I’m meeting him tonight.
Should I call it off?
My thumb hovers over AlphaCEO’s profile, but then I’m distracted.
“Nicole! Carrie?” comes a yelp. It’s Rhonda. I leap into motion, putting my phone away and striding into the living room.
From the redness of my mother’s eyes and the sway in my father’s walk, I can tell they’re both somewhere else mentally.
But the issues are too pressing, they can’t wait.
“Mom, are we being evicted?” I ask from behind the door, head peering out. Because right now, I’m decked out in a black cocktail dress, the nicest thing in her closet.
“Oh, Carrie, stop worrying about everything,” my mom slurs.
“I paid that lady in March!” my dad grumps, falling into a seat at the dining table before slumping over bonelessly.
“It’s July now,” I whisper. “It’s July and the last time you paid rent was March?”
Unfortunately, none of this seems to register. So my parents are behind on rent, that’s nothing new. I already know what’s going to happen. The eviction notice came. The sheriff’s gonna show up at the door, and we’ll have to move. We’ll gather what we can and pack it into the little hatchback, cruising the streets for a cheaper place. And then it’ll happen again, a nightmare that never ends. We’re always in search of cheaper digs. It’s happened so many times already.
But Rhonda and Jim are passed out already, my mom on the couch and Jim slumped before the table. Problems, what problems? There’s only the dazed blur of alcohol, the reek of booze on their breaths.
So I get desperate. I have to do this. I have to meet AlphaCEO to work something out. It’s not an option anymore, it’s a requirement seeing that Rhonda and Jim are totally useless.
And taking one last look in the mirror, I gasp. Because it’s me, but not me. My dress pushes my boobs up so they look even bigger, like heavy sacks of cream. Twisting to the side, my ass sits up in the tight fabric, thick thighs smushed together, juicy and ripe.
By contrast, my face is natural and almost bare. I’ve yet to learn to do much with cosmetics, so it’s just lipgloss and mascara for me. Plus, my hair. Oh god, my hair. The brown curls wave around my shoulders and I fluff them out. Stay, I command. Stay nice. I mean it.
The buzz of my phone cuts into the reverie.
He’s outside.
The driver’s outside, at least. Who knows if AlphaCEO is actually there. He’s probably too busy to actually meet me himself.
And quietly, I tip toe through the living area and make my way out the front door.
The few steps between our stoop and the big world seems to take ages, and anxiety builds in my belly. But there’s a limo idling by the curb, black and sleek, the windows tinted. It looks totally out of place. Where I live, the sidewalk is grimy and cracked, the buildings faded and sagging. So to see a limo was as alien as seeing an elephant in the middle of a bustling city.
Go, the voice in my head commands as I dawdle by the door. Go, this is a real opportunity.
And with hesitant steps, I trip outside. An old man jumps out then, bowing.
“Miss Newman?” he asks with a friendly smile, like this isn’t weird at all. “I’m Milo your driver,” he says, opening the door courteously.
When’s the last time someone opened a door for me? Like never. So I ease inside, making sure to keep my legs as together as possible. Because I didn’t wear panties tonight. The telltale lines were too obvious standing before the mirror, so it’s commando, fresh and bare.
But Milo has no idea. He closes the door behind me, easing the car away from the curb and then we’re off.
I lean back on the plush leather seats, marveling at the luxury. The limo is amazing, a small vase of fresh flowers on the side, a bottle of champagne sweating in a cooler. But I’m not touching that stuff, not now, no way. I’m already amped up so high, adding alcohol would be a terrible idea.
So instead, I talk.
“Um, Milo?” I ask, trying to meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. “Where are we going?”
He chuckles.
“Mr. Channing asked me to take you to Rare. Have you heard of it before? Best steak joint in the city.”
I gasp. It’s more than just the best steak joint. It’s fancy, real fancy, the President dined there the last time he was in town. So I nod, trying to catch my breath, my dress uncomfortably tight.
But Milo continues cheerily, totally oblivious.
“Mr. Channing is a VIP there,” he says merrily. “They love him, and the food is real good. You see, the chauffeurs dine in back,” he confides with a wink. “So while you’re eating steak, I’m getting my fill too.”
That makes sense. I heard that fancy restaurants and hotels sometimes have a back area where the help can dine. Otherwise, drivers and the like have no way to get food while their bosses are having a three-hour dinner.
So I nod again.
“Thanks,” I murmur. “Thanks so much,” I say, clutching my purse tight.
And the city whizzes by quickly, big buildings illuminated, the sidewalks slowly morphing from the saggy bodegas of my neighborhood to Fifth Avenue designer shops. I stare, heart pounding, but the voice in my head speaks again.
Calm, it soothes. You can do this, you can do this.
And I force myself to calm down. So AlphaCEO is rich. I knew that already. Any guy on the Sugar Babiez site has to be rich. So that’s nothing new, and I shouldn’t let it get to me.
The limo finally pulls up at the curb of Rare, and Milo rushes around to help me get out.
“Here you go,” he says merrily, bowing and gesturing to the front door. “It’s been a pleasure driving you!”
I almost want him to stay, but that’d do no good. So intead, I stare up at the awning, a red and green stripe with subtle gold woven throughout. The cold city wind ruffles my hair, even blowing slightly against the bareness of my thighs.
Calm, the voice says again. You can do this.
And straightening my shoulders, I walk into the restaurant.
“Hello,” I say in a calm tone. “Here for Mr. Channing?” Thank god Milo used AlphaCEO’s name in the car, otherwise I’d have to fumble rudely, looking around for someone who fit his description. And immediately, the hostess jumps to attention.
“Certainly,” she says, bowing her sleek brown head. “Mr. Channing is already here, let me show you to the table.”
I follow her, nervous on trembling legs. But I have to go through with this. I have to make this work.
And I’m led to a room in back, something that’s set apart from the main dining area.
“I’m sorry?” I ask dumbly, staring at the closed door. “Is this …?”
The hostess smiles again, gesturing with her hand.
“Yes, Mr. Channing asked for a reserved space. It’s only available for VIPs,” she confides, leaning forwards to open the door. “Now, please enjoy.”
And I step inside, knees shaking nervously. Because the time has come. I’m here to meet a man whose picture I haven’t seen. That’s right. Although potential “babies” are required to post their photos on the website, “daddies” don’t have to post theirs. So Mr. Channing could be a disgusting troll, two feet tall with warts, and I’d have to smile. I’d have to play nice, and pretend that I was charmed, attracted even.
But as the door closes, the man who gets up from the table takes my breath away. Because he’s gorgeous. At least six four, the alpha has broad shoulders tapering to a vee, with thick thighs and long, powerful arms. All this is accentuated by the perfectly-cut suit hanging from his frame.
“Carrie, it’s nice to meet you,” comes that male drawl, and I almost melt. Because his voice is dark honey, flowing over my soul, a sensuous frisson between my legs. And to my shame, my body begins to course. Just like that, fire ignites in my veins, heat gushing to my pussy.
“Hello,” I stammer, barely able to meet those penetrating blue eyes. “Hello, Mr. Channing
.”
And he grins then, nostrils flaring. Oh god, can he smell the musky cunt aroma that’s rising between us? My flow is heavy, I know, and I curse myself for not wearing underwear. But the big man merely grins again, gesturing to me to take a seat.
“Make yourself comfortable,” comes that deep rumble. “Let’s get to know each other.”
And with that, I give in. Within two minutes of meeting this man, I already know the answer.
Yes, I want to be your sugar baby.
Yes, I want to know you.
Yes, take me, Mr. Channing, I’m yours.
Because this alpha male is the most commanding, charismatic and compelling man I’ve ever met … and I can’t wait for more.
CHAPTER FOUR
Carrie
I’m nervous, but try not to show it. Lowering myself into a chair, I sit across from the devastating billionaire, taking short, shallow breaths.
Calm down, soothes the voice in my head again. Calm down.
But how? The restaurant’s overwhelming, literally the nicest one I’ve ever been to. A private limo drove me here. And now, I’m alone with a gorgeous, dominating man in an elegantly appointed room, the restaurant staff waiting to do our bidding. How can I not be nervous?
But Mr. Channing is cool as a cucumber. Picking up a red, leather-bound menu, he glances at it perfunctorily.
“Pick whatever you like,” comes his smooth growl. “Anything at all.”
I can barely see the menu in my hands, the words blurring like ants marching in the distance. But I nod. There must be steak, right? This is a steak place, so there’s gotta be steak.
And when the waiter comes around, I nod.
“Just a small side of beef please,” I say in a small voice. “Not too much.”
Mason takes over then.
“What the lady’s saying is that she’ll have the petite prime rib,” he orders, smooth and firm. “Plus a side of creamed spinach, an iceberg wedge salad, and let’s get some mac n’ cheese to share. The mac n’ cheese is always good at steak joints,” he smiles.
I flush because in fact, I have no idea. I’ve never been to a place this fancy, nor would I have guessed that they served mac ‘n cheese. Who knew? You can get the best prime rib, but also a children’s classic if you want.
The waiter’s bowing and taking our menus.
“Certainly. Anything to drink for you and the lady?”
Mason contemplates the wine list before shooting me a sharp look.
“Naw, not now,” he says casually. “Maybe later.”
I nod, breathless. There’s something he wants to say.
And as soon as the waiter exits, door closed firmly, those penetrating blue eyes swing my way.
“Are you legal?” the CEO asks sharply. “Are you twenty-one yet?”
I bite my lip.
“I’m legal because I’m eighteen,” are my soft words. “But no, I’m not drinking age yet. I suppose I could imbibe with you here, they wouldn’t say anything,” I flush. “But no, I’m not twenty-one.”
Something flares in the man’s eyes then, hot and aroused, before disappearing. Mr. Channing cool as a cucumber once again.
“No worries,” comes that smooth rumble. “Maybe I’ll just get something for myself later.”
I nod, helplessly. What can I do? Lie about my age? But it was already on the website.
“So tell me,” Mr. Channing begins. “How did you find Sugar Babiez, sweetheart? There aren’t a lot of girls like you on-line.”
I blush.
“By accident,” I stammer. “Totally by accident. I was surfing when I was supposed to be doing homework,” I say helplessly, “and decided to join on a whim.”
That sounds lame even to my ears, and Mr. Channing’s eyebrows shoot up.
“So just like that, you decided to join?”
Oh god, oh god. How to explain this? But being truthful is the best way out. So slowly, I lay out my situation, trying to downplay the gory details.
“I need to help my family,” come the slow words. “They need my help financially at least, and this seemed like a way to do it.”
The dark man nods thoughtfully.
“True. But why Sugar Babiez in particular? Why didn’t you get a more traditional job?” His eyebrow quirks my way, blue eyes penetrating.
I swallow thickly.
“Because it wouldn’t be enough,” is my soft whisper. “I need more than eight fifty an hour. My family needs more.”
And the billionaire seems satisfied, at least for now. He nods.
“Well, there certainly aren’t a lot of girls like you on the site. Most of them are hooches, if you haven’t noticed,” he says with a quirk to his lips. And I laugh then, really laugh for the first time since arriving.
“I know,” I admit shyly. “I wasn’t thinking. There was no plan, I just took some photos and uploaded them. I hope you’re satisfied,” comes my voice with a worried note. “I know sometimes people look different from their pics, and my pics were so bad.”
Suddenly, I’m overcome with nerves again, looking down into my lap, hands twisting. Oh god, oh god. In the snapshots, I had a big smile and big boobs, you could see my waist and some of my thighs. But some of it was obscured by the weird angle, and now, it’s really all here in the open. Mr. Channing can see me, no filters, no nothing, every inch squeezed into this tiny black dress.
There’s silence for a moment, the air quivering. I look down once more, almost afraid to meet his eyes. But when it happens, the oxygen whooshes out of my lungs, everything disappearing except for this man in front of me.
Because Mr. Channing’s looking at me like he’s never seen someone more gorgeous. Desirable. Sexy. All those things rolled up into one with a cherry on top.
I gasp, our gazes locked.
Is it possible?
Does the alpha male really think that I’m beautiful, me with the big curves and generous ass? Me, who’s never attracted a man in her life?
But it’s the only way to explain that look.
His gaze sizzles over my breasts, playing over my waist and making me tingle down below. Oh god, oh god, my cunt gushes wetly again, and this time I know he can smell it.
Those patrician nostrils flare subtly once more, blue eyes gleaming bright. And to my surprise, something happens then, so shocking and yet so tantalizing, that I almost leap out of my seat.
Because the big man’s hand gently touches my knee under the table, before sliding up my thigh, caressing the creamy length.
“Ohhhh,” I murmur, our gazes locked, brown melting into blue. “Ohhh.”
And Mr. Channing doesn’t stop there. Slowly, so slowly, that big hand keeps moving upwards, closer and closer to my heat until he’s there. That’s right, during our first meeting after we’ve barely just sat down, this man is already stroking my cunt, making me feel good.
“Ohhh,” I breathe again, still as a doe, breasts heaving. “Ooooh.”
Because it’s good, it’s really, really good. My insides feel like they’re liquefying, pussy so hot and swollen. And his fingers are knowing. One big digit strokes along my nether lips, toying with the soft flesh before reaching between to lightly tap my clit.
“Ahhh!” I gasp, brown eyes wide, still staring. Mr. Channing’s never looked away from me. It’s like I’m being controlled by that mesmerizing gaze. And it’s true. I am being controlled. I love this, and shamefully, my thighs inch wider on their own, pussy gushing freely now.
He growls hungrily, rubbing my nub as I mewl desperately, writhing in my seat.
“I knew you’d be responsive,” he rumbles, eyes hot. “I knew you’d be responsive as hell.”
And just as I’m about to burst, the door opens and the waiter bustles in, a heavy silver serving platter in his hand. Oh my god, oh my god! Mr. Channing’s fingers are buried in my cunt right now, right under the sharp white table cloth. Can the server tell? Can he tell that we were doing the nasty, right here in this small room?
/> But if the waiter can tell, he gives no notice. Instead, the man puts down the silver serving platter and begins to split the wedge salad, knife crunching audibly through crisp iceberg lettuce.
“Here you go,” he says formally, sliding small plates towards myself and the billionaire. “Enjoy,” comes his murmur as he backs out of the room.
And this entire time, Mr. Channing hasn’t stopped stroking me. Oh sure, his wrist is still, but those fingers are clever, toying with my nub, making me tremble so hard in my seat I was afraid I’d burst. I was afraid I’d explode into a million pieces, spasming furiously with his hand in my cunt, right there in front of the waiter.
But now that we’re alone once more, the billionaire pulls his hand from my pussy, lifting the fingers to those sensuous lips. And as I watch, amazed, he slowly licks each one, enjoying the nectar coating his digits.
“You taste good,” is that low murmur. “Real good. Better than any steak we’ll be having tonight.”
I gasp again, unable to believe what I’m hearing. Is a man really sampling my pussy juices right now, enjoying the ambrosia between my legs? Is this really happening?
But before I can say anything, Mr. Channing moves again. In a flash, that hand is beneath the table once more, gathering another load of honey from between my legs before reappearing. But this time, he wants me to taste, placing those fingers against my lips. What in the world? What’s going on?
But obediently, I suck. I can’t help it. Everything’s zooming by so fast, a whirlwind of new experiences and sensations. So there’s a hot alpha touching my pussy and licking my cream. And now he wants me to taste my own nectar as well? With a sigh, I open my mouth and suck, our gazes still locked, my body gushing heavily down below.
“Oh I knew you were dirty,” the billionaire rumbles approvingly, eyes hot. “I knew that despite your modest exterior, this good girl get-up,” he says, gesturing to my dress, “that you were a slutty one. Because what lady doesn’t wear panties on a first date? You’re a dirty one, sweetheart, admit it.”
And how can I deny the truth? After all, here I am, doing things I’ve never even imagined. Letting a man touch me in public. Letting him stroke my folds while the waiter served us. Letting him suck my cream, and then feeding it to me as well. What the hell is going on?
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