The random thought pops into my head at the most inappropriate time, making my mouth tingle with the threat of a chuckle.
Instead, I manage to suppress a poorly timed laugh but the attempt causes my lips to pop open slightly in a silent admonishment to myself.
I swear this moment is dragging on forever. I have time for 17 more random and disconnected thoughts to pop in my brain, going off in tiny internal dialogue bubbles floating and popping inside my skull.
My head tilts back, instinctively aligning my lips to his even with enough inches between us still that I can try to convince myself this isn't happening.
He stipulated no sex in the contract.
He isn't looking for a romantic relationship.
Oh. My. God. He's so fucking gorgeous and he's going to kiss me.
I think.
Our eyes are still locked, but he's closing the distance. Should I close my eyes now?
Is he really going to kiss me?
I feel his hand against my hip. Light and careful, like he's not sure if it's OK if he's touching me there.
It is so OK.
I'm pretty sure I'm not imagining this.
He's going to kiss me.
I'm pretty sure it's safe to close my eyes now.
Music swells around us. Fireworks go off in the distance.
Wow. He hasn't even kissed me yet.
The sound of a lot of people all talking and laughing at once pours into the silence that had enveloped us.
Suddenly my eyes are fully open and my wine glass is back in my hand as Brighton stands straight and serious beside me, straightening his tie.
We're not alone anymore.
Not just not alone, but suddenly surrounded by approximately 300 people in formal wear, pressing against the railing we're standing by, "oohing" and "ahhing" as the sky lights up with the fireworks display intended just for the event.
I sip my Champagne and smooth the rhinestone-encrusted material of the gown over my stomach, hoping to settle the butterflies inside.
"Watermelon."
It's a whisper in my ear, soft and quiet and carrying a hint of laughter and somehow managing to be the sexiest thing I've ever heard in my life.
Brighton
Maybe it's a good thing the fireworks started when they did.
Maybe kissing Paula would have been the best experience of my life.
Maybe there's something there beyond mere sexual attraction.
Maybe getting interrupted was the worst thing that could have happened.
Maybe I'll never know.
Maybe I should stop obsessing over the maybes and the what ifs and get some fucking work done.
I go back to the online catalog and try to focus on the listings for the items in the upcoming auction. I have a client who has me on the look out for anything by some obscure Romanian sculptor that I'd never heard of till he sent me the email with his request and the price he's willing to pay.
If I can find something, the commission will be worth the work.
It's hard to concentrate on the endless list of paintings and sculptures and exotic artifacts scrolling by on the screen in front of me.
All I think about is Paula.
It's been 2 weeks and all I've thought about is Paula.
I want to call her and ask her to come to dinner with me but it's not on the itinerary. I promised her I would give her notice before any event that I need her to attend with me so she can do what she needs to do to make her personal life work with my requirements.
She's got a job now. Just a little part time gig at some bakery in Santa Monica, but it's what she loves and it makes her feel less dependent on my money.
And she's taking some college classes too. Trying to learn how to handle her finances so she doesn't end up in the same place she was when I found her.
That's what she tells me and I support her all the way.
It kills me to think of her in the situation she was in when I found her profile on the Sugarmesweet site.
I know I can be selfish and I'm sure there are plenty of exes that would testify that I'm a grade A douche bag, but I can't imagine screwing a woman I ever claimed to care about out of everything she had like Paula's ex did.
There I go, thinking about her again. Thinking about her losing her business and ending up homeless.
It kills me. It makes me want to hunt down the asshole who took it all away from her and give him a piece of my mind-- with my fist.
It makes me want to take better care of her. Paula's not just a spoiled princess that needs a sugar daddy to make up for her lack of life skills-- she was at rock bottom from what she describes to me.
She deserves better.
She deserves the whole world.
I realize I've scrolled all the way through the catalogs of 4 auction houses. If there was anything by Olos in them, I missed it.
Fortunately, there's no rush on finding this piece.
Instead of starting a new-- and obviously futile-- search, I open my calendar.
There's nothing on the schedule that involves Paula until next month.
Counting the weeks till I get to see her again, I feel my forehead crease.
Our next event is the New York opening and Chloe's party-- the invitation to which came with a long winded explanation that the event had to be pushed back this year to accommodate an impromptu trip to Japan.
It's just over 4 weeks from now.
How am I supposed to go that long without seeing her?
My fingers itch to call Paula but I did promised that I wouldn't interfere with her personal life and that I'd always give her ample notice before I needed her for anything.
On the other hand, I also promised her that I didn't want any sort of romantic or sexual relationship with her.
Maybe I shouldn't call her after all. It would only make things awkward if we crossed that line. We have an agreement. Strictly professional.
Although, she has turned out to be a good friend.
Friends can have dinner together, can't they?
With a heavy sigh, I put the phone back down.
Yes, friends can have dinner but let's face it, I don't want to be friends with Paula. I want to find out how that kiss would have gone...where it would have gone.
It's one thing to lie to myself about my intentions. It's another thing to lie to her.
Nothing sexual.
It's in the contract and that's what Paula agreed to. I can't take advantage of her if she gets caught up in the moment when we're standing on a balcony in the moonlight at a star-studded, black tie charity event.
That's a set up for any woman, I'm sure. Total Cinderella shit.
Taking advantage of that would be a dick move.
Opening another auction site, I start my fruitless search for an Olos piece, trying to take my mind off my dick and any moves he's thinking of making.
Paula
After the charity thing at the museum last month, I thought for sure-- well...OK, I guess I hoped-- that Brighton would finish what he started on that balcony.
I waited for it nervously while we rode home in the limo in awkward silence. I waited nervously while he walked me to my door. I waited nervously for the phone to ring with some bullshit excuse to see me before this weekend's trip to New York.
It never happened.
Maybe I read him all wrong. I mean, he was going to kiss me. There's no doubt that's what was about to happen.
At least, I'm pretty sure that's what was happening.
No. That's definitely what was happening.
Ugh!
I spent the last 6 weeks driving myself crazy over it, imagining what it would have been like to kiss him. Would it have been soft and gentle? Or would it have been deep and passionate? Would his arms have wrapped around me, hands groping, fingers pressing? Would it have gotten hot and sweaty and gasping for breath as we collided and fumbled?
Whew...I have to steady myself against the bathroom counter and breathe for a
moment. This is no time to start down this path-- again. I don't have time to climb back in the shower or search for my vibrator in my luggage-- which I totally would never ordinarily take on a trip like this, but ever since that night at the museum, I've been doing my best to wear the thing out.
Now is not the time though.
Right now, I have to dry my hair, do my makeup, get dressed, and be ready to meet Brighton in the lobby so we can go to Chloe's soiree tonight.
I've never been to a party that anyone referred to as a "soiree" seriously, but apparently this Chloe woman is the type of person who throws them.
Brighton says her party is a big deal and that he's been trying to secure a solid business relationship with her for years.
He warned me to be on my best behavior tonight.
I assume that means no getting distracted.
And no kissing my sugar daddy.
"...and don't be put off by Chloe," Brighton tells me for about the 17th time as he taps lightly on the door, "she's harmless--"
The door swings open with all the flourish one would expect from anyone that looks like the person greeting us from the doorway does.
"Mostly."
I hear Brighton mumble just before he disappears into a cloud of cleavage, feathers, and multi-colored lame.
"Mister, you are looking fine tonight!"
I assume this is the notorious Chloe I've been warned about throughout our 24 block cab ride, the 6 hour flight to New York, and periodically throughout the last couple of weeks since Brighton added it to my calendar with an email that made it very clear that my attendance was non-negotiable.
Brighton pulls himself free with a cough and a sputter while I wait patiently, still on the hallway side of the threshold of the 3rd floor of the industrial building-turned-apartments in what I assume is the type of up and coming renovated neighborhoods of New York that peons like me only hear about on TV.
Or maybe it really is just an old storage warehouse on a bad side of town.
It's hard to tell from this side of the door.
"Oooooh!"
Next thing I know I'm choking on feathers myself as I'm pulled into an overly familiar bearhug of my own.
"You must be Brighton's new toy, doll!" I feel myself being gripped by my shoulders and held back while I gasp for air. "He told me he was bringing someone 'special,' but you are not what I was expecting!"
I don't know if I just got called Brighton's "toy doll" or if I'm Brighton's "toy" and Chloe's "doll."
My head bobbles in what I think is Brighton's general direction while I'm being spun around and given a thorough once over-- maybe twice over.
"This is my friend, Paula," I can hear the amusement in Brighton's voice, "Paula, this is Chloe."
Once I'm finally released from Chloe's grip, Brighton reaches out and gives me his arm as if he knows all too well how dizzy I am from our hostess's greeting.
"Mmm," Chloe rocks back on her hip and gives Brighton a skeptical eye, "sure, 'friend,' whatever you say, Doll."
Her gaze lands on me with a wink of one expertly-applied, theatrically-long fake-eyelashed eye-- her eyelashes appear to be made out of purple foil-- and she shoots a quick smirk at me as if Brighton isn't even there.
"Well, you are an improvement over that hot mess he brought to my little soiree last season. Let's get you a drink and get you talking, Doll."
Suddenly I'm being whisked across a large, open floor plan toward the bar while Chloe names off everyone we pass along our way- along with a brief mention of how she knows them, and why they were deemed worthy of this season's guest list.
Brighton follows us, stopping to meet and greet people along the way, until he finds me a few minutes later with a purple martini in my hand while I listen to a handsome man in a tuxedo made out of peacock feathers tell me about swimming with penguins in Argentina.
Chloe slows her fluttering to go give Brighton more attention than he'd like, which is obvious from the way I see his left hand flex into and out of a loose fist-- something I notice he does when he's uncomfortable.
I stay put in my chair and listen idly to Marlan's absurd penguin story while I watch Chloe flirt shamelessly with my date.
Her skin is the sort of perfect that I'd have sold my soul for when I was a teenager and her perfectly contoured and blended makeup matches the light brown hue of her skin. Her accent is so New York, I couldn't begin to guess at her ethnicity-- I just know she's the color of my caramel lattes and insanely gorgeous.
With the shoes, she's slightly taller than Brighton, probably about 5 foot 10 before adding 5 more inches of high heels.
Her hair is hanging waist long and platinum blonde with a hint of cotton candy pink at the ends. I suspect it's a wig, but if it is, it's a good one.
Her hand glides down Brighton's arm and she whispers something in his ear, giving me a wink as she does it.
She's acting like they're closer than Brighton says they are. Touching him like they know each other better than they do.
Trying to make me jealous, I think.
Brighton watches me nervously and I realize he's not as much uncomfortable with Chloe's antics as he is worried about how I'll react to them.
It's hard to stifle the laughter that threatens to interrupt Marlan's story as I raise my glass in a quiet gesture to let him know it's perfectly fine if he needs to leave me here while he and Chloe sneak off to conclude whatever business they have to take care of privately.
I'm not his "toy doll" and, after all I happen to find penguins absolutely fascinating.
Brighton
"You told her."
Chloe pouts and slaps my arm with her hand as we climb the stairs to the roof.
"I should have known you'd take all the fun out of it after last season. I really don't blame you, you know."
It's only 2 more floors up and she hits me again as I hold the door open and we step out into the cool, night air.
"I swear I did not tell her, Chloe," I promise.
"Well she is a doll," Chloe insists, "anyone who can sit through that boring ass penguin story on their first drink should be nominated for sainthood."
Sifting through my jacket pocket for the lighter I knew I'd need tonight, I flick the flint roller and wait till Chloe lights her cigarette.
"All right, Chlo, what's it gonna take?" I hit her with business before she can go off on another tangent.
She's excellent at what she does, and landing an account with her would introduce me to an entirely new level of clientele, but Chloe is nothing if not easily distracted.
"You and Chloe were gone for a long time."
Paula's voice is soft and sounds a little tired, reminding me that it's nearly 4 in the morning when we make our way back to our hotel.
"I didn't think you'd notice," I tease back, "you were so interested in Marlan's penguin escapades, I figured I had time to slip away."
"You sound jealous." Paula's voice grows playful as the elevator reaches our floor and I can't help but laugh with her.
"Well, I can't compete with a 70 year old man in a peacock feather suit now, can I?"
Paula giggles. "No. You cannot," she agrees as I tap the key card against the pad, "and I figured I might as well start looking for a new sugar daddy," she shrugs as I wait for her to go ahead of me into the large suite we're sharing, "after all, how am I supposed to compete with a smoking hot drag queen?"
"When did you figure it out?"
I'm wondering who told her. Chloe doesn't out herself to just anyone and most people are shocked when they find out she's not all woman.
Paula stops shy of the door to her separate room and turns to look over her shoulder at me in a way that screams "duh."
Her hand is placed on the door jam as she kicks off her heels, and the lamp on the nightstand in her room frames her in warm gold light that reflects off the sequins in her black cocktail dress.
"The Adams apple does kinda give her away," Paula says with a smirk as she moves farther
into her room and starts sliding her stockings off. "And the only women I've ever known who could pull off makeup that dramatic without looking like drag queens...have been drag queens."
I laugh, but I'm not interested in talking about Chloe any more.
My eyes follow Paula until she disappears around the corner, into the enclave where her closet is, out of my sight.
There was a point in our relationship when I would have been relieved to know we'd end up being friends, that we would ever feel comfortable enough with each other to share a hotel room-- even if it is a suite with separate bedrooms, that Paula would feel safe enough with me to casually start the process of disrobing without closing and locking her door first.
It's just her shoes and stockings, I tell myself. It's not like she's dropping that slinky little black dress in a puddle around her ankles and standing in front of me in nothing but her bra and panties.
Leave it to my inner monologue to make things worse.
My cock rises to full attention, as if he's doing his best to get a look around the wall of her room.
"Hey, Brighton," her voice echoes slightly off the marble counters of her room's vanity, "can you help me?"
The featured cocktail of tonight's party was a lavender martini and I had my share of them, but I wasn't feeling the slightest bit affected until Paula appears in her doorway again.
She's pulled the clips out of her hair and her blonde bob is all random waves softly skimming her shoulders. Her make up is still done, but her jewelry is gone, and she makes her way toward me with one hand twisted up around her back awkwardly.
"I can't get this."
She turns around so her back is toward me and I see her delicate fingers tugging at the zipper of her dress.
"Oh, sure, here."
My fingers tremble as they reach for the tiny pull that lowers her zipper.
She's not wearing a bra. That's plain to see as the fabric parts to reveal the curve of her spine and the smooth skin that covers it.
But the dress doesn't fall lax from the narrow straps holding it up.
Dipping a Toe in Sugar Page 5
