were as wide and blue as the sky that they would have been able to see through Harry’s window… if the man ever bothered to open his blinds.