Sugar (10 page)

“Ride me,” he hissed. Bringing his face close to hers, he stroked slow rings around the puckered flesh, which like her pussy pulsed and pounded.

Sarah didn’t need to be told twice. She began moving against him, back and forth, again and again, faster and harder, scraping her labia and clit across the coarse denim. Trapped within it, Cole groaned. He lifted against her, his swollen mound brick hard beneath her. Sarah ground against him, her stiffness from the previous night’s push as good as forgotten.

Perspiration filmed the backs of her knees. A trickle of sweat slid between her breasts. Still, she kept on, going until she swore she would explode. Before that happened, she stilled. The script next called for mutual masturbation, and she didn’t plan to cheat the scene—or Cole.

She eased back, just far enough so that he could reach between them and unzip his fly. He did, taking himself out and wrapping a hand around. His cock looked huge and engorged, the tip glistening as though he’d come close to leaking. Maybe he had. His musk filled Sarah’s senses. A bead of moisture slid free from his slit, trickling down the side. Remembering his taste and texture from the previous night, Sarah’s mouth watered, making it a battle not to bend her head and taste him.

Instead she stuck to the script and covered herself with her hand. Though she masturbated regularly, it had been a while since she’d pleasured herself in front of a partner. The novelty of doing so lent relish to the act. Leaving behind worldly Sugar and embracing neophyte Nicole, Sarah trailed her fingers along the opening, testing the sensitized flesh as if for the first time.

Mirroring her, Cole slid his hand up and down his shaft, the rhythmic stroking reminding Sarah of how expertly he’d worked himself inside her the night before. Her gaze riveted on his, not because the stage direction called for her to do so but because she couldn’t bring herself to look away. Cole’s ocean-blue irises were like sinkholes, sucking her in, separating her from her mind, allowing her to occupy her body completely.

She entered herself, sliding three hard fingers inside and burying them to the hilt. Her body welcomed the invasion. Though she’d yet to stimulate herself there, her clit hitched. Cream blessed her fingers, leaked onto Cole’s jeans’ leg. Her scent rose up, a peaty perfume that had him licking his lips. Aroused by him watching and equally riveted on him, she moved back and forth and side to side, seeking to strike the perfect angle.

The finger fucking felt like it went on forever, only unlike the actual filming, Sarah didn’t tense. She didn’t need to call for lube. She didn’t hold her breath, silently counting down the minutes until the director called “Cut!” Slippery and scalding, she hovered on the cusp of climax, too caught up in Cole to be in any rush to reach it.

He was close, though, she could tell. Taking in the tensing of his muscles, the feral gleam in his eyes, she girded herself to go over the edge with him. His hand tightened about his cock, spanning its length and breadth, beating it ever harder in his quest for release. Sarah followed, increasing her pace, her pressure, her boldness. She withdrew her fingers and found her clit. Working her wet finger around it, she focused on Cole. Tossing back his head, he flicked his thumb over his cockhead, once, twice, thrice.

He jerked back with a groan, then came, a perfect arc of rich warm cream striking Sarah on the breasts, belly, and thighs. Caught up in his release, she felt herself carried along. The buzzing against her hand was but a beginning. Spasms rocked her. Golden warmth filled her. Tingling took possession not only of her pussy but her whole being. She knocked back her head and cried out, not a scream so much as a prayerful keening.

Cole’s hand spanned her waist, pinning her to him. Secured to his safety, Sara submitted, riding out each strike of the storm, her body quaking. The last convulsive contraction ebbed, leaving an exhausted well-being in its wake. Spent, she sagged against him, her arms and legs shaking. Cole hauled her across his lap. Heedless of the mess they’d made, Sarah fell back against him. Resting her head against his chest, she closed her eyes, content for the moment to listen to their commingled breathing.

Cole was the first to recover. “So, Sarah, do you still want to go to Paris?”

Lost in sensation, at first she wasn’t sure she hadn’t misheard. Unpeeling herself from the stickiness binding them, she lifted her head to look at him. “Nicole,” she said, noting the flush climbing his throat.

“Right, sorry—Nicole. Do you uh . . . still want to go to Paris?”

Suddenly in her mind’s eye she didn’t only see herself walking along the Seine. She saw herself walking the riverbank hand-in-hand with Cole. Determined to dislodge the unbidden image from her mind, she found her voice—and her smile. “Yes, Coach, I do. But before I go anywhere, what I really want is a shower.”

CONGRATS TO @SUGAR ON #100. WHERE R U GIRL? PARTY W/ME. #MIA #CAMERA SUTRA

@SUGAR, SAW #CAMERA SUTRA. CONGRATS ON ANOTHER MOST EXCELLENT ADVENTURE.

LA MISSES YOU @SUGAR. WHEN R U COMING (HE HE) BACK TO US?

STAY STRONG @SUGAR & REMEMBER THE STEPS. YOU *WILL* BEAT THIS! #TWELVESTEPS #RECOVERY #ADDICTION

Monday morning saw Sarah sipping coffee at her kitchen counter and skimming the fan messages overflowing her Twitter account. That she was in rehab for substance abuse was a popular theory, but there was plenty of other misinformation being bandied about. She was pregnant.
If only!
She’d been in a bad car accident and was undergoing extensive plastic surgery.
Soap opera-ish but still scary
. She’d run off to marry her latest costar.
Marc was a nice guy but given his breath, not so much
. The absurdity of the assumptions had her shaking her head—and occasionally laughing out loud. Fortunately, appreciating the well wishers and disregarding the douches was second nature by now. When you were a public figure, it was the only way to keep your perspective—and sanity.

Since leaving LA, she hadn’t responded to any of the messages, naughty, nice, or otherwise. She didn’t plan to. Even with her location setting turned off, a savvy reporter sniffing around her social media might still track her. There were too many ways to unwittingly disclose your whereabouts. Mentioning a product specific to a certain area, a film or play that had a limited regional run, or a meal in a restaurant that wasn’t part of a national chain were all potential giveaways. Why chance it? Besides, she’d slated today for writing—not 140-character snippets but actual pages.

She’d started journaling not long after she moved out west and now the nondescript blue binder was filled with entries spanning the past ten years. Writing down her experiences and, more importantly, her feelings about them had started out as a sort of self therapy. Over the past few months, though, she’d begun to wonder if maybe the material in her journal might have the potential for a book, not a sleazy tell-all but more a chronicle of a woman’s very personal journey—hers. With the release of her hundredth film and retirement from the industry, she finally had the time and hopefully the perspective to test if that was true. Transcribing her hand-written entries into an electronic file was a time-consuming task, but it was nothing compared to structuring her sometimes stream-of-consciousness passages. She felt as though she were being introduced to her younger self. Her handwriting wasn’t the only thing that had changed. In the process of becoming Sugar, she’d grown up.

She was on her third cup of coffee and deep into editing a particularly tangled paragraph when her cell sounded. It was Liz. She grabbed for it, feeling the now-familiar jolt of anxiety. “Is everything okay?”

From her periodic check-in calls, she knew that unlike hers Liz’s weekend had not been awesome. It had involved intermittent throwing up as well as extreme tiredness, all side effects of the chemo.

Liz quickly reassured her. “Totally, in fact I’m feeling so much better I’m going to walk Jonathan to the bus stop myself. I thought I’d save you a trip in case you have, you know . . . company.”

She meant Cole of course. Once Sarah had relaxed about him knowing her as Sugar, it had been a pretty amazing weekend. With the terms of their arrangement nailed down, she could relax and enjoy him for what he was—her personal, in-house fucking machine. By mutual assent, he’d left shortly before midnight. Neither of them wanted to make his sleeping over a habit. Lovers stayed over. Fuck friends went to their own home.

Her gaze flickered back to the laptop screen. “Okay, if you’re sure.”

Liz hesitated. “I also wanted to remind you about tonight. You’re coming, right?”

Begun by Liz before she’d been diagnosed, Adult FATE—Faith, Acceptance, Trust, and Enlightenment—was an informal meet-up for former adult entertainers who’d left the industry but still sometimes struggled with matriculating into mainstream life. A onetime English Lit major, Liz had loosely based the title on the Three Fates of Greek mythology, only instead of spinning the destinies of strangers, her idea was for members to empower themselves and each other to break free of the past and “write” their new life stories. The weekly coffee klatch, not a trio but a quartet, met from six to eight PM every Monday at Liz’s. Sarah thought back to the previous week’s meeting, her first. Even though Liz had introduced her as “my friend, Sarah, from LA,” everyone had done an immediate double take.

Patrick, by far the most extroverted, gushed, “OMG, am I really standing in the same room with Sugar!
The
Sugar! I will never wash this hand again!”

“Cool!” exclaimed Brian, whom in the course of the night she’d come to think of as One Word Brian because of his propensity for single-worded responses.

A retro-styled brunette, Honey had regarded Sarah with earnest brown eyes. “The way you bypassed the male establishment and set up your own production company is inspiring. All the films produced under Wing Star are so beautifully shot.”

“Thank you, that means a lot,” Sarah had said sincerely. The FATEs weren’t just random fans. They were her people.

But signing up for a support group didn’t exactly jive with flying under the radar. If Liz knew about the stalking situation in LA, she wouldn’t have pressed her to join, Sarah was certain of it. It was her fault for not speaking up. But she’d figured her friend had enough on her plate without adding another worry. Besides, that issue belonged to the life she’d left behind. At least she hoped so.

“Are you sure you’re up for it?” As she’d seen firsthand, Liz often started out strong in the mornings but faded fast.

Liz answered with a brittle laugh. “I’m not sure of much these days but I know this: Right now Jonathan, FATE, and you are holding me together.”

That decided her. “Of course I’ll come.”

“Sarah, you came!” Jonathan abandoned his iPad and launched himself at her, his skinny arms wrapping around her legs.

Sarah squatted down to return the hug. Closing her eyes, she inhaled his little-boy scent. Kids, she wanted them so badly. One of each, a boy and a girl, would be so great, but at this point she wouldn’t be picky. Lately she’d begun to ask herself if she’d ever get to be a mother at all.

Tamping down that bleak thought, she answered, “Of course I came. You don’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Jonathan isn’t crazy about being sequestered in his room,” Liz explained, walking out from the kitchen. “I’ve explained these meetups are for grownups, which of course only makes him want to hang out with us more.”

Might this be her out? “I don’t mind hanging out with Jonathan in his room while you have the meeting.”

Liz slanted a knowing look in her direction. “Nice try, but I’ve arranged for Jonathan to go downstairs to Mrs. Ritter. She spoils him more than his actual grandmother, plus she’s got cats. You’d think the ten bucks I give her was the Lotto jack pot, so it’s win-win for everybody.”

So much for easy outs! Straightening, Sarah said, “Okay, I’ll walk him down, that is if you’ll show me the way, kid?” Jonathan was already barreling toward the door. “C’mon, Sarah!”

“Don’t forget to give her this.” Liz took a ten out of her purse and handed it over.

Mrs. Ritter’s’ cats, one calico and the other part-Persian, were exceedingly good natured as well as geriatric. The moment the apartment door opened, Jonathan was absorbed in fur and tinkling toys. Satisfied that he had a happy two hours ahead, Sarah handed over the money and went back upstairs.