Sugar (18 page)

Realizing he’d been reading the same paragraph for the past half hour, he shoved the report to the far edge of his leather-and-green baize desk blotter. A desk blotter, seriously! Who even used one anymore, not to mention a paperweight jade dragon reputed to have belonged to Winston Churchill? Cannings did, of course.

But he hadn’t behaved as a Canning, not the previous Saturday.

The episode in the play park had rattled him badly. Liz and the kid and the dog owner all staring as though he’d just touched down from Mars. And then there was Sarah, regarding him with horrified eyes, eyes that for the first time saw how seriously fucked up he was, how
broken
. Too broken to consider seeing again? The prospect made him want to punch the wood paneling.

Good going, Canning, now she probably thinks you’re a pussy
.

Coming up was
Whipped and Creamed
. He’d thought to save the film as a sort of grand finale, but after the other day, he had something to prove.

No more procrastinating. He picked up his iPhone, brought up Sarah’s number, and typed his text.

Tomorrow nite at 9. Ready to get . . . Whipped and Creamed
.

He hit send. Almost immediately, relaxation rolled over him. Whether Sarah said yes or not, whether she gave him the chance to redeem himself or not, it was done. For the first time since walking away from her in the West Village, his tail dragging like that of the poor dog he’d frightened with his freak out, he felt hungry.

Leaning forward in his high-backed chair, he punched the intercom button for his assistant. “Karen, bring in the takeout menus. I’m ready to order lunch.”

“How was lunch with your dad?” Honey asked, when Sarah walked inside Liz’s forty minutes later, feeling like she’d been whipped and not in a good way.

“We didn’t exactly have lunch,” Sarah answered, dropping her handbag on the carpet alongside an empty chair and collapsing atop the worn cushion. “We had beer and peanuts—and shots of whiskey. Actually I only had the beer.”

Peter leaned over from his perch of the couch. “Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry. I really thought making amends would help.”

“You look like you could use these more than me.” Honey pushed the box of Kleenex across the coffee table toward her, but Sarah shook her head. She’d already done her crying on her way back in the cab.

Ensconced in the center of the sofa with an afghan pulled over her crossed legs, Liz shook her scarf-wrapped head. “We were wrong to have pushed you. I’ve never met your dad, but after all the things I’ve heard about him over the years, I should have known better. I should have spoken up.”

Sarah shook her head. She was a grown-up—even if she felt fairly little at the moment. “Thanks, guys, but you don’t have squat to be sorry for. Peter, you meant well, and actually it ended up being really good advice. Even though things didn’t go the way I’d hoped, I feel a lot better getting all the crap off my chest. My father will never change but at least I can move on now.”

Liz sent her a sympathetic smile before moving on. “Under the right circumstances, confrontation can be cathartic. In my hospital support group, the therapist is having us each write a letter to our cancer. Some of the letters are like olive branches, you know, making peace with the disease. In my case, I told cancer how I’m going to fucking kick its ass.”

She darted a gaze to Jonathan’s door, fortunately closed. Mrs. Ritter and her cats must be otherwise engaged.

Clapping and even one wolf whistle followed. Pounding her palms together, Sarah was grateful for the reminder that, while her personal life might be a wreck, it was at least a repairable wreck. Not everyone was so lucky.

Looking around the room, Liz gave her best imitation of what in their roomie days they’d jokingly referred to as the Royal Wave. “Yes, yes, I’m awesome, and don’t I know it.” Once everyone had quieted, she carried on. “Okay, does anyone have anything they want to bring up or announce before we wrap?”

Peter cleared his throat. “Well . . . I have kind of an announcement.”

“Darling, do tell,” Honey prompted in her best “Audrey” intonation.

Reaching for a cookie, her first food of the day, Sarah said, “It must be something really good. Look how he’s smiling!” To Peter, she added, “I could do with hearing some good news.”

Going beet red, he blurted out, “I told Pol the truth. He said he loved me, that what was past was past, and the next thing I knew I was down on one knee proposing. And he said yes! We’re getting married!” He pounded the heels of his Mark Nason ‘Strummer’ loafers into the carpet.

Honey exclaimed, “How wonderful!”

Liz beamed. “Congratulations, you did it!”

“Congratulations,” Brian echoed, hangdog expression lifting.

“I’m so happy for you,” Sarah said sincerely. Ever since she was little, she’d loved anything to do with weddings. From everything she’d heard from Liz and now Peter, his Irish boyfriend was his perfect match.

“I took a ton of pictures. Here, see.” Beaming, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his Android. Photos of the bridegroom-to-be and the rings were passed around and duly admired.

Hovering over Honey, who held the phone, he explained, “We’re getting matching bands from this cool custom jewelry shop. See, the engraving on the band? It’s a Celtic cross.”

“When’s the big day?” Sarah asked, feeling the lump from earlier lodge again in her throat.

“We both really want a June wedding, which means I’ve got to pull this together fast.”

Liz blinked. “June! But we’re almost out of May.”

“I know, I know, but I have to feel that if it’s meant to be, we’ll get into someplace.”

The group disbanded. Only Peter hung around. Even after Liz excused herself to lie down, he stayed. Sarah had the weird sense that he was deliberately dawdling in order to get her alone. Her instinct proved to be on the mark.

Drying the last of the dishes, he said, “Sarah, I didn’t want to ask this in front of the others, in case you might want an out.”

“An out to what?” she asked, putting the leftover cookies back in their box.

“I know we’ve only known each other a short while, but I feel this incredible bond with you, like we’re members of the same soul group or . . . something. Anyway, you’ve been so sweet and supportive, and . . . well, I was hoping . . . Is there any chance you might consider . . .” From across the small kitchen, he sent her a helpless look.

Laughing, Sarah said, “Peter, please just ask me whatever.”

“Would you be my attendant? You know, my best . . . woman?”

Blown away, she blurted out, “Oh, Peter, I’m so honored you’d ask me. Of course I will. I’ll even wear a tuxedo if you want.”

He chuckled. “I’m sure you look amazing in tails, but a nice dress will be fine for City Hall.”

“You’re getting married downtown then?” A municipal wedding didn’t quite seem to live up to the fairytale, but then Sarah supposed that their being able to legally marry was such a dream-come-true that the setting scarcely seemed to matter.

He nodded. “With Pol being Catholic, me being a lapsed Jew, and both of us being gay, a church wedding doesn’t seem . . . realistic. But we want to make up for it with a reception somewhere fabulous.”

“We’ll put our heads together and come up with the perfect place,” she promised, turning over the possibilities in her mind.

If she struck out, she could always ask Cole. He didn’t like to trade on his family name, but he still had a lot of connections. She wasn’t above bending his ear on behalf of her friend. If anyone could get them a booking on short notice, it would be him.

Her cell phone dinged, signaling a new text message. Curious, she excused herself to get her bag from the living room. Digging out the phone, she saw the text was from Cole. Her heart leapt even before she opened his message.

Tomorrow nite at 9. Ready to get . . . Whipped and Creamed
.

In so many ways, that film represented the apex of her career. She’d won an AVA Best Actress Award for it. Not only had she starred in it, but she’d also produced it. And in twenty-four hours she’d get to revisit her breakout role as the insatiable sex therapist-cum-dominatrix with a real-life lover—Cole.

A throat being cleared had her looking up to Peter, who’d followed her over. “Judging from the expression on your face, that must be something really good—or should I say
someone
?” he added with a sly smile.

For the first time since the failed détente with her dad, Sarah found her smile. “It is,” she admitted, dropping the phone back into her bag. “As I was starting to say, don’t stress about finding a venue for the reception. If all else fails, I know a guy.”

Cole lay on his back in the center of Sarah’s bed, bloodied sweat rolling down his sides. His arms were stretched high above his head, his wrists manacled in leather, the leashes leading away and securely fastened to the metal rungs of the headboard. The leather collar cinched securely around his neck, not tight enough to strangle but enough to make him acutely aware of every precious swallow. His shoulders, stomach, and outer thighs wore an expert cross stitch pattern of fine, red welts. The perspiring he was doing potentiated a subtly satisfying sting. The flogger, fashioned to resemble a riding crop, lay on the carpet, cast aside in favor of the vibrator Sarah now wielded. Following from the film, she would use the toy to pleasure herself while leaving her “patient” wanting and helpless, forced to watch until he finally succumbed to the onslaught of indirect stimulation. The “facial” she would give him with his spent seed would be the final humiliation. Sarah didn’t yet know it, but Cole had a very different ending in mind.

Straddling him, she wore blood-red lipstick and the skimpy leather dominatrix outfit he’d bought for her the other week: vinyl zip-front corset, lace-up garter belt, and black silk stockings—and absolutely nothing underneath. Leaving her cunt uncovered was calculated to further fuck with his mind. Her pussy loomed, pink and pulsing, succulent and slick, forbidden fruit that, according to the film, he would be allowed no more than a nibble of.

Sweat slick and rock hard, he couldn’t remember ever being quite this completely, painfully aroused. But then a woman of the world having her wicked way with him had long been a fantasy of his, even before he’d watched
Whipped and Creamed
for the first of probably a hundred times. The fetish had begun with
The Graduate
. If he’d been the dorky Dustin Hoffman character, he would have stayed with Mrs. Robinson and left her bland daughter behind.

New York had no shortage of women game for unleashing their inner bitch. Unfortunately it wasn’t every woman who could sell it. Post-
Fifty Shades of Grey
, Manhattan socialites collected designer floggers as once they’d done vintage jewelry and couture evening clutches, but it didn’t necessarily follow that they knew what to do with the equipment—or him. He’d experimented with Candace a few times. She’d gotten into the dressing up and talking dirty, but that was about it. After a few flicks of the flogger, she’d complained that her arm was getting tired, the game was boring, and couldn’t they move on to the main event?

Sarah’s striking arm hadn’t tired, at least not that she’d let on. Small though she was, she was also impressively strong and splendidly skilled. She’d begun by teasing the suede tails over him—his shoulders, his belly, his cock. The tickling had segued to light lashing that had warmed his blood, heightening every sensation. Once she’d begun whipping him in earnest, she’d done so with an expert hand, steering clear of danger zones such as his face, heart, and kidneys. Knowing he was in such capable hands had enabled him to immerse himself without worry.

Far from appearing impatient or bored, she was totally into it, the role-play, the power exchange—him. Being on the receiving side of a professional porn star—okay,
former
porn star’s—single-minded focus was heady stuff.

He lifted his head from the banked pillows. “You’re pissed off about something, so use it. Use me.”

This wasn’t all acting. Something was eating at her. He’d picked up on it as soon as he’d arrived, asked her about it before they’d gotten anywhere near the bed. She’d shrugged off his concern, told him not to waste her time. “Do you want to get whipped and creamed or don’t you?” she’d demanded sharply, and even though he’d come to think of them as friends, Cole hadn’t had the willpower to resist.