Paula Jacobs may be my sugar baby, but she is not my girlfriend.
The contract made that stipulation very clear and I don't want to her to get the impression that that's going to change.
Walking down the dock toward the limo, I'm halfway there when she emerges from the back seat.
And I can't remember how to move my feet forward anymore.
The woman that appears from the back of the hired car bears a vague resemblance to the pictures I saw on her profile: her blonde hair is curled into soft waves that hang to her shoulders and blow gently in the coastal evening breeze.
She stands near the driver, also a woman, and I watch them as they talk and then laugh together and Paula's head tilts back slightly as she does, exposing the long line of her neck and the parking lot lights flash off her necklace laying gently over her collar bones.
Her dress is casual, but classy in a breezy white material that moves around her legs in soft folds from the full skirt.
Before I get my wits about me and finish making my way toward them, the 2 women have shaken hands and the driver is pulling out of the parking lot as Paula turns and closes the distance between us.
"You must be Mr. Ford?"
Her voice isn't what I expected. It's throaty with a hint drawl.
When I nod affirmatively a shy but warm smile moves across her features that takes my breath away long enough for her to speak again.
"Well it's very nice to meet you finally. I'm Paula--" she giggles self-consciously but not the prolonged, high pitch sound that I've always associated with the word, it's a softer noise that comes from her throat and it feels like it's pulling on a string attached to my dick. Probably because it's the same sound I expect she would make if I nipped at her earlobe with my teeth, or ran my finger along her--
"--but you probably already figured that out," she finishes her sentence uninterrupted by my thoughts and I'm relieved that she remains oblivious to my condition.
My "condition" being awestruck by how fucking hot she is-- and suffering a rather inconvenient hard-on to prove it.
"Yes, I had a hunch," I answer her, finding my voice and my manners, "I trust you had a good ride over?"
Her head tilts just slightly into the breeze and confusion clouds her baby blues for split second before she nods and the shy smile from before returns with more confidence.
"Oh! Yeah, that was really cool, I've never been in a limo before and Desiree was really cool."
I should have gone with the car to pick her up. I feel like a heel.
"Never in a limo? Not even for prom?" I realize a lot of people don't ride in limos regularly, but never? That seems impossible.
Paula pulls a curl off her face and I watch it slide through her lipgloss before getting relocated behind her ear. She presses her lips together as she shakes her head and I wonder if the gloss has a flavor.
I wonder if she has a flavor.
I desperately want to find out.
"Well I hope you enjoyed it, I assure you it won't be your last," I promise as I offer her my arm, "The cruise should be departing in a little bit, shall we?"
Paula's shy smile curves the corners of her lips again and dimples appear in her cheeks. Her head tilts away from me and I watch her lashes flutter as her cheekbones blush a bright pink in the parking lot lighting as she takes my arm and we head up the boat ramp.
Why am I such an idiot? I never should have put a no sex stipulation in writing.
Paula
I can't believe I've been managing to put 2 words together, let alone actually keeping up with conversation with Brighton.
I was sure I was going to be so nervous tonight that I'd end up swallowing my own face and probably losing my shiny new sugar baby status before I even got properly moved in to my new place.
My amazing condo that's right on the Strand where I can watch southern California walking, jogging, biking, and roller skating past my balcony all day and night. It's exactly like it looks on TV-- albeit a little louder and weirder in real life.
There's no way I could ever afford that place if I had to pay for it myself. It's 2 bedrooms and right on the beach. If I was going to offend Brighton and get my contract revoked-- before I've unpacked and gotten spoiled is definitely the time to do it.
Fortunately, that doesn't seem to be likely.
He's so easy to get along with, I'm barely nervous at all.
He's also so easy to look at!
Of course, I was prepared for that from all the online stalking I did before I accepted his proposal.
"Have you had a chance to do any shopping?"
He says it casually, like we're talking about a trip down to Target for socks and underwear.
"Um, no. Not yet," I tell him, feeling a little awkward about the subject, "Vanessa isn't available till next week."
Vanessa being the personal shopper he hired to help me with the shopping he needs me to do. A lot of shopping where I will be spending a lot of money-- his money.
Brighton nods in silent acknowledgment of what I just told him while he scans the menu.
"Do you like oysters?" He asks me almost absently.
"I don't know," I answer quietly.
When we were going through the getting to know each other small talk, I felt like I had something to contribute. Now we're talking about a 20 thousand dollar wardrobe like it's nothing while I'm staring at a dinner menu full of words in a language I don't recognize wrapped around things I've never had.
Quail livers and rabbit aren't the sort of thing the Burger Barn back home served. Brad and I could certainly have afforded to splurge on a fancy dinner now and then, it's just that Brad wasn't interested in trying many new things.
At least-- I think we could have afforded a dinner like this one on special occasions, it's hard to tell when there aren't any prices on the menu though.
Brighton orders an appetizer of the oysters he asked me about and a bottle of wine that I assume is appropriate to go with them.
"Well, our first event isn't for a few more weeks," he says with a smile as he sets his menu aside and returns to our conversation, "so you and Vanessa have plenty of time to fill your closet and you should have a chance to get settled in by then...do you know what you'd like to order?" His eyes flicker to the menu that I have a half-assed grasp on.
"I--" Fuck it. I decide honestly is the best policy here, "I really don't know what most of this stuff is," I admit.
I can feel myself blush in the dim light of the sconce on the table. I'm feeling so out of place and it's starting to get to me. But visions of being presented with a plate of live squid swirl in my imagination when I consider choosing something off the menu at random and that would be worse than just admitting that I'm a frumpy, nearly middle aged woman from Oklahoma.
Stealing a glance around myself, I chew the corner of my bottom lip trying to hide too obvious of a frown.
We're on a boat.
No, that's probably not right. We're on the type of boat that would probably be insulted if it heard me call it a "boat."
It's definitely a yacht. A really big yacht...what makes a boat a "ship?" I search my brain and come up with nothing. I know there's a point at which it's a ship, I just don't know what that point is.
We might be on a ship.
The boat is big and fancy and taking us out to sea.
This is not your run of the mill dinner cruise.
Brighton's laugh is soft and warm and not at all condescending. "If you want to stay safe, stick with the steak. It's always phenomenal. However," I swear his eyes twinkle in the candlelight, "I fully support you if you want to try something new."
If I didn't know better, I'd think he was flirting with me.
I know I'm blushing again but this time it's because there's a hot, rich guy across the dinner table from me who has made it clear that he's only interested in a friendly business relationship and all I can think about is what he looks like with that shirt off.
"Um," I stutter
as I second guess bringing it up but I can't help blurting it out anyway, "this menu doesn't have the prices listed, is that-- um-- because I'm a woman?"
I've heard about restaurants that only give the prices to the man-- some nonsense about keeping women from feeling bad about spending too much money or whatever. I always thought it was a practice that must have ended with women's lib but here I am with a menu that has no prices.
Hopefully I didn't insult Brighton. I guess it's not supposed to matter, I mean-- he is my sugar daddy now.
"It's a private dining room," he tells me, again, sounding nonchalant. Like private dining rooms on mega yachts are the sort of thing that everyone knows about.
"Oh." I try to make sure the duh is properly implied. I guess I fail.
"This dining room-- and its kitchen-- are separate from the rest of the cruise. It's open to members only. There are no prices on any of the menus," to prove his point, he hands me his own menu, "it gets added to my membership at the end of the year."
"Ohhh." There is no implied duh this time, there's just me staring wide-eyed and open-mouthed at the man across from me, then around the intimate dining room, and out the window at the lights of the city as they move farther away.
Holy shit.
This is really happening.
I'm a sugar baby.
Brighton
Sometimes I forget that not everyone has seen the ocean, let alone experienced it from the upper deck of a private mega-yacht.
Impressing Paula with the 5 star meal in the private dining room was intentional. Watching the the awe on her face as she drinks in the city lights as the cruise navigates us back to port? That's an unexpected bonus.
"You've really never seen the ocean before?" I ask again as I tip the bottle and pour the last of our third bottle of wine into her glass.
Paula's head moves side to side, the curls in her hair bouncing against her shoulders with the movement, and sips this last glass of wine slowly.
I'm impressed at her ability to hold her liquor. She might be a little giddy with the dinner and the yacht and the yawning, black roll of the Pacific ocean under us, but she's no where near drunk.
I can't say quite the same for myself.
Or maybe it's just Paula. The ruby red of her surprisingly durable lipstick that still looks as kissable after a full, 5 course meal and 3 bottles of good Chardonnay, is wreaking havoc with my imagination.
The way she pulls her lower lip between her teeth when she's nervous makes me want to find new ways to make her nervous.
Kissing her right now would probably accomplish that in spades.
Leaning against the rail beside her, I frown and watch the lights of southern California grow closer as our cruise draws to an end.
Not that we have to leave the ship when it docks.
The thought crosses my mind and brings a frown to my face.
There are several private state rooms on board and my membership entitles me to one of them if I want it.
I could take Paula to one of the suites. We could have another bottle of wine brought up. Or Champagne...and strawberries.
I sneak a peak at those juicy red lips that she's chewing on again and think of them wrapped around one of those giant strawberries.
Then I think of them wrapped my cock.
Then I remind myself that Paula isn't just my date for the evening. She's my new sugar baby and, despite all the connotations that comes with that, I promised myself-- and her-- that this would not be a sexual relationship.
I need a sugar baby so I have an available companion for the events I need to attend. A woman who will look good on my arm and make me look good in the public eye. Someone who will be available at my beck and call without all the messy strings attached of a relationship or the expectations of a traditional date.
I might be a sugar daddy in name, but Paula is not my whore...or my girlfriend.
Our contract spells that out in very plain language.
It's the deal I offered and it's the deal she agreed to.
My dick might be disappointed, but after an evening with Paula, I know a good thing when I find it and I have no intentions of blowing things by reneging on our agreement and muddying our new business arrangement up with sex.
Firmly resolved to my original stance, I decide I should probably not finish the wine in my glass. I continue our conversation, standing beside her and letting my arm brush hers as we lean against the rail as the ship docks.
I might be teasing myself a little, enjoying the feel of her so close to me.
"I went to Lake Superior once when I was little," she tells me, "That was kind of like the ocean. I mean, you couldn't see the other side and there were waves."
She giggles softly at her memory, "And I was 8 so maybe it felt bigger than it really was?"
She leans lightly into my arm as she laughs at her 8 year old self. It's not flirtatious, but the casual gesture of a woman who feels secure knowing that she's safe with a man who has no interest in taking advantage of her.
"No, Lake Superior is a big lake, no matter how old you are when you see it," I assure her, returning her laugh.
"I had a really nice time tonight, Mr. Ford," she nearly whispers as she looks down into her wine glass, "and I really appreciate the condo. It's very nice."
She's thanked me for the place 6 times tonight.
"I told you to call me Brighton," I remind her, "I'm not your boss. People are going to expect us to be on first name basis, remember."
She nods, those curls bouncing up and down with the movement of her head and making my imagination run rampant again, thinking of the way they'd bounce with her body if she was riding my cock.
My cock perks up and I have to make an adjustment with a stealthy movement disguised as a stretch.
"Brighton." She says my name like she's practicing it and her cheeks flush bright pink in the lights from the dock as we prepare to disembark.
"You have our itinerary for the next few months, right?" I double check as I scan the parking lot for the car I arranged to pick us up.
"Yes, and I entered everything into my calendar already," she promises as we make our way down the gangplank, "are you sure you don't mind if I find a part time job and enroll in a few classes? I mean, I understand that I'm obligated to you first, but I don't want to take on any other responsibilities if it's going to interfere with your needs."
I swear she blushes as her eyes dart into the distance momentarily as if she's thinking of my "needs" as more than just a handful of dinner parties, gallery openings, and private auctions.
My own eyes make a quick search for something to focus on other than those ripe lips and the soft skin of her exposed throat that I've avoided touching all night.
"Of course you're welcome to do what ever you want with your personal time," I answer.
She mentioned getting a job while we were having dinner too.
"You know, you don't need to work though. If you need a higher allowance to cover personal expenses, just let me know. You probably have some credit card debt or maybe a loan payment? Car payment? We can go over your expenses and adjust things so you don't have to work if you don't want to."
Shit. What do I know? I let my attorney do the math when he drafted the contract, but after hearing Paula's story about how she ended up in the market for a sugar daddy to begin with I realize we were assuming providing a comfortable living for someone who would be coming into the arrangement without existing debt.
This time Paula's laugh is wry, devoid of the nervous self consciousness that has laced her giggles through most of our evening.
"No. I definitely don't have any credit card debt or loan payments anymore," she says dryly as we wait for our car to circle around to pick us up, "all that stuff got defaulted on. I'm nothing but collection accounts and bad credit now."
Our driver holds the door open for us and I wait while Paula ducks her head and slides across the rear seat of the limo.
Giving our d
river directions to drop Paula at her place first, I slide in beside her and watch her rest her hands in her lap.
After an evening of laughter and easy conversation, Paula's gone quiet and I'm not sure what to say.
"Well I think part of the allure of this type of relationship for most women is supposed to be that they can spend their days on the beach or the salon, not working," I tell her. "I may not have a lot of experience with this sugar daddy thing, but I'm pretty sure you shouldn't have to work."
The light returns to Paula's eyes and her lips curl back upward as she looks at me.
I could kiss her right now. She's sitting right next to me and looking me in the eyes and all it would take is for me to lean in-- and down-- a few inches and I'd finally get a taste of that lipstick.
"It's not money," she says, "I just really miss the bakery. I thought maybe I could find something part time just for fun. Otherwise I have to find someone to eat a dozen cupcakes every day."
"Well I'm not saying I'm not up to the task, but it'd probably be better if you worked in a bakery then." I pat my stomach and laugh as the car pulls up to the building where Paula's apartment is.
The driver opens the door and I get out and wait for Paula.
Of course I walk her to her door and wait while she unlocks the deadbolt.
"I had a wonderful night, Mist--- Brighton."
She steps over the threshold but keeps the door open.
This feels like a date. Like she's waiting for a good night kiss.
Or maybe that's just me wishing it was a date because I want to kiss her good night.
"Do I need to check with you before I go shopping?"
Business.
Reminding me that she accepted my proposal because I promised there was no expectation of kissing, good night or otherwise.
"No." I straighten my posture and manage a smile that's meant to be purely platonic, "Just arrange that with the shopper and they'll take care of the rest. They have a list of all the special occasion wear you'll need and know what to get. Everything else is up to you."
"OK, great." Paula's eyes twinkle and then she stifles a yawn, "Thank you again, Brighton--" she says my name purposefully, "I really did have a great time, it was nice to meet you in person finally."
Dipping a Toe in Sugar Page 3
