Sugar
Lydia Michaels
Edited by
Trudy Kozak
Copyright © 2020 by Lydia Michaels
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Sugar
Books by Lydia Michaels
1. Avery
2. Noah
3. Avery
4. Avery
5. Avery
6. Avery
7. Noah
8. Avery
9. Noah
10. Avery
11. Noah
12. Avery
13. Avery
14. Avery
15. Avery
16. Noah
17. Avery
18. Noah
19. Avery
20. Avery
21. Noah
22. Avery
23. Avery
24. Avery
25. Avery
26. Avery
27. Noah
28. Avery
29. Noah
30. Avery
31. Avery
32. Avery
33. Avery
34. Noah
35. Avery
36. Avery
37. Noah
38. Avery
39. Avery
40. Noah
41. Avery
Epilogue
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About the Author
Join Lydia’s Reader Group
Sugar
Contemporary Romance
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www.LydiaMichaelsBooks.com
Books by Lydia Michaels
Falling In
Breaking Out
Coming Home
Sacrifice of the Pawn
Queen of the Knight
Breaking Perfect
Simple Man
La Vie en Rose
Calamity Rayne
Blind
Untied
Forfeit
Lost Together
Atonement
First Comes Love
If I Fall
Something Borrowed
The McCullough Mountain Series
Hurt
For every woman who would rather be a shark than a mermaid.
Never be afraid to show your teeth and bite back.
Fins out!
1
Avery
I could feel his stare weighing on me, heavy and warm like a blanket I didn’t ask for but appreciated all the same. He watched from across the hall, watched me like a man who saw something he fantasized about possessing. A beautiful car, a valuable company, a woman, either way, I was only an object to him. That was fine. Impersonal, the way I preferred my relationship with neighbors.
My hand trembled as I slid my gold key into the slot of the deadbolt, securely locking my door. The ornate moldings throughout the building imposed a sense of security as well as a sense of lavish luxury, so my sudden unsteadiness wasn’t due to fear, but rather the result of my hot neighbor’s nearness in our shared, narrow hall.
This man should not stir the feelings he roused inside of me.
Don’t look…
Sliding the ornate key into the narrow pocket of my Dior clutch, I tried to hide my body’s response to his attention. He pretended to sort a handful of mail outside of his apartment door, his tailored, bespoke clothing the usual high-end office attire, but he didn’t strike me as a self-important snob. Just a result of good circumstances.
Regardless of his background, he got up and went to work every weekday and sometimes on weekends. The golden stubble covering his jaw was proof of yet another long day’s work.
Snapping my clutch shut, I pretended not to notice him, and fought the urge to dissect him with my eyes.
No one read their mail in the hall. They grabbed it from the lobby and dumped it on their counter when they walked through the door. Yet he eye fucked each envelope with the same intensity one reviewed a life or death contract. I doubted he read a single word.
Bingo. With a flick of his thick lashes, blond enough to give his blue eyes a dramatic gilded fringe, his gaze left the mail and landed on me. I looked away because there wasn’t time to play the demure flirt, and the last thing I needed was another man in my life.
We lived in a civil war era mansion renovated into apartments, located on Delancey Street in the Rittenhouse section of Old City Philadelphia—a place college students shouldn’t be able to afford. But I wasn’t an ordinary college student. Exploits, the sort most women couldn’t imagine—wouldn’t want to imagine—dominated my social life.
This was the second time he and I crossed paths since I moved in, and it surely wouldn’t be the last. I should say hello, introduce myself, do the upper class, neighborly thing, but there wasn’t time. A luxury sports car waited for me out front, and I couldn’t keep my client waiting.
A shiver raced down my spine as my neighbor’s attention lingered, and my eyes slowly blinked. The heat of his stare teased at the base of my back, exposed by my ebony, couture midi dress.
I could feel him watching me as though he could see through my clothing. He left me feeling … exposed, as if he might detect the faux jewels and second hand couture and discover the real me. Why did he have to look at me like that?
I knew my ass looked phenomenal, and it should for the amount of time I spent sweating it off at the gym every dawn. But my curves and this dress weren’t for him. I wasn’t for him. And by the look of his high-end, tailored suit and unquestionable attractiveness paired with his young age, I knew, without a doubt, he wasn’t for me.
He hailed from prestigious lineage, perfectly suited for some pretty, little, pedigreed female, born and raised around old money, pampered and gently disciplined to always pick up the correct silver spoon at a formal table, and never go slumming in the places I’d been. Yup, I definitely wasn’t his type.
Keeping my lashes low, I approached the elevator doors. My lips formed the thinnest smile as I tossed him a brief sideways glance, and my heart lamented the death of possibilities that could never be. His mouth opened by the slightest degree, and I felt the corner of my smile pull tight with genuine satisfaction.
Yeah, he’s gawking. If only he knew…
Girls like me didn’t know the meaning of vanity growing up, but the city had taught me well. I couldn’t deny it felt nice to have an attractive man’s full focus. Rarely short of attention, his awareness somehow struck me as different. Less manufactured and more valuable perhaps.
His looks ranked him as a dangerous female connoisseur, so undeniably handsome there’d be little challenge for him to find a date. Affluence and good looks with a hint of arrogance hid in those deep blue eyes. And the sheer size of his hands, the breadth of his shoulders, and the smolder of his gaze… His inarguable appeal sucked the air right out of our private, little hallway.
My manicured finger nudged the elevator button to a golden glow as the antique dial ticked up to our floor. My will trembled, as I demanded I not look back. I worked damn hard to get here, and I couldn’t afford any distractions. Literally.
Six seconds left.
His throat cleared just as the brass dial hit our floor and the doors parted with a delicate ping. The slender five-inch heels of my Prada pumps crossed the threshold, my mind waiting for the precise moment I’d make eye contact, knowing full well it would be sharp and jolting, like a roller coaster letting go at the top of a steep hill.
Eyes down, I stepped over the threshold and turned, s
till not giving him the satisfaction of my full attention. I’d mastered the art of coy and unknowing long ago, but normally there wasn’t much risk involved. Something told me he was different from my usual mark. Perhaps it was the fear that he somehow knew I was different.
I might look delicate, but I could make a grown man cry. Therefore eye contact was a gamble I shouldn’t take with him.
But I wanted to see his response to my gaze. I wanted to try to read him the way he was trying to read me.
How would he respond if I met his stare head on, without a hint of shyness? Would he suck in a sharp breath, hold it? Look away?
My insides clenched with acute anticipation. I needed to experience that intoxicating split second in time when he knew I noticed him—when I chose to do so.
I wasn’t a bitch, and I wasn’t self-centered, but I lived alone in a scary world with a dirty history, and my façade remained the only veneer separating me from a muddied past. My appearance served as an opaque distraction hiding the girl I used to be from the world I desperately wanted to belong to.
I’d mastered the role I needed to portray, my chance to bury my past once and for all. I refused to go back to where I came from, back to being that girl. Avery Johansson had become my present and my future, she remained the only woman he and every other man would ever see.
Tipping my head at just the right angle to show off the contours of my high cheekbones and smoky eyes, I slowly raised my gaze, pretending to notice him for the first time. My fingers already called the doors to close, but I couldn’t resist.
Our eyes met and my knees softened. Our gazes locked. Intense, provocative desire thrummed through the charged air as this silent game of how good we could fuck played out in a snapshot of time that would never come true.
He drew in that breath just as I’d hoped he would—a reward for him, a reward for me. A shame we’d never actually be more than neighbors.
The elevator doors glided shut. “Wait—”
The door closed, and I let out a relieved sigh, a twisted smirk pulling at the corner of my mouth. I loved playing cat and mouse, but only when I held the role of the cat.
I wouldn’t necessarily classify him as mousey or timid. Despite his indisputable good looks and palpable, pretty boy propriety, something savage lingered under the surface, something untamed. It was dangerous to taunt a tiger. Maybe that’s why my panties were wet because I knew I was doing something I shouldn’t.
A satisfied heat coiled in my stomach as I stashed away all thoughts of my sexy neighbor and focused on the evening ahead. But the thought of him didn’t go away easily. I carefully folded each memory into the tightest origami and tucked it somewhere out of reach. I’d never resist the temptation to keep considering all the various positions we could find ourselves in, dwelling on his every sexy detail down to the delicate divot of his upper lip.
My neighbor certainly qualified as handsome. Masculine yet beautiful. Devastating blue eyes. A true distraction that lingered long after I willed myself to stop imagining him—naked—at my feet—on his knees.
The elevator jostled and slowed as I drew in a bracing breath and tightened my posture just before the doors opened to the lobby. Shoulders back, tits out. Showtime.
Pasting on a pleasant smile, I sashayed out of the foyer and offered the concierge a polite nod as he held the door. All personal details about myself were masterfully disguised as I took that first step into the evening, autumn air.
The sleek Aston Martin Rapide idled silently by the curb as I carefully navigated the brick and cobblestone sidewalk in my pumps. My date, a man with passable looks, a receding hairline, and a designer suit I knew he didn’t choose himself, appeared beside the driver’s door and grinned.
His gaze measured me from head to toe, undeniable approval reflecting in his eyes. Not devastating eyes like the pair that studied me upstairs, but older eyes, worn by time and the stress that came with a hard-earned fortune and little time to play.
“Avery,” he greeted affectionately, gently clasping my elbow and leaning in as if intending to kiss my cheek but not daring to actually put his lips on me. “You’re stunning, as usual.”
The musk of his cologne lingered by my skin, a scent I’d be wearing all night once I sat in his car. It wasn’t an unpleasant fragrance. To be honest, I liked it more than most. But a man’s natural scent, clean from the shower without a trace of femininity, remained my favorite scent of all. I wished someone would let men know I wasn’t the only woman who felt that way.
“It’s nice to see you again, David. I’ve missed you.” I hadn’t, but the lie slipped easily as I flawlessly fell into my role.
He opened my door, his chivalry noted and appreciated—an occupational perk I often enjoyed. Once behind the wheel, he glanced at me and smiled. I returned the gesture, meeting his every anticipated expectation.
“Dinner first?”
I’d already eaten, but he didn’t need to know that. “Sure. Where would you like to go? You always find the best-hidden gems in the city.”
He didn’t. He went to all the usual rich and famous haunts, but making him feel superior and unique remained the goal. Reminding him he wasn’t my only sugar daddy would be an extreme faux pas. I knew better, and that’s why I excelled at my job.
“I have the perfect place in mind.”
The car shifted, its quality and design evident in the way the leather seat hugged my body at the slightest turn. Another luxury I relished, one I never imagined years ago when I left my home in Blackwater.
Shelving the brief recollection of my old, dilapidated mobile home—manufactured home to be more PC—I focused on the present. That shelf where I kept the memories I never talked about, grew more cluttered with unwanted forget-me-nots of my past every day. Unreturned phone calls from Momma, friend requests from old acquaintances left in social media purgatory, and too many dusty recollections to count kept a gnawing sense of guilt alive in my gut. But I kept squeezing my dirty past anywhere it would fit, ’cause I ain’t never going back to that hellhole…
This was where I belonged and planned to stay.
2
Noah
It took a minute—a solid, cock-swelling sixty seconds—after the elevator doors closed for the breath clogged in my lungs to release. Missed my chance again. What the hell was wrong with me?
Shoving into my condo, I tossed the junk mail onto the marble-topped secretary. My conscience ran on autopilot as my feet carried me to the window facing the street. Hugging the molding, I brushed the curtain aside and narrowed my eyes at the sight of a sleek Aston Martin pulling away. Even the cars she traveled in were sexy as fuck.
Once the vehicle pulled away, my fingers loosened the knot of my tie, and I pretended to push all thoughts of my new hot neighbor aside as I rummaged through the cabinets for dinner. But as I set the barley and wild rice to boil my mind returned to visions of her sweet ass swaying in that tight little dress as she sashayed into the elevator.
She saw me. She had to have seen me. We seemed to be playing some sort of game, and I couldn’t tell who held the lead.
The image of her looking up and holding my stare for that split second glance sent a jolt of hot blood pumping to my cock. Oh, yeah. She saw me. Then she got in the car with another guy.
Okay, so she might be dating someone. A complication, but not a game ender. I needed to find out if she was new to town or merely new to the building. This guy might not be the man from the night before. That model Aston Martin retailed for around the two hundred thousand mark and the Mercedes that took her out last night retailed for over eighty grand. Either she only dated luxury car salesmen, or she only dated men who were loaded.
My mind reorganized and categorized every detail about her as if this could somehow make the facts accumulate. I needed more. She had me so distracted, I’d settle for a negative detail, something to drop her from goddess level and put her within my human reach.
She couldn’t be more than twenty-
two. But not a lot of single women in their early twenties could afford to live here alone. This one just appeared. Boxes arrived. Furniture followed. Then she showed up carrying a designer purse and a leather messenger bag, leaving me and Winston, the doorman, gawking after her. It wasn’t the last time she left me gaping like a semi-aroused idiot either. Tonight she’d done it again.
Salad made, I headed to the den and grabbed my iPad. Kicking off my shoes and anchoring my feet on the coffee table, I cued up a search. I’d snagged her name off the mailboxes a few days ago. Avery Johansson. Christ, even her name screamed sexy.
The search pulled up the usual Twitter and Facebook accounts, but none of the profiles fit. I expanded my search to the other social media outlets, but they also proved to be dead ends.
“Who are you, Avery Johansson?”
Tossing my iPad aside, I shifted the weight of my slightly swollen cock in my pants. Whoever she was, I intended to have her. Sure, I had plenty of other options. My contacts held ample names of available, hot women. But this particular woman scored beyond a ten. She easily captured the total package.
Toned legs that went up to her throat, an ass I could make a meal out of, big, sexy, don’t you want to fill my mouth eyes, and lips that could keep a dick warm for winters at a time. She was perfect.
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