Sugar Daddy

by Rie Warren

  Except for that one dot, over there.

  Coming closer and closer.

  Reardon untied my breezy scarf, replacing it with his mouth on my neck. His hands touched my collarbone and rained across my breasts. Sensual whispers mirroring the sea’s tidal tease. Calloused palms splayed over my nipples, tufting them to aching points.

  I turned my mouth to his. “Reardon.”

  His kiss was deep and long, indecent.

  “Ahh…” I dragged my lips away. “Reardon!”

  The muscles of his shoulders bunched as he ran a hand through his hair. “What?”

  “We got company.”

  “You up there, Boone?”

  He bent over the railing, his smile breathtaking. “Whistler! C’mon on up here, old man.”

  Old man? Fuck, I needed an eye exam because this Whistler was, well, shit. Did they just breed hot-as-hell men where Reardon came from?

  Whistler was all salty dog. Taking the stairs, he braced himself as if waves bottomed out beneath him. A shrimper, he had that look. Salt and pepper and sweet as could be with a rough touch of why don’t you c’mon over here, girl, and find out? They toed up and clapped each other’s backs.

  Reardon hooked my waist to propel me forward. “Shay, this is Whistler.”

  I gave him my hand and damn if he hadn’t been raised the same. He bent low, kissing my palm, raising sandy eyelashes. “Pleased to meet you, Miss.”

  Boyish, handsome, bad. And he didn’t call me ma’am.

  Reardon positioned me under his arm so the softest skin of his bicep nudged my naked shoulder, his pursed mouth hinting at faint displeasure.

  “Likewise.” I smiled, threading my fingers through Reardon’s.

  “Wayne,” he tersely interjected. So, Whistler had a name, and Reardon had a possessive streak. I loved this show of manly strutting, roosters rutting.

  Whistler-Wayne sideswiped Reardon and clamped his head between muscled forearms, giving him a noogie.

  I snorted.

  They looked over.

  “What?”

  They were the ones acting like schoolboys, what was a little ladylike snuffle between friends?

  They broke apart with sheepish grins, and Whistler proved his nickname wasn’t in vain by, well, whistling, “Ssslummin’ it?”

  Oh no, he was not talkin’ about me.

  Thankfully, he was mocking the cottage because apparently four thousand square feet in a private seaside enclave was slumming it for the likes of the Rat Bastard.

  I punched Whistler in the arm. “Nice one! I said exactly the same thing to him the other day.”

  He returned my punch with a fist bump, and I felt like one of the guys, except for the way Reardon kept a close eye on me, not to mention his hand on the swell of my ass.

  “Goin’ out on the boat next week, right?” Whistler asked.

  Reardon’s fingers convulsed on my hip. “Always do.”

  “Why don’t y’all bring Shay?”

  He squinted over the water. “Might-could.”

  Well that was obviously a sore point, and Whistler’s cue to leave.

  Carrying on a quiet conversation, Reardon walked his friend to the beach.

  “Good to meet you,” I called, hanging over the railing.

  He raised his hand and dipped his visor.

  Moseying away, Whistler became a wavy image, then a dot.

  Reardon bristled beside me. “You like him?”

  “What’s not to like?” I massaged his chest; he glared after Whistler. “Thought you were just a playboy. Turns out you’re actually sorta real.”

  His hands ran down my back, hitting a ticklish spot. “Guess you got the wrong end of the stick.”

  I curved into him. “I’m not getting any end of your stick, now, am I?”

  He stiffened. “Yeah, about that. You want a drink?”

  Inside, he presented me with a vodka tonic. “Take a seat.”

  Take a seat in his world meant something I didn’t want to hear. My skin clammy with dread, I lurched to the couch and drained my drink by half.

  “We need to discuss birth control.”

  ’Course. No Rat Bastard runts wanted. “Birth control.” I gagged on the rush of terror closing my throat. Shit, shit, shit. Not now. I slammed the rest of the drink, my heart knifing my chest with each shaky inhale as panic shrouded me.

  He stepped nearer. “For when you decide to–”

  “I know what it’s for, you ass, and it’s hardly necessary!”

  “But you said...you’d try.” Fingers tucked into pockets, confusion churned up his features.

  “You had an investigator on my tail. You mean to tell me you don’t know?”

  “He never, I never trespassed your private life.” He knelt in front of me. “What’s this about, Shay?”

  “I thought my makin’-a-family problems were just one more reason I was the perfect mistress.” The glass slipped from my fingers, shattering on the floor. I couldn’t hold onto it, I hadn’t been able to hold onto her. Ice cubes bounced. I swooped down to clean the mess, but I couldn’t see. Tears spread down my face, and sudden sobs forced me in half.

  Gripping my wrists, wrenching my fingers from my hair, Reardon’s touch unleashed the hysterics I always, always stuffed back inside.

  “Stop, darlin’, you’re going to hurt yourself.”

  The keening ache ripped me apart, tossing me into blackness I’d fought so hard to return from.

  Pulling me into a protective embrace, he rocked me back and forth. “Shay?” He held me through wails I’d never released in front of anyone else. “Sshh…”

  I wound my arms around him and held on, clawing at him for more and closer and touch while pain and panic engulfed me.

  That hole. It wouldn’t shut. It burst open. “She died!”

  “Who?” He shook my shoulders. “Who, damn it?”

  “Delilah. My baby. My daughter.”

  He froze. His face described all the agony I felt. And pity.

  “You wanna make sure you’re protected? Well, y’all don’t have to worry about me gettin’ pregnant because infertility runs in my family as much as infidelity.”

  “Damn it. Goddamn it!” When I flinched, he gentled, capturing my hands. My fingers clambered to his, a solid lifeline. “What happened?”

  Once started, I was helpless to stop. “They said it’d be fine, all I needed was bed rest. I had a rocky first trimester, so with my family history, because there’s my momma...”

  Teardrops destroyed my face faster than Reardon scooped them away. “Your momma?”

  “She couldn’t hold no baby but me. She lost three.” I snagged the tissue from him. “Guess I was the lucky one.”

  “I’m sorr–”

  I slashed my hand across the air. I didn’t want his pity. I didn’t want anything but to get it out and get it over with, get back on track. “They lied. Those assholes lied to me, lied to Palmer. Just like they’d lied to Momma.

  “Things weren’t cushy, but Palmer was doing well enough I could quit my job if we were careful.” I shook all over. “I was so excited when I finally got to wear maternity clothes, when we heard her heartbeat, when she moved inside me. My ankles swelled and my face got puffy and heartburn made sleep impossible, but all of that just made it real.” I remembered the feeling of her growing inside me, it was real. “I probably looked like shit, but I felt like I was glowing.”

  “I bet you were beautiful,” he hushed.

  I chanced a look at his drawn face, his eyes focused on my flat belly where my hands joined protectively. “Don’t say that. You don’t know. You don’t know anything about this.”

  Alarm flared across his irises. “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t say that!” I turned away. “It was only last year. Five months pregnant.” I locked down, unmoving, unfeeling. “I woke from a nap, napping was what I did, and eating, I did a lot of eating. Cake–that was my weakness. Those frozen Pepperidge Farm cakes. Addy hated my cr
avings because she says she makes the best pastries. When I woke, I didn’t feel any different, except wet. A twinge, the start of cramps, the sheets were so wet. I stared at my hand, I remember that. It was dark red, sticky.” I gasped through the tears. “I was so scared, Reardon, and no one was there.”

  He pulled me onto his lap. Unable to fight his compassion, I collapsed against him, sobs seizing my body.

  “I guess I called everyone I was supposed to, I don’t really remember. The OB, Palmer. He threw a plank of wood through his windshield after we hung up, someone told me later. I called Momma.”

  Reardon passed a handkerchief over my cheeks. He swiped under his eyes, his mouth grim. He hugged me closer.

  “Hospital and doctors and ultrasounds. Teaching hospital, there were always students in my room, intruding on my miscarriage.”

  “Jesus, darlin’.”

  “Paperwork, there were a lot of forms to fill out. And wait and see, wait and see. Until they stopped coming, they weren’t even monitoring me anymore. Just my doctor the next time, he looked so sad.” I hadn’t cried then. Now I scored Reardon’s back with my nails, pressing against him. “She was dead, I’d lost her. I was too far along. I had to deliver Delilah, knowin’ I’d never ever hear her cry.

  “It took a long time because I wanted to keep her inside me. When I gave birth to Delilah, they let us spend some time with her. Such a tiny baby, so pale and still, wrapped in those blue and white and pink blankets. She was beautiful, Reardon.”

  She’d been so fragile, tiny in my arms. I’d watched her chest, waiting for breaths that would never come. Little ears, fingers and toes. I counted every part of her, kissed every bit of her the same way I would’ve done had she been all red and squalling. Instead she was so silent. Cuddled against me, I couldn’t let her go.

  Palmer beside me, his hand huge, shaking, when he stroked her face.

  We held her between us. Palmer crooned, his words choppy, a broken song from a daddy to his daughter. He held her, me, held us together for the first time, for the last time.

  “I told the chaplain to go straight to hell, I gave the silent treatment to the grief counselor, I threw the ugly pink water jug at the goddamn hospital speakers every time they played Brahms’ Lullaby when a child was born.

  “They told us the bleeding couldn’t be stopped, they needed to fuck with my insides, I had a lot of cysts, scarring, but I was lucky I didn’t need a hysterectomy, yet.” Nausea backed up my throat. “I was supposed to be happy I could keep my woman bits, never mind the baby I buried beside my daddy.”

  Reardon didn’t need to know the rest. Spilling my guts wasn’t part of the contract.

  I smeared my face against his shirt and didn’t speak about the follow-up appointments where I was pushed and prodded in such a way my insides felt raped. When we met the specialist, his prognosis cut out any last hope. Conception ridiculously unlikely and the chance of fetal mortality just as dire.

  Fetal mortality. Delilah had been reduced to a scientific term.

  I’d been shaking, Palmer shaking his head.

  I got it then. I was made less of a woman, and Palmer was unmanned. Stoically suffering, unable to continue the Greer name. Losing his baby girl, the one he already doted on. He changed, after that. I didn’t blame him. I did this to him. And he believed he did it to me.

  “I still feel her here.” I tapped my stomach. “Phantom kicks.”

  Reardon’s hand folded over mine.

  “I don’t talk about this.”

  “Maybe you should.”

  I retreated to the end of the couch. “Don’t,” I warned. “Just don’t. I know what I can handle, and I cannot relive this over and over again.”

  “Okay.” He gingerly approached me until I settled into his embrace.

  “I’m more myself now than I’ve been in a long time. And you, you make me feel something, even if you piss me off more often than not.”

  He chuckled.

  “I’m more me with you than with...than I am with Palmer.”

  It wasn’t a matter of Palmer not loving me anymore. How could he? He didn’t even like himself.

  Setting me on my feet, Reardon tipped my chin forward for a small kiss. “Go get cleaned up, I’ll make something to eat.”

  “Why? I look a mess?”

  He didn’t answer the question, simply pointed me down the hall to the bathroom. Facing the mirror, I saw why. Mess didn’t cover the half of it. The puffy bags beneath my red-slit eyes rivaled Bill Clinton’s during the Lewinsky Love-in. I could pack my weekend trousseau up in there.

  After repairing some of the damage, I went to the porch with a fresh drink and my smokes.

  Reardon’s kiss tingled on my cheek. “Give me ten minutes, darlin’, then let me take care of you.”

  And he did take care of me, holding my hand while we ate.

  I slumped against him when dinner ended, and he shushed, “Let’s get you to bed.”

  And he did, not watching–well, I think he peeked a bit–as I undressed and fell into the awesome-as-hell ten hundred million thread-count sheets.

  He took off his clothes and wrapped himself around me. “Get some rest, Shay. I’ll be right here.”

  Swaddled by Reardon, I fell asleep.

  * * * *

  I woke groggily, a buttery yellow glow brightening the bedroom, or maybe that was my eye boogers clogging up the works. The sheet over my head, I groaned only to pop out at the sound of a rumbling laugh.

  Reardon.

  My nipples reacted to his dirty laugh. I failed to suppress them, even with my arms crossed over my chest.

  Sitting in a chair across the room with a newspaper folded over his lap, his smile faltered.

  I pointed my finger at him. “I knew I shouldn’t have told you. Now you’re givin’ me the look they all do. See how sorry the pathetic childless woman is.”

  He muttered a string of, “Stubborn, ridiculous, unbelievable,” as he stood. The mattress heaved when he sat beside me. “I assure you, I could never see you that way.”

  Pushing him onto his back, I rolled on top of him. The sheet draped to my hips, leaving my breasts bobbing in his face. He could have helped himself to an eyeful, but he pulled my chin toward him until our faces were level. “I admire you.”

  Braced on his chest, it only took a shimmy to wriggle into position until–Oh God–I felt him.

  “Shay.”

  I didn’t care. Arching my back, I rode along him, panting with each lunge he delivered.

  Pushing his palms into my panties, he squeezed my ass, dragging me over his stiff ridge. Slamming into me in the hottest dry hump I’d ever had, he grunted. “We need to stop.”

  “No, we don’t,” I panted, pulling his mouth to my breasts.

  He tore me away. “Jesus, Shay, stop! Fuck.” Reardon whispered, “Don’t cry, please don’t cry, darlin’.”

  “You don’t want me.”

  “That’s why I’m ten seconds and one kiss from fucking you until you can’t walk a straight line or talk a full sentence.”

  “Oh!”

  “Exactly. You’re not ready for this. But when you offer yourself to me, I can’t control myself.” Ragged breaths shook his chest. “You’re not ready for me.”

  “I know.” I was ready for all those things he didn’t want. Friendship, intimacy, holding hands, hanging out, and then a whole lot of sex. My conscience congratulated me, my cha-cha gave me the stink-eye.

  “I’m sorry, I never should’ve thought–” Tugging his hair into cowlicks, he said, “I shouldn’t have hired you.”

  “You firing me?”

  “Honestly? I don’t know what the hell to do with you.” His eyes were turbulent as the ocean when he admitted, “Only thing I’m sure of is how much I want you.”

  “I want you too.”

  “I know.”

  “Y’all are incorrigible, you know that?” Suddenly I felt easy, but not like an easy lay, because...was he about to change his rules
? “Get back over here.” I opened my arms.

  “Shay,” he groaned.

  “What?”

  “The goddamn sheet, woman.”

  I toga’d myself, hooking my fingers at him.

  His lips warmed a trail to my earlobe. “Compromise?”

  “Companionship?”

  “With a side of seduction,” he agreed.

  * * * *

  After breakfast we sauntered to the beach. In the soft white dunes, Reardon pitched an umbrella on account of my fair skin. Impatient for me to shed my gauzy wrap, he urged me on. “I take it you packed a bathing suit after all?”

  Aw, did I detect a note of disappointment that I wasn’t actually going to skinny dip?

  Shucking the cover-up, I twirled and tossed it at him.

  He crinkled it in his fists, stepping back, closing his eyes, and pitching a tent in his shorts.

  Awesome.

  “You’re...uh.” He tugged his shorts, tugged his hair, and took all of me in. “Mmm, Shay.” His hand wavered over my cleavage spilling from the small Granny Smith green triangles of material. “Now that should be illegal.”

  A group of college boys walked by, tossing a football back and forth and staring at me longer than was appropriate. Or maybe it was the beautiful house behind us.

  Reardon grumbled, “Should’ve thought twice about bringing you to the beach.” No, it was me.

  Pleased with my unveiling, I sat down, dug out my book, and ignored it in favor of ogling a very antsy Reardon, who finally announced, “I’m going for a swim, I need to do something about my…” He rubbed his lips. “You. Yeah. I’m goin’ for a swim.”

  He jogged to the surf, every muscle a mirror of the rippling sea current.

  The water was too warm to be refreshing, but I swam out after him. I kissed from his shoulders to the indent of his spine, running my fingers along the sinews of his ribs. Diving under, he surfaced behind me, effortlessly tossing me into the eddying tide.

  We swam together and joked. Splashed and laughed and made out until I was wrapped around his waist, and he was absolutely hard everywhere.

  “Feels so good, baby.” I smattered his face and chest with kisses, holding his hot erection under the water.

  “You’re going to make me come if you don’t stop.” His hips kicked faster.