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

by L. D. Fox

  “You did,” he said, sounding surprised and self-satisfied. “Good girl.”

  * * *

  That single touch had electrified her. She was a live wire, pulsing with lethal voltage… and nothing to earth her.

  His hand disappeared. He gripped the bottom of her dress and slid it up her legs, baring her thighs and her sex. Pearl squirmed, wriggling her hands to try to free them, but he held her fast. His grip tightened until her wrist bones ground together.

  “I could make this easy for you, sweetheart.” The man leaned back, fixing her with an auguring, green-eyed stare. “I could tell you I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for tonight.”

  Pearl’s stomach clenched. A thousand dollars? He’d just quadrupled what she’d been intending to ask.

  Mr. Armani’s gaze fluttered over her face, her breasts.

  “But I don’t want the money to be the only reason you’re staying. It should be inconsequential.”

  Easy for him to say: he was loaded.

  Pearl licked her lips and tried to nod, but she was too aware of how exposed she was, how the mirrors behind Mr. Armani were reflected spans and spans of her own naked skin back to her.

  “I want you to want this,” he said, his voice dropping to a deep whisper. “I want you to show me just how obedient and pliable you are. Can you do that, sweetheart? Can you be obedient?”

  Pearl swallowed and managed a breathless, “Yes.”

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes…” Pearl’s gaze flicked between Mr. Armani’s eyes. What did he want from her? What was he looking for—

  And then it came to her, all at once, in a rush that made her exhale a short, light breath.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  Mr. Armani smiled another one of his rare, genuine smiles and released her wrists.

  “Good girl, Pearl. Now lay back and spread those pretty legs of yours.”

  Feeling wooden and unreal, like a toy version of herself, Pearl sank to the table. The wood was cool beneath her, both smooth and rough, slick and coarse. After two thundering heartbeats, Pearl lifted her knees, carefully positioning her stilettos on the wood, and forced her trembling thighs apart.

  Mr. Armani didn’t look down. His gaze was fixed on her eyes, his face without expression.

  “Hold onto something,” he said.

  Pearl blinked at him. What the hell she was supposed to hold onto when he was the only—

  “Now.” Almost a growl.

  She lifted her arms and held awkwardly onto the rim of the table, inches from the top of her head. This obviously met with the man’s approval: his eyes finally left hers and began roaming down her body.

  Her inflating lungs was the only movement she allowed herself.

  Stay still.

  Obey.

  It’ll be over soon, right?

  But somehow, for some unknown reason, she hoped it wasn’t. Yes, the position was awkward and revealing. Yes, this guy wasn’t exactly someone she pictured herself marrying, settling down, and having kids with. And yes, this whole thing was a thousand different levels of fucked up.

  But she ached inside.

  Maybe still from the touch of his lips against her skin… or maybe because of the fact that she wasn’t in control anymore. The decision-making part of the evening was over. All that was left was to hold tight and ride the wave.

  Surf’s up, Pearl.

  Mr. Armani draped his palms on her knees, sliding his hands over her thighs. In the background, the orchestral score that had been playing through most of the evening faded out.

  Had he really planned everything in such detail? Pearl’s skin began to prickle. Was he playlisting classical music while estimating how long it would take them to eat, for him to suck mousse off her nipples, for her to fight and then relent? Had he—

  But then the music came back, soft and ominous; the isolated, somber sound of a piano.

  Mr. Armani snatched a fistful of her dress in his left hand, twisting the fabric. He jerked her hips closer and she gasped at the unexpected force of his movements. He ducked his head, grazing the top of her knee with his teeth as if hiding the ghost of a smile that now played on his mouth.

  Pearl’s heart began stuttering in her chest. She tightened her grip on the table, trying to wring the nervousness from her body.

  His mouth touched the inside of her thigh. He nipped and kissed his way down, making her insides coil ever tighter the closer he came to that pool of warm, throbbing darkness.

  Something rasped, metallic and too loud in the eddies between those melancholic piano chords. Pearl’s legs quivered, wanting to slam shut, to deny him access. But before her muscles could overpower the command from her mind — keep still and obey — Mr. Armani’s tongue brushed her clit.

  Pearl jolted, gasping. He’d still been inches away from her, and it hadn’t been his tongue she’d been expecting to touch her. But it was nothing more than a butterfly kiss, as brief as it was light. She quivered internally, squeezing out wetness as her muscles contracted.

  The fingers of his right hand dug into her thigh, bruising her, and Pearl squirmed before she could stop herself. This was torture, him being so close; the threat of another flicker-touch sent aching waves of anticipation through her.

  The piano music dipped low, those previously happy-sad chords becoming tense, almost angry.

  That fist in her dress tightened. Mr. Armani hoisted her up, using the dress as a holster to keep her ass more than a foot from the tabletop.

  Because that meant he didn’t have to bend low to eat her out.

  Pearl moaned when his lips closed over her sex, his mouth sucking so hard at her that the pressure of it sent ripples of pleasure all the way to her whitened fingertips where they clung for dear life to the rim of the table.

  Her eyes fell closed.

  Mr. Armani didn’t have to hold her up anymore: her thighs and back trembled as she kept her hips raised for him, forced her legs apart.

  He dragged his tongue through her folds, leaving flickers of electric kink in his wake. Two fingers found their way inside her, twisting her open and forcing her to draw a long, unsteady breath that rattled in her throat. Her back arched when his lips touched that bundle of nerves, that knot of coruscating pleasure he seemed determined to rip free.

  His fingers probed her once, twice, and then withdrew. He smeared them over her sex, drenching her. His lips left her, his mouth closing briefly over the inside of her thigh where he drew blood to her skin, leaving behind a perfect circle of russet flesh.

  Her ass thumped to the wood, her back no longer arching under the attention of his mouth, his fist no longer holding her up. She writhed, still riding the rise of that gentle swell of pleasure when Mr. Armani nipped at her knee again, grabbed the inside of her thighs with both hands, and wrenched them apart.

  Shit, had she forgotten about her legs? Had they fallen closed? Did this count as disobeying him—

  He thrust into her, shattering thought.

  Pearl cried out, almost losing her grip on the table. She tried to dampen the sound by clamping shut her mouth. Her hands scrabbled for purchase, her back arching in an almost instinctual response to Mr. Armani’s sudden, violent penetration. She shuddered, mind slipping into a brief, blissful oblivion.

  A slap to her ass brought her round with bleary-eyed confusion.

  “Don’t you dare close that mouth of yours, sweetheart. I want to hear how hard I’m fucking you.”

  What? She blinked across at him, wondering when the hell he’d taken off his shirt. Had she passed out? Fainted? Briefly visited another dimension in that soul-shattering instant he’d pounded into her?

  His jaw clenched; the only warning she had. He drew out of her, an inch, maybe more. Then he burrowed his way back in, his hips slamming into the barely-adequate padding of her ass. Wrenching another cry from her, one she didn’t suppress. One she might even have embellished a little. It was impossible to tell with all the blood thumping through her veins.
/>   “Good girl,” he murmured, his attention now fixed solely on his task.

  Another thrust, harder. Pearl gasped, her spine curving. Mr. Armani slid his arm around her raised knees, hugging her legs against his chest. His other hand found a breast. He trapped her nipple between his fingertips, tweaking the already-pursed bud and drawing another gasp from her.

  “Are you holding tight, sweetheart?”

  “Yes, Sir.” The words weren’t hers, obviously. She’d never just blindly—

  Another wordless yell filled the dining room.

  This was no fucking wave: this was a goddamn tsunami.

  It was only through the combined efforts of her grasp on the table and Mr. Armani’s grip on her legs that kept her in position as he hammered into her with hard, deliberate thrusts.

  Somewhere in the background, piano chords described a torturous journey into the earth’s molten core. The hero battled oceanic monsters with tentacles and eyes on stalks in a midnight chasm where unearthly, glowing fibers streaking the darkness.

  Well, in her head they did, anyway.

  She could hear herself; moaning, gasping, crying out. She could hear Mr. Armani: groaning, grunting, growling. Her body didn’t belong to her anymore. He owned it now, gripping the title deed between his teeth as he drove her toward a cliff’s edge where certain death waited. His hand abandoned her breast — she’d forgotten about it — and his thumb brushed over her clit.

  Her back arched. Her eyes slid closed.

  She tightened her muscles, trying to get her sex away from his fingers, that feeling too intense to accept.

  But he owned her. She would stay where she was until he was done with her.

  She began to pant, becoming lightheaded from the rush of oxygen spiking into her brain. Would she pass out? Hyperventilate and then faint, laying here like a dead thing while Mr. Armani used her body for his own selfish pleasure and then roused her with another slap to her ass?

  His thumb strummed her clit, driving thoughts of fainting from her mind.

  Piano keys pounded from the sound system: had he turned up the volume? When? Maybe around the time he’d taken his shirt off, baring that weird, skull and roses tattoo slathered over his chest.

  She shuddered, certain death racing closer at warp speed, faster than light, screaming as it shredded the sound barrier to reach her.

  Pearl came before Mr. Armani did. Her climax slammed through her, leaving her breathless and writhing beneath the man. He drove into her with renewed ferocity, grabbing a handful of her hair and jerking her head up.

  His mouth crushed hers. She could taste herself on his tongue and his lips as he devoured her, leaving her yearning for breath and the return of her mouth; something she’d erroneously assumed private property before he’d claimed it.

  When he came, seconds later, his kiss abated with a finality that made her head spin. He held his lips against hers, a slow exhale filling her mouth with warm, sweet air.

  He pounded into her a last time, jarring her, his fingers pressing deep pools into her thigh. Holding her still, his breath still mingling with hers, Mr. Armani’s luminous eyes fluttered closed. His muscles relaxed, and for just an instant he leaned into her, his weight sudden and overwhelming. But before her quaking body could collapse under him, the man straightened. Eyes flaring open, he gave her a last, fierce kiss, his teeth catching her bottom lip before he drew out of her.

  Their friction had left her hot and aching inside. Pearl’s legs slid down, her muscles too unsteady to keep them up without the man’s arms slung around them. His hand closed over her sex, cool compared with her scorched flesh, and then that, too, was gone.

  He tugged up the shoulders of her dress, his breathing ragged and forceful.

  Pearl hugged herself, her own breath too fast, too unsteady. She closed her eyes, hearing the snap of rubber, the rasp of his zipper. Flutters of pleasure, stranded after her explosive orgasm, made her shiver. A hand ran over her hair. Her eyes flickered open.

  Mr. Armani’s lips twitched into a fleeting smile as he stepped away and beckoned her to follow him with his free hand.

  “On your feet, Pearl. Time to talk shop.”

  * * *

  Mr. Armani led her around the staircase and into a cozy entertainment room with a large flat-screen television fixed to the wall. Glass-fronted display shelves lined the walls, the room’s only couch facing another slanted window that looked out over Fifth Avenue.

  Pearl sank down with a sigh of relief. Her legs were unsteady, her insides still throbbing.

  God, she wanted to rip the man’s clothes off again. Yes, she felt as satiated as a cat with a tummy full of cream, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t still devour several mice, a squirrel, and make a valiant attempt at a raccoon.

  But that wasn’t going to happen.

  Whatever had possessed Mr. Armani in the dining room had evaporated; that sex god had been replaced with the officious businessman of before.

  There was a manila folder on the coffee table — a loose sheet filled with text and a fountain pen on top of it.

  Pearl stared at the papers as that arthropod of earlier began its long journey up her spine again.

  “And that?” she asked, her voice husky.

  “A non-disclosure agreement.”

  “And under it?”

  “A contract.”

  She switched her gaze from the paper to Mr. Armani. He stared out the window for a second and then slumped down beside her. His arm snaked over the back of the couch, almost touching her shoulder, and he gestured with a loose-wristed hand toward the folder.

  “Sign the NDA. Then you can read the contract.”

  She stared at him for a moment. Those green eyes were bright with lingering residues of lust, his face still flushed. And yet, what had happened mere minutes ago could have happened to someone else; someone on a different continent, a different planet.

  Pearl slid the loose paper out from under the fountain pen and scanned it. It seemed legit. Nothing nefarious here, right? Her eyes stalled on her name; Pearl Buchanan.

  “How did you—”

  “Sign it or leave.”

  Her cheeks heated, and she flashed him a glare he didn’t seem to notice.

  “What, I can’t tell anyone I came here and had sex with you? Lucky for you, I still don’t know your fucking name, so I doubt anyone—”

  “Owen Morrison.”

  Pearl took a deep breath, her voice faltering. “—would believe me.”

  Her hand paused over the single sheet of paper. She scrawled her signature on it, dated it, and flapped it at him until he took it from her.

  “There. Happy?”

  He twisted his head in concession and flicked a finger at the contract.

  “Read it.”

  Pearl took up the folder. Her fingers traced the letters embossed on the bottom right corner.

  F. P.

  Not his initials. Maybe the company he worked for? Or his employer. It was almost impossible to believe that someone who lived in an apartment like this had a boss, but hell, her world view was currently busy having its head dunked in a toilet bowl, so what did she know?

  “What does this stand for?”

  “Read it.” She shot him a withering stare to which his only reaction was a small huff of amusement.

  Pearl read the contract. Tried to read the contract. The entire thing consisted of legal gobbledygook. She made a show of scanning her eyes down each page, frowning at more dense sections of text, and pausing for a few seconds on the last page; the only piece of legible English phrase in the document was her name. There were several ‘addendum’s’ attached to the end, but she didn’t even bother trying to read those.

  She snapped it closed and lifted her eyebrows at him. “I have no idea what this means.”

  “I didn’t expect you to.” Mr. Armani exhaled slowly. “Do you have a lawyer?”

  She cocked her head at him. “I pole dance for a living. No, I don’t have a l
awyer.”

  “Then you should find one.”

  “Mmm… I’m good.” Pearl looked away from him, pursing her lips. “I’ve already made plans for tomorrow.”

  “Would you like the gist of it?”

  She rolled her eyes and turned back to him. “Obviously.”

  Owen’s smile lifted. “A hundred-thousand dollars.”

  “Is… how much this pillow costs?” Pearl asked, tugging at the corner of a black suede throw pillow nestled between them.

  Owen huffed through his nose. “Is how much you will be paid.”

  “For tonight?” Blood drained from Pearl’s face and collected in a congealed mass in the pit of her belly.

  He laughed. “For a month of your time. Your… services.”

  Pearl’s stomach twisted. So here it was, out in the open. And dear God, what an ugly, deformed thing it was. She sat back, whatever fire had been brimming inside her instantly extinguished by his words.

  For a moment, just a moment, she’d thought Mr. Arm—Owen had had a thing for her. That he liked her. That he wanted her to be his girlfriend. Something soft and fluffy like that. It had felt soft and fluffy when he’d been sucking her clit.

  No… it hadn’t.

  It had been hot and dirty, not soft and fluffy.

  Pearl shrugged into the sofa, running her gaze over the array of ornaments displayed on the walls: vases and books and figurines.

  “Sex, right? Every day? Or… every night?” She pointed at the folder. “Does it say stuff like how often and what kinds and all that shit?”

  “You’ve read it.”

  “I’ve scanned it. It’s in lawyer speak.”

  “Which is why I suggest you find one.”

  Pearl took a deep breath, turning to him.

  “I thought you didn’t pay for sex, now you want to give me a hundred thousand dollars to sleep with you for a month?”

  “Not with me, sweetheart.”

  Her eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

  Owen’s eyes sparkled. He’d brought his iced coffee with him, and he tugged at his straw as he studied her over the rim of the frosted glass. She opened her mouth to repeat her question, louder perhaps, but his flash of a smile cut her off before she began.