by Fox, Logan
Her eyes never left his.
He tightened his grip on her throat. Her pulse quickened under his thumb.
Something brushed his stomach. Angel’s fingertips drew a slow, sinuous line to the button of his jeans. Then she scraped her nails over the rough fabric of his jeans, right over his throbbing dick.
Drew tried to keep his eyes open, but they flickered closed as if they’d joined the revolt his hands had led moments before. Angel’s tongue flicked against the pad of his thumb before she pushed that finger from her mouth with powerful lips.
Her breath was warm on his cheek as she leaned closer. Her hand closed hard over his dick, squeezing him.
“You won’t regret this, Mr. Sugar.” Her lips touched his earlobe, sending a shudder tearing through him.
He let out an unsteady sigh and managed to get his eyes open. Angel watched him, a tiny smile on her mouth. Her lips parted when she squeezed him again, harder than before.
Fuck. She’d been playing him this entire time, hadn’t she?
Drew groaned, tightening his fingers around that slim, warm neck of hers. Angel’s smile grew as she took hold of his wrist and positioned one of his hands on her breast.
Played him like a goddamn fiddle.
* * *
Whatever reservations had been holding him back evaporated. Drew lunged forward and crushed his mouth to Angel’s. Her mouth tasted of gin and cigarettes; surprising really since that was probably what his own mouth tasted like. Was it weird that he could distinguish her?
Her lips, her tongue, they were all so wet.
His jean button popped open, and Angel’s fingers disappeared behind his underwear. That hand was cold, small, and as adept at working his dick as he was.
“God,” he hissed in a tight voice. “Slow down. It’s been forever—”
She ignored him — no surprise there — and even a squeeze at her throat had no visible effect. Instead, it seemed to spur her on; her other hand joined the first.
“Please. Please, just slow—”
“Call me sweetheart; I love the way it sounds.”
“Jesus, slow down.” He tried pushing her back on the couch. She gasped, but instead of slowing, her hands sped up.
“Angel! Fuck, I can’t—”
“Come for me, Mr. Sugar.”
He did. Violently, suddenly, and all over Angel’s tits.
Groaning, Drew rested his head on her shoulder as he shuddered and pulsed in her hands.
“Next time, if you want me to listen to you,” Angel whispered into his ear, “try calling me sweetheart.”
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he murmured against her neck.
Both her hands disappeared. He opened his eyes, pushing back from her and letting go of her throat.
She watched him for a second. “Still okay if I stay here a few days?”
“What?” he managed.
“Can I stay?” Angel cocked her head at him. “I won’t be a bother, I promise.”
“Shit.” He swallowed, ran both his hands over his face, and began glancing around for something to wipe his load off the girl’s breasts. “No. Fuck no. This is—Jesus, no.”
“Sure about that, Mr. Sugar? I’ll let you do whatever you want to me.” Her smile faded. “Whatever you want.”
Click to continue reading Mister Sugar…
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About the Author
L. D. Fox writes deliciously dark and twisted stories for people that, like her, enjoy reading it.
Having grown up on names like Graham Masterton, Dean Koontz, James Herbert, Stephen King, Robert Jordan, and Terry Pratchett, her stories are an eclectic mix of the sadistically twisted, the epic, and the darkly comedic. She strives to create characters that are as immersive as the worlds she raises around them. Expect more than your average amount of plot twists, superb dialog, characters you'll either love or loathe, and a book hangover that's guaranteed to last at least few days, if not longer. She doesn't hold any punches - nor should she, for that's what she expects in the books she reads and what she offers to her readers in return.
She hails from the four-seasons-in-a-day suburb of Johannesburg, South Africa. She's so busy writing she doesn't have time for much else except the occasional indulgent Netflix binge. She loves hearing from readers, so don't be why to contact her and tell her what you thought of her writing.