Dipping a Toe in Sugar

by Rocklyn Ryder

  "Wait a second," I tell her, as I realize there's a tiny clasp still preventing the dress from falling free from her body.

  It's a tiny clasp, embedded in the seams of the fabric to keep it from being noticed, and I have to use both hands to get a proper hold on it without damaging it.

  My knuckles graze Paula's skin lightly as I take hold of the material and I watch a wave of tiny goosebumps break out across her bare shoulders.

  A quiet gasp accompanies the shiver that moves down her spine and it's like that shiver goes straight to my dick, causing it to pulse with need as it strains against my fly.

  I can't help but let my touch linger, even as the clasp comes free and her dress loosens around her body.

  I'm sure it's only a fraction of a second that my hands open up and my fingertips lay against her bare flesh.

  Merely a fleeting breath's worth of time that I indulge in her warmth before she'll be gone, holding the dress up to cover her breasts as she heads back to her changing room and leaving me with nothing but the scent of her perfume on my fingertips and a hell of a hard-on to contend with on my own.

  Paula doesn't move.

  She doesn't hurry back to her room with her dress clutched against her.

  She stands still and lets my fingers brush along her shoulder blades while crimson rises up the back of her neck and her breathing goes shallow.

  As if she's waiting for me to finish something.

  Paula

  I didn't think anything of it when I asked. I just needed help getting the dress undone so I could get ready for bed.

  Then Brighton was touching me. And not the way I was prepared for.

  I feel the dress give way around me as he gets the clasp I'd forgotten about free. My hands are ready to catch the fabric before it falls away and makes things awkward but then I forget that I'm trying not to make things awkward.

  Or maybe it's Brighton that forgets.

  Because once I feel his hands running over the exposed skin of my back, there's nothing for me to do but stand and wait and hope that he never stops.

  His fingers trace along my shoulder blades and down the length of my spine, sending shivers through me that feel like tiny sparks working to light a fire deep inside me.

  My nipples harden under the loose fabric of the dress that I'm only managing to barely keep loosely held up with trembling hands.

  I feel a warm fingertip slide back up my spine and along my neck. It tickles a little but not enough to make me laugh. I can't even think of laughing when I can barely breathe.

  Thoughts of escaping back to the privacy of my separate room get muddled with hope that his fingers will reverse their direction and explore below the open back of my dress.

  Then Brighton's fingers are in my hair, combing backwards till they catch in the tangled curls that I haven't brushed out yet.

  His fingers come to a rest in the knots and my breath rests with them. It's like I think if I hold my breath, I can keep the spell from being broken.

  But there's a change in the air around us. That sizzle of electricity has suddenly gone still and I know he's made a decision in that moment that his fingers caught in my hair.

  Just as I take a step away from his touch, trying to keep my cool and not break into a dead run back to my room where I can hide from his rejection-- those fingers that haven't left my hair yet tighten into a fist that locks the back of my head against his hand and then...then everything is spinning and crashing and his lips taste like the lavendar-infused vodka that the martinis were made with, a hint of cigar from early in the evening, and that unique flavor of him I've been anticipating since that night at the museum.

  I hardly notice how tightly he's gripping my hair. He can pull it all out for all I care right now. I only care that he's kissing me. That it isn't a shy or hesitant kiss filled with insecurity or apology.

  Oh no, this is the kiss I've been waiting for-- maybe for my whole life-- and maybe when we come up for air, Brighton will remember he didn't want to complicate our sugar baby agreement with sex and I'll be forced to spend the night alone in my bed deciding if that's for the best in the long run; but right now, I'm living out a fantasy that's been burning me up for weeks and I'm not going to waste any of it second guessing myself or worrying about consequences.

  I'm branding the feel of Brighton's stubble against my chin into my memory, the feel of his suit under my palms as my hands land on his chest, the feel of his silk shirt as my hands slide under his jacket, the feel of his chest and the beat of his heart as I fight the urge to start undressing him, still convinced that it's a kiss and only a kiss.

  Then his hand loosens in my hair and I worry the moment is about to be lost.

  I'm afraid to open my eyes. I'm in total denial about the reality of this situation, preferring to hope against reason that he's not about to send me to my room alone.

  And he doesn't.

  His mouth moves hungrily down my throat and his hands press me firmly against him as they move down my back, deftly pushing away the undone dress where it blocks him from my bare skin until finally he manages to pull it out from between us with one impatient tug when he reaches the place where he can no longer part the open zipper.

  I gasp against his mouth as I feel it pulled off my breasts, suddenly aware that only the miniature triangle of black lace and strip of elastic pretending to be underwear is preventing me from being entirely naked in front of Brighton.

  A new blanket of goose flesh covers all the bare skin that's exposed and I can't claim it's because it's cold in here.

  Quite the opposite, I'm burning up as Brighton's fingers slip under the T-strap at the back of the little thong undies and I feel his thumb gently tracing the edge of the metal heart that holds it together.

  "I like this," he whispers against my cheek as he kisses toward my ear, "were you expecting to show it off tonight?"

  He taps lightly on the decorative thong but doesn't wait for me to answer. He just slips it over the back of his hand and cups my ass in his palm.

  I feel his fingers slide between my legs and rub against the spot that's been dripping wet for him since he first touched me.

  My fingers finally give in to their ache to unbutton his shirt. I'm pretty sure it's OK now, seeing as how he's got his hand between my legs and his fingers are sliding between my pussy lips while I stifle my urge to squirm and beg him for so much more.

  We stand together like this for what seems like a long time; his fingers exploring my sex softly, my hands finally beneath his shirt and full of the hard muscle and warm flesh they find there, our mouths working against each other as if we're looking for excuses to avoid discussing this.

  And then he moves, taking me with him.

  The thick carpet of the luxury hotel suite isn't between my toes anymore as I'm swept off the floor and into Brighton's arms before feeling the coolness of high thread-count cotton as I sink into the duvet on Brighton's California king size bed.

  Suddenly this feels very real.

  "Open your legs," Brighton's voice is thick as he gives his command and I hesitate to obey.

  He kneels between my own knees, pulling his jacket and shirt off in such a rush that the last button that I'd left done goes flying across the room.

  "Now." His hand taps my knee where it's resting against his hip and then his hands move to grip my thighs, his thumbs pressing into tender flesh as he pushes his way further between my legs and lowers his mouth to taste me.

  The thong isn't just gone, it's destroyed as the delicate elastic surrenders to Brighton's efforts to move it aside and then there's nothing left for me to do but surrender as well.

  My head falls back and now it's my own hands tangled in my hair as I decide whether to moan or scream while Brighton proves that I need to give him more credit when I fantasize about him.

  Brighton

  Her hair felt like silk, her mouth tasted like honey, but her cunt tastes like heaven.

  My cock aches for a taste o
f his own but I haven't drunk my fill yet. Not when every stroke along her satin folds reduces Paula to a writhing mass tangled in my bed sheets. When her soft gasps and low moans fill the room with the music of her pleasure as her sensitive body coats my tongue with her need.

  Rational thought went out the window when I unzipped her dress. I'd been imagining what her skin would feel like for too long and even the most innocent touch was asking too much of me.

  I should have known sharing the room was a bad idea. Even if it is a suite with separate bedrooms.

  Hell, maybe I did know. Maybe I've been plotting ways to get Paula's legs wrapped around my face for months now.

  All I know is that's the position I'm in right now and if I wasn't subconsciously planning this-- my subconscious is a fool.

  I inhale the perfume of Paula's musk as I trace my finger along the outer edges of her labia. She makes a soft noise, muffled by the comforter that she's pulled against her face. Her body moves, her hips swiveling slightly, following my touch.

  When I slip a finger inside her, the wet heat of her walls closes around the digit tightly. I have to grit my teeth, willing myself not to rip through my pants, my boxers, my own damn skin if necessary, just to throw my throbbing dick inside her as far as I can. Anything to satisfy the need to feel her on me.

  With a lot of effort, I manage to keep my control. Right now, I'm far more interested in finding out if Paula's soft moans and quiet gasps will turn to screams when she's too busy coming undone to think about making too much noise.

  My free hand grips her thigh at the hinge of her hip and I give her what she needs. My finger slides deeper and I stroke the front wall of her channel while I lock my mouth over her clit.

  Paul begins to unravel for me as I flick the tip of my tongue across her swollen button, and when then I lightly suckle at it, increasing my pressure while her hips buck against my face and her muffled moans turn to desperate cries echoing off the walls.

  Her thighs tighten against my shoulders and I hold her there, doing my damnedest to prolong her pleasure just to torture myself a little more.

  When her body relaxes and her breathing changes from ragged cries of ecstasy to the hard panting of recovery, I begin kissing again. Gently at first, learning her body and her level of desire.

  Will she be ready for more right away? Is she one of those women who need to rest first?

  I test her with the press of my tongue against her clit and can't help but smile when she jumps. Then she settles against my pressure and begins to move again, her fingers landing in my hair.

  Looks like my Paula is the kind of woman who recovers fast, the sort that isn't finished until she's had a hard cock filling her up.

  She mumbles something and tugs at me, lightly at first and then more insistently, drawing me up her body and spreading those delicious thighs to make room for my hips.

  "Brighton," her voice is foggy with lust, the lips of her mouth every bit as swollen and pink and the ones I just left, "tell me you're going to fuck me now."

  She's a sight to behold; her hair is a golden storm partially concealing her face, her eyes are heavily lidded at they watch me move into position above her, her lips parted and full as her breath grows quick again.

  "I need to feel you inside me," she whispers hoarsely as she looks up at me through fluttering eyelashes.

  It's enough to put me over the edge but I'll be damned if I'm going to come as soon as I feel her silky sheath as it begins to pull me in.

  "You bet I'm going to fuck you, Baby."

  Her hands reach for my shoulders and her nails dig in.

  Watching her eyes close and her mouth fall open in a silent O, has my own breath coming ragged and sharp. The sensation of her smooth walls pulsing around my shaft drives me beyond reason.

  Paula cries out in a startled gasp when I lose my control, driving the rest of my length into her body in one sudden thrust that takes both our breaths away.

  I want to stay still and hold her tight to me. I want to give her time to adjust to having me inside her while I savor the feel of her nakedness pressed against mine from head to toe.

  Seconds is all I can spare for that this time. I have to move. I have to feel her tightness pulsing around me. I have to fuck her fast and hard this time, hoping that it's enough to take away some of the tension that's been building inside me so I can fuck her slow and tender later.

  Paula seems to be on the same page. Her hips rise up and her rhythm meets mine thrust for thrust. Her voice rises in the song of her pleasure and those filthy sweet demands she was making of me a moment ago are reduced to a few grunts that mirror my own.

  I feel her grip tighten and her body works frantically against mine, setting it's own pace. And then she's coming apart all over me, on me, against me...with me.

  Our shared moment takes us someplace I've never been before and as I spill into her deepest place it feels like I've found something I never knew I was looking for.

  Collapsing together finally, Paula curls against me without any more words, laying beside me, her hair across her features in sweaty strands. Her eyes flutter up to mine briefly and a shy smile teases the corners of her lips.

  It looks like she's going to say something but then her eyes are closed and her breathing goes soft and deep.

  In that moment, with nothing between us but the cooling sweat of our lovemaking, wearing nothing but the dim light of the lamps we'd turned on when we got back to the room, as I gently draw my fingers down her bare arm and along the curve of her hip, I know.

  Paula can't be my sugar baby any more.

  Paula

  I never should have let it happen.

  The rest of that weekend in New York was like a fairy tale. Brighton took me to all the places in the city that I'd seen on TV. I got to see a Broadway play and the Statue of Liberty and we ate in so many tiny hole-in-the-wall family restaurants I fell in love with the city.

  Or maybe it was just Brighton.

  Looking back, I realize what an idiot I was being. Thinking something new had begun between us when, obviously, everything I had was ending instead.

  At least I got to go out with a bang.

  I keep telling myself it's for the best. I mean really, how long could I have gone on doing the sugar baby thing at this age? I got what I needed from it-- a chance to start over.

  The fact that I got to live in this luxury beach front condo and wear designer gowns to exclusive events while I did it? That's not something every girl gets to do. Those memories are going to last me a life time.

  Just like my memories of Brighton Ford.

  And not just the memories of the way our bodies fit together like they were made for each other.

  I stand up from my packing and suck in a lungful of air. Nope. Not gonna cry. No more tears for Brighton or for the way he ended it.

  I knew better. He made it clear when we signed our agreement that he was not looking for a girlfriend. No mistress. No "hooker on retainer." Certainly not a wife.

  We crossed a line and I shouldn't be surprised that it meant the end of the arrangement.

  I'm just lucky as hell I saved up enough money to afford to get my own place, double deposit and all since my credit is still in the gutter, and nothing even remotely as nice as the condo, but still-- with the money I've been saving up and the extra hours my boss gave me at the bakery when I explained that the "friend" who'd been letting me use his beach house had decided to rent it out, I can afford to stay in LA. I'll be able to keep my job at the bakery, and stay in school and finish at least a 2 year degree.

  Maybe in a couple of years I'll decide to move somewhere else and open my own shop again. Or maybe I'll stay in So. Cal. and open something in one of the up and coming artsy neighborhoods I discovered when Brighton took me treasure hunting in all those hidden junk stores.

  Who knows?

  Maybe I'll stay until Andy's ready to retire and I'll just take over the bakery I'm at now.

  The condo i
s almost packed up, I should be able to have it cleaned and ready to turn the keys back in to Brighton's manager by the end of the day.

  Taking a break from my packing, I head out to the second floor patio and enjoy the view of the ocean and the beach life that's become part of my daily routine over the last several months. I'll miss the condo...but not as much as I'll miss Brighton.

  I just didn't expect him to ghost me.

  Gnawing on my lower lip as I watch people roller skating by in cut off shorts and bikinis, I can't help but dwell on it a little longer.

  Not that I haven't been dwelling on it plenty enough for the last couple of weeks since we got back from New York and he went MIA on me.

  It's not like we had one, drunken hook up and pretended it never happened. And I sure as hell didn't hit him with any ultimatums or demands for explanations or definitions.

  Hell! I didn't even insist that we needed to renegotiate the terms of our sugar daddy thing and try to get more money from him if we were going to end up having a sexual relationship after all!

  Nope.

  I woke up in his arms that next morning and we made slow, tender love before sharing a shower and doing it all again.

  We spent 3 more days in the city holding hands and kissing on sidewalks while we waited for lattes.

  Brighton talked about places he wanted to take me-- to Paris and Italy.

  He talked like we had a future together.

  And then we got back to LA and the last thing I heard from him was that he had something he needed to discuss with me.

  Silly me, daring to hope that meant sharing his home. Maybe giving up the sugar baby thing to explore the possibility that we had a real connection. That maybe we might be destined for something more.

  Last I heard from him wasn't from him at all. Just a message from the office that manages his rental properties, asking if I would be able to move out by the end of the month because they already had a new tenant approved for the condo.