Sugar Daddy

by Rie Warren

  He sat back on spread knees. His lips were shiny when he brought his fingers inside them, greedily tasting me.

  I couldn’t wait to get to him. Cruising over his clenching abdomen, I kissed his chest, running my tongue to his belly.

  “Shay.”

  “Shut up.”

  Apparently he was also of the gift horse mentality, because a few seconds later I was blessed with the sight of him. And I’d never wanted a camera phone more.

  His cock leaped when I barely touched him. He sucked in a breath, harshly laughing, “This won’t take long.”

  “Now that’s beautiful.” I held his weight in my hand, lightly stroking a few times before taking him faster. He thrust into my fist and I stopped. “You never decided.”

  Disbelief cracked his voice. “What?”

  “Handjob or blowjob.” I pursed my mouth above the swollen tip, running my tongue around his head, tapping the tiny slit.

  He lowered me to him. “Suck me.”

  Oh, he filled my mouth. I moaned around him, taking my time, tasting each raised vein and the thick shelf of his head. Fondling his sac and gripping the base, I concentrated on his tip until his muscles turned rigid as rock, and his release jetted into my mouth.

  His handprint was visible in the steam on the window where he’d slapped the glass. Our clothes strewn all over the cab. Planting his hands on my ass, Reardon toppled me forward for a ferocious kiss.

  I snuck into the warm hollow of his shoulder. “Hottest backseat action ever, baby.”

  * * * *

  More subdued than last week, Jane met me in the cafe.

  Her skin sallow, her eyes a bruised purple color.

  I asked, “Bad week?”

  “Bad few years.”

  “You wanna talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  I understood that.

  Mostly we discussed girly things: the agony of being a woman and all things rip, dip, and clip. Our mutual love of Walgreens over the CVS, our hatred of time wasting manicures that never lasted past the first dishwashing.

  She became more animated as we talked until we were laughing about stupid shit.

  Her phone ringing, she excused herself.

  Deflated again, she returned.

  “Husband?”

  She turned off the cell. “Brother. Or bother, I should say.” She shook her head to herself. “Sometimes he’s so up his own ass, you know?”

  “Not really.”

  “Only child?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Siblings can be a pain, but we’re lucky, really.” Sadness sloped her shoulders. “Mostly.”

  My cell bleeped next.

  I smiled at the name on the screen.

  Jane sat up. “Husband?”

  “Definitely not.

  “Someone else?” She leaned forward.

  “Long story.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Not really.”

  I didn’t know if she understood or not, but she didn’t ask any more questions while I checked Reardon’s text:

  Cocktail Reception at Tides, Saturday.

  Wanting you. That night, the truck, Shay…

  Lessons in comportment, starting Friday.

  Reardon Boone

  CEO Radaman-Slaughter

  Sent from my iPhone

  Lessons in comportment?

  I’d show him comportment, with my stiletto shoved up his fine ass.

  Chapter 8

  Host with the Most

  My training in comportment went down about as well as the time I’d crushed my vibrator into submission with too much lustful enthusiasm. DOA.

  Reardon interrupted me and Miss Temperance, spotting me tilted back in the Louis-whatever non-reproduction chair, shuffling oodles of cutlery like it was a deck of cards. He took over my lessons in his office, minus Temperance’s input on fine china versus Chinet.

  Because I still wanted to put my foot somewhere–in my mouth, apparently–I asked if he had any children.

  “You think you wouldn’t know if I had children? You think I’d be such a terrible father I’d farm my kids off?” His inscrutable expression coupled with the sour words had me backpedalling.

  Not very far. All I managed was a pathetic mutter. “No, I mean, yes. I mean...I didn’t mean…”

  The subject of family once again off the table, he barged forward, in full biz mode, informing me Slaughter would be at the event, and he didn’t want me alone with him.

  “Christ, Reardon. How can you work with someone you have no faith in?”

  “There’s a difference between faith and trust, Shay. I trust him with our business, I have trusted him with the lives of my family.” He shoved away from his desk. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him.”

  All I could do was nod.

  Good footing, right?

  Sure. But in my next breath, I tactlessly asked, “How much are ya worth, anyway?”

  Cue the upright posture and pursed lips. “I’m not in the habit of discussing my financial portfolio.”

  My enormous eye-rolling might’ve been over the top. But he got the picture.

  Taking off his glasses, he planted his arms on the desk. “I trust you, Shay. I have faith in you.” He pried his fingers apart and pulled my hand into his. “And that scares the hell out of me.”

  Fantastic. We were two fucked up freaks in a peapod.

  He kissed my fingertips and clasped my hand to his cheek so my fabulously displayed cleavage was in his face. Still, he managed to keep his eyes on mine. “I know you’re not in it for the money.” Money shot, maybe. His undertone full of disbelief, he grumbled, “Took you a damn week to cash your first paycheck.”

  When his eyes went to the prize staring him in the face, I fired off, “So are we talkin’ Fortune 500 rich?”

  “Forbes 400,” he corrected.

  “Whatever. And?”

  “Not quite, but I have enough to get by.” And buy the goddamn Love Boat aka Ransome III. “Enough to look after my own.”

  His rightful pride was provocative. His well-deserved arrogance made me tingly. Perfect. He was ripe for a lap dance. I’d been promising for ages, at least a month.

  “Glasses back on,” I commanded.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. They’re hot.” Quickly unbuttoning his shirt, dragging his tie out of the way, I pinned his wrists with the shirtsleeves.

  Reardon’s seductive scowl was supposed to scare me. The only thing frightening me was the imminent explosion in my so-called nether regions.

  “What are you doing?” Suspicion gave way to arousal, excitement tinting his cheeks.

  “No questions.”

  He shuttled the chair back to make room, lifting bound wrists behind his head, hooking fingers over the back of the chair.

  Dragging a fingernail over his lips, I fed off his heat.

  “You taking control?”

  I parted his legs, yanked his tie, and gyrated from the floor to his thighs. “You need to let loose, baby.” I swooped my ass to his groin. “No more dicktation. Give.” I swayed into him.

  He shivered under me, wrestling out of the shirt, his palms gripping my hips.

  “And I’ll take.”

  ’Course the lap dance escalated to out-of-control, clothes askew, full-body contact. My demand for his obedience ended with me upended, suspended between his cock and the desktop, his fingers rasping my nipples, when a goddamned knock-knock-knock sounded on the door.

  I bit my lip over fucktus interruptus, pulling my knees aside, clasping his shaft with absolute aim.

  In a husky voice, Reardon called, “Yes?”

  “The party planner is here, Mr. Boone.”

  Party pooper, more like.

  The hot head of his hard shaft rolled against my entrance.

  He stroked away. I followed. He swallowed hard.

  He placed one hand on the desk, the other smoothing my skirt into place. “You do know I wouldn’t mak
e love to you the first time on my desk, right, Shay?”

  Yeah, you keep tellin’ yourself that, buddy.

  We were almost dressed, a shirt button or two missed, when Augie–Augie!–entered the room.

  Crap, shit, fuck, no.

  His appearance–decorator extraordinaire, all around busybody, and basically my best friend–had me miming the shit of out of the telling situation.

  Taking one look at my off-kilter blouse, he raised an eyebrow over the stilettos and made a face that said, “Ooh, Miss Shay. Addy was right. Workin’ for the man.”

  Cutting a finger across my throat, I made it plain I didn’t want Reardon to know about our friendship. And vice versa. Etcetera. Whatever.

  The meeting was fraught, but Augie kept quiet.

  He stared at Reardon’s ass too much for my liking.

  Walking him out, as a pro PA would do, I expected a lecture, or high-fives.

  “This your job?”

  “Yep.”

  “Palmer know?”

  I shifted away. “Don’t you make me feel worse than I already do.”

  “I only want you to be right about this.”

  “You’re such a shit. Bangin’ on about me gettin’ banged and then–”

  “Has he?”

  “Not quite, thank you very much.”

  His laughter boomed. “Color me jealous.”

  “Really?”

  “You gotta be jokin’. If I’m not mistaken by your head-to-toe flush, y’all have actually touched Reardon’s royal jewels, right?”

  Hugging his arm, I bit my lip. All confirmation he needed.

  “Yeah, exactly.”

  Augie’s crush on Reardon Sugah Dade Boone almost rivaled mine.

  “I swear, if you breathe a word of this to anybody–and by anybody I mean Addy–I’ll shatter all twelve place settings you picked out for your imaginary nuptials with Prince Harry.”

  He sent a prayer to Heaven, “Not the trousseau china!”

  * * * *

  My high heels were snug on my feet instead of planted up Reardon’s fine posterior when I exited the elevator Saturday night. Fearing I’d mistake the soup spoon for the dessert spoon, have another Pretty Woman moment with Slaughter, and not at all happy about Augie being in on my secret, I tried to squelch my nerves.

  At least I looked fabulous. Having successfully fended off Momma’s shopping trip to the Maxx for a knock-off dress, I wore a made-to-order, citron colored gown, which had caused cliquey bitchiness amidst the other lesser dresses in my closet.

  I looked up from fiddling with my rings, and there he was, waiting for me outside the penthouse. In a tux. Eat your heart out, Scarlett O’Whora.

  Creamy white jacket and shirt offsetting the tan of his skin and the blue of his eyes, midnight trousers the color of his hair, Reardon rested his shoulders against the wall and stroked a slim cigarillo between his fingertips. He allayed all my worries because frankly, the stroking motion combined with the visual of him in formal attire put my brain on a permanent leave of absence.

  His eyes clung to my gown, which clung to my cleavage.

  “I’ve been waiting for you.”

  “Thank you for the gown, and the unmentionables.” The buttery silk corset, garters, stockings, and panties truly were unmentionable. “And the shoes.” Shoes were an understatement. Three inches of sexy strappy heels I’d already trilled and cooed over.

  Taking me in his arms, he pressed a short sexy kiss to my mouth. “You look unbelievable, Shay.”

  I displayed the curve of my leg. “You chose everything yourself?”

  “Mm hmm.”

  “Sure you’re not gay?”

  “At the time I was thinking about taking the clothes off you, especially the unmentionables. Not dressing you.”

  Ooh. Definitely not gay.

  “There’s more.” From his inside pocket, he presented a dark blue box.

  I had enough smarts to know the delicate gold choker looped with spears of dianthus colored coral wasn’t from the strip mall jewelers.

  He clasped the necklace around my neck, kissing my shoulder. “The color of the sunrise. They reminded me of you, darlin’.”

  “But–”

  “No questions.” He replayed what I’d said the other day. Except now we were talking lustrous jewelry, not lap dances.

  Reardon kissed me again, his tongue lashing in and out of my mouth, and I moaned for more.

  I was breathless when he took the crook of my arm. “The press is here, so I’ll have to be on my best behavior.”

  Inside, the cocktail party-slash-gala shindig was in full swing for the up and coming Gibbes Museum artist. A string quartet played from one corner of the main room and a hundred plus people milled about. Their glances shot to us, then skittered away.

  Temp held the reins from the sidelines of the room transformed from its usual luxe living space to an elegant ballroom in deep orange, black, and white, the giant leafy fans replaced by chandeliers dripping in crystals. She’d even hired a crew of fastidiously turned out wait-staff.

  Everyone was chillingly elegant and in their element.

  I tried not to trip on my hem.

  A hint of devil-may-care caroused with Reardon’s normal composure while he guided me inside the festooned room.

  And, oh my fucking fuck.

  “Jane?” I warbled.

  Reardon’s trademark grin dissolved from his face.

  She turned a funny color that didn’t sit well with her tangerine empire waist or something-or-other gown.

  Oh good God. She couldn’t be one of his former mistresses.

  Good breeding taking over, Reardon dipped his head. “Shay, I’d like you to meet my sister, Jane Sloane.” He cursed under his breath. “Though it seems you two have already met.”

  I hugged her loosely, the earlier nerves spiking inside me.

  “Shay,” she sighed, glaring beyond me to Reardon.

  Remembering her phone call from the restaurant, I cringed. “So, your brother? The other day?”

  “Yeah. And the text? Reardon, huh?”

  Oh, so outted. I was horrified. “Please don’t think–”

  “Sshh. It doesn’t matter, so long as he doesn’t–”

  He cut between us. “That’s enough.”

  “Reardon, don’t you even–”

  “We’re not speaking about this tonight.” Turning me into his chest, he presented Jane with his back. “You okay?”

  I swallowed and nodded.

  “She your newfound friend?”

  “Yeah.” I dared to look at him. “What if she…” Shit, this sounded so high school, but I didn’t have many new people in my life. “What if she thinks I’m easy?”

  “Jane’s my baby sister, a real little brat sometimes.” His lips fell to my ear. “But she’s good people, she’ll know it’s not just about sex, you’re more than…”

  Unconvinced, I peeked at her. Instead of the narrowed glare of disapproving kin, she stared in open-mouthed awe.

  A heavy hand hitting Reardon on the shoulder cast a shudder through me. I followed the arm up and up. The colossus gave me a guileless smile and Reardon an impish wink. A deep crescent scar punctuated the corner of his right eye; his hawkish nose and angular features were topped by umber eyes, all lending raw appeal to his face. A slant of brown hair slapped across his forehead, and suddenly Jane was propped under his arm.

  “Shay Greer, Cash Sloane, my brother-in-law.”

  “Honor, Miss Greer.” Cash’s mustache tickled my fingers briefly.

  “Cash Sloane? Sounds like–”

  “A used car dealer, I know. I blame the folks for cursing me from birth.”

  Ignoring the waist-high tension whirling around us, I asked, “So you’re?”

  The scar across his eyelid crinkled. “A car dealer.”

  “Savannah Used Auto Mile?”

  He laughed. “No, ma’am, foreign imports.”

  “Have I got a trade-in for you.” Then
I reconsidered. My poor Honda would cry tears of humiliation sitting on a lot next to a Saab or some such shit. I was ready to rescind my wheeling and dealing when everyone’s amused murmurs died away.

  Shepperd Slaughter was in the building. “Ah, the ubiquitous getting to know you conversation.” He glanced around. “And pray, do tell, Mrs. Greer, what is your profession?”

  “Shut your mouth right now, Slaughter.” Reardon’s unfinished threat hung in the air, a noose around his partner’s neck.

  The awkward intros continued. Everyone strained to be polite and barely held it together, finally ending with Slaughter’s companion, the tall towhead who was skinny as a ho–whoops, I meant hoe. Tastefully draped in a strapless affair, she was a flaxen-haired scarecrow. No, not a scarecrow. I reconsidered with the cruel tilt of her lips, an albino viper.

  “Jane.” She nodded to Reardon’s sister.

  “Leila,” Jane contemptuously replied.

  “Slaughter.” Cash clapped his hand, then shook it off as if sliminess was contagious.

  “Cash, Jane, pleasure.” Shepperd Slaughter grinned as color heightened his cheeks from the mere floridity of too many drinks to the flush of rotten pleasure.

  Reardon shunted in front of me, addressing Leila. “You weren’t invited.”

  “I’m Shepperd’s plus one, darlin’,” she drawled. “And who’s yours?”

  “Shay Greer.” I put out my hand.

  She recoiled as if I were a piece of ABC gum stuck to the sole of her Manolo Whatsit’s. Her hand was limp as a lettuce leaf left out of the crisper, palm down, presumably for me to genuflect over.

  “How utterly charming.” She sounded anything but charmed, turning to Reardon. “This your flavor of the month?”

  I broke into a cold sweat and hauled my hand back. Damn sure I wouldn’t kiss her skinny ass. More like kick it.

  Reardon wore the same emotionless expression as when I’d asked him about children. He shook his head. “Don’t.”

  She sneered. “Leila Boone, dear.”

  I flicked between Jane and Reardon.

  “No, Mrs. Greer, I’m not their sister.” She grew more spiteful as she spurned his hand around my waist. “I’m Reardon’s wife.”

  Blood pounded through my ears, deafening me.

  “Ex-wife.” He squeezed my hip. “And you don’t use my name anymore.”

  “Only when it’s convenient, darlin’.”