Sugar Love

by Callie Bardot

  “Did you…did you like the kiss we shared by the river?”

  She huffed out a lungful of air. “Are you kidding?”

  “Not really,” he said, the detritus of insecurity bobbing to the surface. “Did you like it?”

  “My body is humming from that exchange. I’m still on a soaring high from it. But…” She glanced away.

  “But what?” He leaned forward to conceal his stirring erection.

  “But, nothing,” she said, shaking her head. She chewed on her lower lip. “Yes, I really, really liked kissing you.”

  “Does that mean you’d like to do it again?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, glancing away.

  His jaw grew slack. Are you fucking kidding me? He strummed the leather seat, contemplating his whiskey flask again. “What, exactly, aren’t you sure about?”

  “The contract didn’t mention kissing.”

  “We’re adults,” he said, growing exasperated. “People bend the rules all the time.”

  Christ, it’s like I’m begging.

  “I don’t want to be used.” She toyed with a lock of her hair.

  “Neither do I,” he snapped. His head dropped backward. Idiot. When he brought it up, he said, “Look. I enjoyed the hell out of kissing you.” He leaned closer and wound a lock of her hair around his finger, gently tugging. “I’d like to kiss you again.” He swallowed, unused to being so hesitant around a woman. Before his accident, he always knew his cues, what to say and when to act. Now he felt almost blind. Fucking Trisha.

  “Well,” she said, licking her lips.

  “Is that a yes or a no? I can’t tell. Just use your words and say it. I’m not a mind reader,” he said, in a snarling tone of voice.

  She jerked.

  “Fuck.” He really wanted that flask.

  Leaning away from her, he reached for the backpack.

  “Yes. Yes, I’d love to kiss you again.”

  He stilled. His eyes narrowed.

  “Yes, I want to kiss you.” She turned slightly to face him. “Right now, if that’s what you want.”

  She said things to him like every move was up to him. I guess that comes with paying for her service. Still, he’d take what he could get. He honestly couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this horny. Bringing his human hand to her soft cheek, he caressed her silky skin.

  “Would you sit in my lap?” he said, wanting to feel her pressed up against his rock-solid cock.

  “Sure, if it pleases you.” She stood, dutifully, like a Geisha, and straddled him, hissing when her sex pressed against him. “Shit. You’re hard.”

  “I am. You’re a very pretty woman.” Wondering why his mouth was so damn dry, he swallowed again. Leaning his head back against the seat, he snaked an arm around her neck and drew her close. His body ignited from the feel of her tits against his chest, her sweet, hot pussy against his dick. “Come here,” he said, pulling her head toward his.

  She slanted her head to fit their mouths together. And then she kissed him. Man, did she kiss him. Little Miss Inexperienced with the Outdoors surged with heat and want.

  His hips rocked into her insistently.

  She moaned into his mouth. He knew she felt it too…the power of their connection.

  He brushed his fingers up and down her spine. It surprised him how natural it felt to be touching her. She responded to him and it didn’t feel like an act. It sure wasn’t part of the contract.

  Staying connected to his lips, she writhed, like a cat, into his touch. Her hands fell to his shoulders.

  He deepened the kiss, letting his tongue explore her mouth, which tasted of sweet peppermint and unexplored desire. He could get lost in Effie D’Archangel—simply forget about all the bullshit in his head and lose himself in her.

  She sucked on him, drawing exquisite pain.

  His arousal began to peak. Wait, I can’t be diving into sex with her. We have a contract. This is a business arrangement. He pushed her away as gently as he could.

  “Did I do something wrong?” she asked, eyes wide.

  “Hold up a minute.” Eyes squeezed shut, he sucked in his breath and held it, forcing his arousal to heel. When he opened his eyes, he collided with her hypnotic green gaze. Damn. She’s casting her spell on me. “Sorry. I, uh…I didn’t want to come.”

  Without a word, she nodded, and lowered her mouth again, fitting perfectly against his.

  His resolve to honor the contract withered. Gripping her tight, he tugged her on top of him as he lay back, stretched out on the seat.

  She began grinding her lovely little pussy against his dick. Wriggling back and forth, soft moans emerged from her throat.

  “Shit, Effie, if you keep that up, I’m not going to be able to hold back.”

  “Is that a problem?” she said, pressing her hands against his chest. “You feel so good.”

  He clutched her hips, slowing her grind. “It is if I want to keep your and my clothes clean, as well as the seats,” he said, with a chuckle. “The back of the limo has limited cleaning supplies.”

  “Oh, right.” Her hips stilled. She studied him for an excruciating second, kneading his chest absentmindedly. “Want me to…” She rolled her lips between her teeth and shook her head.

  “What were you going to say?” he said.

  “I just wondered if you’d like it if I…” She swallowed.

  “What? Just fucking say it,” he said, his patience wearing thin.

  “If I did this.” She lifted his shirt, tugging it up. Then, she took the tie off her braid and finger combed her hair out to a glorious mane. With a flip of her head, she trailed her silken strands up and down his belly and chest.

  The gossamer touch felt exquisite. Zander hissed and tensed his belly. Even Effie’s hair might trigger an orgasm.

  His torment ended at the sound of Antonio’s voice. “We’ve arrived, Mr. King.”

  Effie tossed her head back and sat up. She scrambled off his lap like the paparazzi might show up any second and start snapping shots.

  He righted himself, chuckling. “No one’s going to see us. We’re in the garage.”

  “Oh,” she said, finger-combing her hair. “A garage. Of course.” A shy smile danced across her face.

  Antonio opened the door.

  Effie exited, with Zander following.

  A violent war of emotions clattered about inside, as he trekked to the elevator. Does Effie even like me? She’s hot one minute, hesitant the next. Is her behavior all part of the contract?

  Only one way to find out. He would cook her an excellent meal, and then he would see if she wanted to break some rules. Because, hell, everyone knew that rules were made to be broken. But that damn contract. I gave her a way out. What if she wants to take it? The memory of his sick behavior after he quit Trisha for good bobbed in his head like a dark ghost. And worse, what if I lose my shit?

  Chapter 11

  Zander

  Inside the garage of his apartment, Zander took Effie’s hand in his real one and led her to the elevator. Once inside, he fished in his backpack for the key card to his penthouse apartment. He slid it into the slot.

  The doors closed and up they went.

  He kept his arm around her, hugging her to him as they silently rode to the top.

  The elevator dinged, and the doors slid open to his foyer.

  “Come on in,” he said. He kicked off his shoes. “Make yourself at home. You can put your purse on that round stand, there.” He pointed to a zebrawood stand a buddy of his had crafted. “And leave your shoes anywhere. Get comfortable.”

  “Thanks.” She placed her purse on top. It promptly fell to the floor, spilling the contents. “Oh, crap,” she said, hurrying to stoop and shove the contents back in her clutch.

  “Did a horse step on your phone?” He smiled at her.

  She shook her head. “No horse. Just me.”

  “Ah. Note to self. Effie likes stepping on mobile phones.” His smile became a grin.


  A rosy blush crept across her cheeks, giving her the fresh-faced innocence of a model in a Johannes Vermeer painting. He tossed his backpack on the tile floor and guided her into the living room lest his impulse to strip her, right here in the foyer, got the best of him.

  “Wow, this is beautiful,” she said, scanning the front room.

  “Thank you. I worked closely with a designer to match my style. I like things easy, comfortable and functional. Blue’s my favorite color, in case you wondered.” He gazed around the room at the sleek, low-backed blue couch and chairs. Copper side tables with a rich blue patina provided warm accents. Terrazzo floors spread throughout the entire penthouse, while wool rugs with curving designs, which reminded him of the mountains, covered common areas. Photos he’d taken of the wilderness adorned every wall.

  “It’s gorgeous.” She sauntered toward the floor to twenty-foot-high ceiling windows. “Such a view.” She stared out at the breathtaking view.

  Water and distant mountains, visible past the city skyline, provided a backdrop for his expansive Meranti wood deck. Comfortable outdoor furniture surrounded an outdoor gas fireplace.

  “Yeah. I’d prefer it if it were on the side of a mountain somewhere but that would mean a hell of a commute. I don’t care for remote access meetings. I prefer face to face with my staff. That way, they can tell me what a bastard I am, in person.”

  Effie’s expression crumpled into a wince.

  His face grew dark. Cut the crap, Zander. He strolled across the room to stand behind her, wanting to be close. Placing his hands on her shoulders, he eased her into him. “Can I get you anything? Wine? Water? More tea? A cocktail? What suits?”

  “Wine. I’ll have some wine.” She bent her head back to look up at him.

  “Perfect. Red or white?”

  “Which do you prefer?” she said.

  A snarling retort caught in his throat, waiting to tell her to choose whichever she wanted. He bit his words back. “Let’s have red. I’ve got a new Pinot I want to try.”

  “Sounds great.”

  He released her and strode into the kitchen to fetch the wine. “Why don’t you come in here and keep me company while I cook dinner?”

  He retrieved a bottle of wine from the climate-controlled wine cellar installed in his ginormous pantry. A corkscrew hung on the side. He plucked it from its hook, screwed it into the cork, and pulled.

  The cork released with a pop.

  Next, he grabbed two wine glasses from the shelf and poured, before sauntering back into the kitchen.

  Effie strolled into the room.

  “Wow, what a kitchen. Who does the cooking? Your staff?” She pulled out one of the padded swivel bar stools next to the island.

  “Sometimes, when I’m entertaining. Mostly me, though. I love to cook. And, I let most of the staff go about a year ago.” I didn’t need the maids watch me crash and burn.

  A frown marred her pretty features.

  He handed her a glass of wine as she settled onto the stool. “Here’s to Effie D’Archangel, a gift to my life.”

  Her cheeks grew pink again as she lifted her wine glass. “Here’s to Zander King, a gift to my life. I can’t thank you enough for what you’ve done for me.”

  “It’s my pleasure,” he said, clinking her glass with his. Being reminded of their arrangement brought a sour note to his mood but he quickly shoved it aside. He brought the wine to his mouth and slurped. Then, he set the glass on the island, stooped, and pulled a baking dish out of a low cupboard. “Do you like chicken parmigiana?”

  “Mmm, it’s my favorite.” She sipped her wine.

  “Good, it’s a favorite of mine, too.”

  “But, I’ve only had the frozen kind Dad brought home from GBS.”

  Zander’s eyes widened. “That stuff is garbage.”

  “It’s all we could afford,” she snapped, her eyes sparkling like a tigress.

  “I understand,” he said. “I didn’t mean to insult your family. But, you’ll taste the difference.” He retrieved chicken breasts from the fridge, as well as fresh Parmesan and mozzarella cheese, and some pasta sauce he’d made earlier. Next, he washed his hands, retrieved a knife and utensils from the drawer, and got to work. “My sister, Chloe, taught me how to make it. She’s a famous chef at a fancy restaurant in New York City. She went to culinary school in Paris, thanks, again, to my generous dad. Actually, she taught me everything I know about cooking. We get along really well. Do you have any siblings?”

  Effie shook her head. “No. I’m an only child. Good thing because my parents couldn’t afford two of us. They work and work and never seem to make ends meet.”

  Zander nodded. “That seems to be the case for a lot of Americans. I don’t take my wealth for granted. I’m fortunate to have so much. My company has a couple of programs to help disadvantaged kids pursue things like rock climbing and kayaking. It keeps them out of trouble and helps build confidence.”

  He reached behind him and turned on the oven.

  “I see. You help the disadvantaged. The FMLs.” Her eyebrows drew together in a glower.

  “FMLs?”

  “Never mind,” she said. “Forget I said anything.” She waved her hand around.

  He blinked at the sharp edge to her voice but kept on talking.

  “It’s not much, but I do believe in giving back. No one with wealth should be an asshole about having money. I caught the golden ring in life. Spread it around,” he said, as he pulled a large pan out of the cupboard.

  Effie eyed him through narrow slits as if determining whether he told the truth or not.

  He continued. “My sis is the same. She conducts cooking classes for youth and adults from impoverished neighborhoods in New York. Her goal is to get fresh food in as many households as possible.”

  “Us impoverished people.” Effie scoffed.

  “What’s your trip, girl?” He stabbed a piece of chicken with his monogrammed Chef’s knife. “People come from all walks of financial reality. They make what they make out of their life.”

  “Crap. I’m sorry. Early messaging at play.” She tapped her temple. “Your sister sounds amazing.”

  “She’s cool. I hope to introduce you to her someday.”

  If you learn to check your attitude.

  Effie pressed her lips together.

  He frowned a little, uncertain what button he had pressed, but decided not to push the issue. Instead, he bustled around the kitchen, assembling all the remaining ingredients—panko bread crumbs, eggs, flour, salt, and pepper. “Would you mind getting something for me?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Head out to the deck off the living room. To the right, you’ll find some basil plants growing in a hothouse, as well as some tomatoes. The tomatoes are small, because it’s early in the season, but they’re fresh. I prefer fresh.” He crouched and fished a small basket and garden shears from a cupboard. “Pick a handful of the basil and three or four tomatoes.”

  “Sure thing.” She stood and turned, sauntering out of the kitchen.

  Licking his lips, he eyed the swish, swish, swish of her sexy hips. Then, he reached for his wine and slurped a mouthful.

  He continued with preparing dinner.

  When Effie returned a few minutes later, he set her up with a cutting board and a knife.

  “Roll the basil leaves like so,” he said, stacking several and rolling them into a tiny log. “Then, chop them thinly.” He deftly chopped the leaves with his bio-hand. “Cut the tomatoes into wedges. And put them all right…” He reached into a cabinet and retrieved a small hand-painted bowl. “Here,” he said, handing the bowl to her. “I’ll get the chicken prepped.”

  “Got it.” She stepped toward the sink, turned the water on, and proceeded to wash her hands. Then, she picked up the knife and started cutting. As she worked, she kept glancing at his fake hand.

  Strangely, it didn’t put him off as much as it usually did when people stared at it.

  “Can I ask you
something?” she said.

  “Go ahead,” he said, dipping the chicken breasts into egg batter and then laying them on a flour mixture, coating them on both sides.

  “You work those fingers like you do your real hand. The physiologist in me is curious. How is that possible?”

  “I have sensors implanted in my muscles. They measure nerve signals and translate the impulse into the fingers and wrists.” He held up his hand and wiggled all his digits. “The sensors interpret signals directly from motor neurons in my spinal cord. It’s biomedical engineering at its finest.” He took another sip of wine.

  “That’s remarkable.” She scooped the tomatoes into her hands and dropped them into the painted bowl.

  He lay the coated chicken breasts in the sizzling oil and adjusted the heat. “Not many can afford such high-tech stuff. Again, I’m fortunate. My best buddy, Kent, is handling the development of a program to help war veterans whose limbs have been blown off by bombs. This limb is expensive.” He waved his bio forearm about, surprised at how easy it felt to talk to her about this stuff. “We’re working with a team in Switzerland who pioneered this technology to try and get costs down. Or, at least produce an affordable version. It might not work as well as this one, but it could allow a war vet to get some sense of normalcy back into his life.”

  “I’m impressed. That’s amazing, Zander.”

  He glanced at her, checking to determine her sincerity.

  Effie sprinkled the chopped basil over the tomatoes. She smiled at him.

  Okay, she seems cool.

  “It is what it is.” He plucked a set of tongs out of a container at the back of the stove and used them to flip the chicken.

  “What can I do next?” Effie said.

  “There’s some finishing olive oil in there.” He pointed to the pantry door. “Top shelf, on the left. Also, some balsamic vinegar. Get it and pour a bit of each on the tomatoes and basil.”

  “How much do I add?” she said, standing.

  “I tend to not measure. Guesstimate about three tablespoons of oil and a tablespoon of vinegar.” Using the tongs, he plucked the browned chicken from the pan and lay them in the baking dish. Then, he poured tomato sauce over them and added slices of the fresh mozzarella. A sprinkling of Parmesan came next. He slid the pan into the oven and turned on the timer.