Ankle Deep in Sugar

by Rocklyn Ryder

  I know she wasn't really looking for a sugar daddy. Not the kind that you think about when you hear the term, at least. But I couldn't leave her in Bridgestone knowing that her best option was a minimum wage job at the dollar store or refilling coffee for leering old men at the truck stop diner.

  After I made arrangements back home to get her set up in a hotel room for a few days-- a much nicer hotel room than she's been living in-- I met her back at the Bridge Star Motor Lodge to pack up her things and put that place in the rear view mirror. For both of us.

  Bridgestone is the kind of place where dreams go to die. It makes a good place to stop for gas or a quick bite or to take a piss on your way to someplace else, but the full time residents of the place all had a hollow look to them. The look of people who'd stopped believing that they had options.

  No way could I let that happen to Rachel.

  So here I am, doing my best to be a good guy and not take advantage of my new sugar daddy status.

  That's fucking hard to do when I'm sharing my home with a woman like Rachel.

  After a week in the suite and a lot of negotiations, Rachel agreed to come live with me. Of course, she's got her own room. I moved things around so she could have the master suite with the big closet and the bathroom with the big tub-- I figured she'd probably make better use of it than I ever have.

  "You sure it's OK?"

  Rachel asks me again about bringing her to the dinner with me tonight as she stands in front of the big mirror of the dressing area adjacent to her walk in closet.

  She's wearing some pajamas that she says aren't pajamas-- she calls them "lounge wear" but they look like pajamas to me; loose-fitting pants in some flowy material that has a way of clinging to her curves as it hangs from her waist and an equally loose-fitting t-shirt that has a tendency to fall off one shoulder and is a lot more see-through than she thinks it is when she's standing in front of the lighted vanity like she is now.

  Her hair is pinned loosely on top of her head after she spent forever blow-drying it and I'm sitting on the foot of her bed, watching her apply her make up.

  When she gets her eye lashes just right, she'll take her hair down and begin winding sections of the rich, velvet brown locks around the barrel of the curling iron she has heating on the counter right now.

  Then she'll ask me how she looks right before she applies her lipstick and I'll nod and tell her she looks great.

  I'll say it casually. Platonically.

  Like I'm not hard as a rock watching her breasts sway and jiggle through that thin fabric as she leans forward to comb the mascara wand through her lashes.

  Like I'm not affected at all by the curve of her throat or the gentle way she runs her fingertips over it as she marks her pulse points with perfume.

  Like I'm not dying to have her in my arms, to bury my nose in the crease of her cleavage and breathe in that Dior where it mixes with the smell of her body.

  "Of course, it's OK," I assure her, pretending I'm merely waiting on her to get ready for our dinner tonight and not secretly fantasizing about throwing her down on the bed and making her forget all about the damn banquet.

  Rachel turns to face me and smiles, "You know you don't have to take me to all your business functions, Colt, I don't want to be in the way."

  She still doesn't get it. I take her with me because she's beautiful, she's intelligent, she feels great on my arm, and I'm the envy of every man in the room when she's standing next to me. I take her because I enjoy her company...and I love watching her get ready to go.

  Like this.

  In the last few weeks we've settled into a routine and a comfortable friendship. Which is why I don't feel like I'm intruding on her privacy when I come sit on the end of her bed and watch her put on her makeup and do her hair.

  I still haven't seen her naked though.

  While Rachel begins the process of curling her hair, one small section at a time, I adjust my position slightly, hoping to find more space in the confines of my tuxedo pants for my raging hard on.

  "You're not in the way," I say as I mentally fight with my cock, trying to talk it down. "Besides, if you're going to come to work for the Foundation, you should get to know our major sponsors anyway."

  The problem with my efforts to stop my body from reliving adolescence is that in order to find some relief from my predicament, it means moving so that I can't see her any more. Which I find unacceptable after about 30 seconds, so I move back to the corner of the mattress where I can watch her finish her primping even if it means guaranteeing another night of painful blue-balls.

  "Yeah but it's not like I'll be working directly with any of them," she points out as she disappears into the dressing room to slip on her gown. "I'd understand if you were more comfortable going stag, I can't imagine that showing up with me all the time is doing your reputation any favors."

  Even though she's just out of sight behind the dressing screen, her absence leaves me feeling raw and anxious. It's all I can do to restrain myself from following her.

  "How do you figure my reputation could possibly be hurt by being seen with a beautiful, sophisticated woman?"

  Her laughter wafts over the partition that hides her from my sight.

  "Well it can't be doing your love life any good. People are going to think one of the country's most eligible bachelors is off the market if you keep hanging out with the same woman."

  And then she steps out from behind the dressing room partition and any blood that might have still been making it to my brain suddenly has much more important places to be.

  The gown is red. A rich, vibrant red that looks like both heaven and sin wrapped around her body. It's made of a shiny material that hugs her curves with beading that catches the light-- and the imagination-- as she moves.

  "Do you like it?" She twirls in a circle that ends in a little curtsy and then rocks her hips from side to side in a sassy move.

  Wow.

  Yes and hell yes.

  "It seems like a suitable frock for the event," I choke out nonchalantly.

  Rachel laughs again, knowing I'm intentionally understating my impression.

  The woman gets me, that's for sure, and that's done nothing over these last few weeks of co-habitating to reduce my growing attraction.

  Rachel's right about being bad for my sex life. Ever since she came into my life, the only woman I want is her.

  Unfortunately for me?

  I'm not that kind of sugar daddy.

  Rachel

  This is only our second gala but Colter's been letting me tag along to most of his business events since I came to live with him.

  He keeps saying that I need to meet his associates and the big sponsors that come to the charity fundraisers that the Foundation puts on since I'm working for him now but it's just a middle level management position in the head office. I have very little interaction with the sponsors and the closest I get to the big wigs is through an occasional email.

  Still, it gives me a chance to dress up in some serious red carpet-worthy gowns and feel like a princess for a night here and there.

  Living in Colter's Vegas high-rise apartment and having a master suite that's as big as my entire house was has been easy to get used to. Plus, Colter took me shopping and let me spend his money on a closet-full of clothes and an arsenal of high end make up and designer fragrances.

  I'm basically living an issue of Vogue magazine.

  A girl could do worse.

  God knows this girl has.

  And then there's Colter. My sugar daddy. Living up to his role in every way I'd fantasized about when I registered with that website.

  I've got the clothes, the makeup, the weekly spa visits. A beautiful car in the garage and a job that is well within my capability and will look great on my resume when I'm ready to move on.

  Cuz let's face it-- Colter is great and he's easy to look at, but looking is all I get to do.

  Not that he ever specifically said sex isn't part of o
ur arrangement-- we just never talked about it.

  At first I thought for sure he was a grab me/kiss me hard/throw me down/make passionate love to me kinda guy.

  He was so forceful about his decision to bring me to Vegas with him, then he was just as determined when he decided to have me share his apartment-- but then he gave me the master suite.

  Well, technically, he gave me the big master suite. The apartment has 2 masters, plus 2 more bedrooms.

  He has 2 ladies that come in weekly to clean, but otherwise, it's just us in that huge place. I'm glad he found a position for me at the office, it was lonely in the apartment by myself during the day.

  That's probably how we got so close though, just the 2 of us sharing meals and space when he got home from work. Well, that and the hikes in the desert.

  Back home, it was always easy to get away to the mountains or the ocean when you needed a break from town, and when I was staying in Reno, the mountains were even closer.

  Out here though? Desert. As far as the eye can see. Even the mountains in the distance are basically just gray rocks.

  When I asked Colter what he does to get away from the city and get some peace, he looked at me funny.

  Of course he did. Colter Meyers just hops on the family jet when he's tired of the Vegas skyline. To him, escape is as simple as making a phone call and boarding a plane.

  He did, however, take me hiking at the Valley of Fire, a Nevada state park not far from here filled with some really fascinating red rock formations that make a nice break from the gray/brown expanse that surrounds the city.

  Plus, it turns out he's a really good listener.

  We seemed to have really good chemistry and I thought for sure he was interested in more than rescuing me. But we have separate rooms, he's never made a move, and he keeps taking me to all these events and social things like it doesn't bother him if people think we're a couple.

  I've never seen him so much as look at another woman since I've known him.

  I don't know. Maybe he's not into women.

  That would suck.

  Especially for me.

  Because right now, I am riding up in the elevator with a drop dead gorgeous man in a tuxedo after spending all night laughing and dancing-- and drinking-- and he smells so good.

  For the last 2 months I've had to act like we're just friends while he walks around the apartment in nothing but sweat pants. Nothing. But sweat pants. Or sometimes, he walks out into the living room with just a towel wrapped around his waist. Once, I walked into the kitchen for a snack at night and found him making a grilled cheese sandwich-- buck naked.

  All I got was a good look at the finest piece of man ass I've ever laid eyes on before he grabbed a dish towel and left me to keep the bread from burning while he ran for his robe but-- whew! I have been fantasizing about getting a good look at the other side ever since.

  I giggle out loud as the elevator stops on our floor.

  "You OK?" Colter laughs at me as he holds out his hand for me to steady myself with.

  Maybe I should take off the heels.

  Oh but they're so pretty. And they totally make me feel like a vixen. With them on, I'm almost as tall as his shoulder.

  I might be a little tipsy.

  "Fine!" I promise, a tad over enthusiastically.

  I hear how loud and shrill my voice sounds as it carries down the hall outside our door and that only makes me giggle again.

  "I've never seen you drunk before."

  Colter's smiling as he holds the door open for me. He doesn't look upset with me, he looks amused. But not like he's making fun of me either.

  "Ohmygosh, I hated when Greg did that shit," I tell him as I dance past him and into the living room. "He was such an asshole."

  "Greg was?" Colter closes the door and stands there, watching me, looking like he's having fun while he pulls off his tie and hangs up his tuxedo jacket.

  "Tuxedos are so fucking hot, why don't guys like to wear them?"

  I'm thinking it's time to take off the shoes. But I don't want to. They're these red, strappy, things with 4 inch heels and beading that matches my dress. They're like princess shoes. If princesses wore red. So I guess...they're like naughty princess shoes.

  "I take it Greg didn't wear tuxes?" Colter laughs, and unbuttons the one tiny button at the collar of his shirt, then he takes the cuff links off and then he's standing there with his shirt half way open, exposing entirely too much of his bare chest for safety.

  Screw the shoes. I should take the dress off.

  "Greg who?" I have no idea why Greg won't wear a tux? Did I meet a Greg tonight? Did Greg not show up because it was a black tie thing?

  "Greg the asshole? You said you hated it when Greg did something? Like not wearing a tux?"

  Oh. Greg. He always made fun of me if I got a little tipsy when we went out. Made me feel really self conscious any time I let loose and had fun, even sober. Which is why we only dated for a few months.

  "Fuck Greg," I tell Colter. "He was stupid. I dumped that idiot 8 years ago."

  And no, Greg did not wear a tux and certainly not the way Mr. Meyers does. But his mom made some good soup.

  Speaking of Mr. Colter Meyers and the half a tuxedo he's wearing.

  Yeah. I definitely need to get this dress off.

  Colter is smiling and he's way too close to me now.

  We were dancing earlier tonight. He's a strong lead and I love the way he knows how to direct me on the floor. I like dancing with him and it doesn't seem strange at all that he's holding me now in a close closed position and swaying gently with me in the living room.

  "You are cute when you're drunk, Miss Lewin," he tells me.

  It doesn't sound condescending at all. It sounds like he thinks I'm cute.

  "You'd be smokin' hot out of that tux."

  I say it with a straight face while holding direct eye contact like I'm some sort of movie siren from the era of the silver screen. Like Lauren Bacall maybe.

  It's the shoes.

  I should shut up.

  I should take off the shoes.

  I should not be so close to his lips.

  Colter

  I still don't know who Greg was, why he wouldn't wear a tux, or what he did that she hated. And I don't care.

  Rachel isn't the only one who's in a good mood after a great night and a little too much good wine and way too much dancing.

  My arms have been filled with the silky feel of that red dress and the firm curves of her body all night. Which means my imagination has been filled with her curves without the dress and definitely without the 64 other people we shared the dance floor with for the last 4 hours.

  My plan was to get home, get out of the monkey suit, and spend some quality time with the coldest water possible in the privacy of my own shower.

  But I think this is the first time I've seen Rachel buzzed. She's still herself, but less guarded. The filters are off and she's been giggling and oversharing snippets of herself since we left the hall that reveal the sassiness I always suspected was laid dormant by the drama that destroyed her life a couple of years ago.

  This Rachel is fun and a little brazen and I can't bring myself to say good night while she's standing in the living room looking at me like she's not done dancing.

  I'll dance all night if she wants. Anything for an excuse to hold her and have her scent on my clothes when I'm thinking of her when I'm alone in my room later.

  It's not meant to be a come on. I really do think she's cute like this but as soon as the words are out, my mouth goes dry.

  The way she looks at me. Her pupils dilated, her eyelids heavy with those thickly mascara'd lashes fanning her cheeks as she licks her lips.

  I don't have time to react to her comment. My brain is still trying to process the suggestion that I've missed some vital clues about her feelings for me when her lips collide with mine.

  Maybe I should pull away. Maybe she's too tipsy to think straight right now or maybe I am.
Maybe this isn't the mature or responsible thing to do.

  But her lips taste so fucking good.

  My hands slide around her body and pull her against me till I feel her heart beating against mine.

  Her lips are buttery soft and her lipstick tastes faintly like wax but her mouth is warm and inviting as my tongue finds its way between her teeth and then tangles with hers.

  Rachel's hands press against my back, they slide up to my shoulders and then roam down my chest between us.

  My cock surges at the feel of her nails dragging lightly along my skin as she separates my shirtfront.

  I hate to break the kiss but I have to pull away and inhale sharply as she tugs my shirt from my pants and begins working at the fasteners on my fly.

  Part of my brain screams that I should stop her but it's not the part making the decisions. Not with her hand sliding into my boxers and stroking my cock with a needy grip.

  I don't even have the patience to get her dress off her, let alone carry her off to either of our rooms, and I don't think she does either. Not the way her mouth has found it's way to my chest as she drops my trousers around my ankles.

  In all my fantasies about this moment, I never thought it would be Rachel that started it. I sure as hell didn't expect this.

  My fingers have left her hair a knotted mess, I dropped one of her earrings on the floor when it came off in my mouth, I want her breasts out of the beaded bodice of the slinky dress but I can't decide if that's best accomplished by pulling it down or pulling it up.

  Up. Definitely up. My hands are already under the hem and pulling the long skirt around her waist anyway.

  I want to taste her nipples, I want to see them naked finally and know if her areolas are brown or red. Are they small and tight or are they large and round. I want to hold her nipples in my teeth and suck on them till they're hard and long and find out if she gasps or yelps or sighs.

  But then my hands graze her panties as I pull the dress up. Those tiny little silk panties that are so delicate that even my manicured hands are too rough to brush against them without catching on the fabric.