Sugar (8 page)

His thoughts circled back to Sarah. Since Iraq whatever allure a woman held for him dissipated once he’d had her, but with her their night together had only whetted his appetite for more—much more. Thinking of all the things he still wanted to do with her, he felt himself firming yet again—and seriously considering seeing her a second time.

Hours flew by. He looked up and realized he’d winnowed the towers down to a final few boxes. The next to last held his old porn DVDs. God, he’d all but forgotten he had this stuff. Like the cigarettes, the adult films had gotten him and his buddies through the tedium and stress of being bunkered. Though he didn’t need the movies now, he also wasn’t sure what to do with them. It’s not like he could drop them off at the Salvation Army or Goodwill. Should he toss them down the trash chute or maybe leave out the box with a note, Free to Good Home? For old time’s sake, he shuffled through the box covers, thinking maybe he’d hold onto a few of his favorites as mementos—or a backup plan in case the city saw a mass exodus of cocktail hostesses and bottle girls. All his videos starred the actress known as Sugar. Once he’d seen his first film of hers, there was no need to explore further. He’d been hooked. Whether playing the innocent ingénue or the worldly whip-cracking dominatrix, she could sell it like no other porn diva. He took out one of his favorites,
Whipped and Creamed
. The DVD case pictured a whip-wielding Sugar, her gorgeous body flanked in skimpy black-leather bondage wear, her blond hair flowing about her slender shoulders, her gaze intense as she appeared poised to crack the flogger over a pair of bare male buttocks. But as always, it was her face that got him—the curve of her cheek, the lushness of her lips, and the intensity glowing from her emerald-colored eyes, ever so slightly upswept at the corners.

Emerald-colored eyes just like the ones he’d spent most of that morning gazing into!

Holding the DVD aloft, it hit him. No wonder Sarah had seemed so familiar. Either she was Sugar, the internationally famous porn star, or her doppelganger. The decade in LA, her paranoia about his cell phone, and, weirdest of all, her freezing up instead of calling 911, all pointed to the former. She hadn’t wanted to report the mugging, because involving the police would almost certainly have meant leaking her presence in New York to the press.

Once he got over the shock, he realized he’d just struck the equivalent of sexual pay dirt. Who better to explore his kinky fantasies with than a porn star? Unlike the other women he’d been with since his homecoming, Sarah wasn’t going to cling. She wasn’t going to pressure him to make promises. She wasn’t going to beg and plead, threaten and cajole him into committing to a future, because she didn’t want a relationship any more than he did.

Resting back on his heels, Cole decided. He wasn’t yet done with Sarah—Sugar—not nearly. Now that he knew the previous night was only a taste of the sexual buffet to be had, he was determined to sample each and every spicy, hot dish.

Drained from her day at the hospital, Sarah also felt guilty about all the times her thoughts had drifted to Cole, her mind ablaze with hot scenes recalled from the previous incredible night. He had amazing cock control, serious stamina. Given how long he’d gone down on her in the kitchen, she hadn’t expected him to last beyond the blow job. The deep throating she’d added at the end would have sent more than a few professional actors over the edge but not Cole.

Even once he’d penetrated her, he’d managed to take them to the edge and then pull back again and again. By the time he’d finally let himself pop, the sky outside her window was lightening. She hadn’t intended for him to stay, let alone to fall asleep in his arms. Both had just . . . happened. Though she wasn’t usually much for cuddling, curling up beside him had felt . . . right, as well as really good.

Above all, Liz being so sick drove home what a mistake it was to live for “someday.” The present was all anyone had. If Sarah had doubted that before, seeing her friend hooked up to that chemo pump had convinced her.

Unfortunately given what she’d discovered about Cole’s pedigree and position, their one night would have to last her. Mulling over those morose thoughts, she’d got Liz settled back home, grabbed some groceries, and walked back to her apartment on Elizabeth Street. She’d chosen the fifth floor loft in a converted turn-of-the-century brownstone primarily for its proximity to Liz’s, about a five minutes’ walk, and because she’d been able to sublet it for six months instead of the usual year. Six hundred and fifty square feet was
a lot
less space than she was used to, but high ceilings and period details made it seem roomier. Beyond the practical considerations, she just really liked the funky, artsy vibe of Soho. After a decade in LA, she appreciated how easy it was to walk almost anywhere rather than being in a car stuck in gridlock. On her block alone, there were numerous art galleries, boutiques, and cafes, most of which she’d yet to explore.

Approaching, she spotted an athletically built, dark-haired man sitting on her top step, head downturned and muscular arms extended forward in a stretch. Sarah tensed. He was too well dressed to be a deliveryman even if he hadn’t been empty handed, and she didn’t think he was one of her neighbors. Was it possible he was a reporter? Even though she’d held off from reporting the previous evening’s mugging, any number of bystanders might have snapped her photo. She hadn’t noticed anything unusual on her Twitter traffic, but still . . . Slowing her stride, she took several seconds before registering that the waiting man was Cole.

Relieved, she drew up at the base of the steps. If possible, her sexy rescuer looked even better in daylight. Today’s ensemble was a collarless T-shirt, Diesel jeans, and sandals. She’d never thought of herself as having a fetish for feet, and yet the sight of his long, slender toes struck her as unbelievably erotic.

Lifting his head, he unfolded his long body and stood. “I’m not stalking you if that’s what you’re thinking.”

The joke struck a chord of genuine alarm. “That’s not funny.”

“Sorry,” he said, walking down to meet her. “I just want to talk to you.”

She crossed her arms across her chest, a shield against her heart’s wild pumping. “So talk.”

Joining her on the sidewalk, he gestured to the building at his back. “Can I come in for a few minutes? I won’t stay long—unless you ask me to.”

As much as she hated to concede it, his in-your-face confidence was totally justified. The night before, he’d been amazing, a fucking machine. But if she were honest with herself, it was the frequent flashes of tenderness that had really gotten to her, as much or more than the size of his cock and the fact that he really,
really
knew how to use it.

“Ha, dream on!” She might already be moist at the sight of him— she
was
moist, but he didn’t need to know that.

“You know, you don’t always have to be such a hard ass.” Before she registered what he was doing, he’d commandeered the grocery bags and started back up.

Left with no choice, she followed. The elevator was a relic of a bygone era, a European-style lift barely big enough for two, originally installed for an earlier wheelchair-bound owner when the house was still a single family residence and not subdivided into apartments. Fortunately it was working today. They pulled back on the caged door, stepped inside, and rode up to the fifth floor in silence.

Inside her place, he set the groceries on her counter. Thinking about what had gone down there last night, Sarah whisked inside the kitchen and began putting away the perishables.

He waited for her to finish before starting in, “About last night—”

Sarah shoved the bag of broccoli into the bin. “We fucked, end of story.” She slammed the refrigerator door and straightened.

His blue eyes glinted. Sarah had the disconcerting sense that he wasn’t only mentally undressing her but seeing through to her soul. “It doesn’t have to be the end. There could be another chapter—or two.” One corner of his mouth kicked up.

Thinking about how good it would feel to slap his smile away, she rested her fisted hands on her hips to keep him from seeing their shaking. “Really? And how do you figure that? You see, I know who you are or rather what you are?”

For a few seconds, his handsome face registered shock. Recovering, he asked, “Yeah, what am I?”

Jesus, did they really have to have this conversation? “A blue-blood, old money. Growing up, you probably spent every summer in the Hamptons.”

He shrugged. “Most of ‘em, why? You got something against the beach?”

She ignored him. “Oh, and a war hero, we can’t forget that.”

The scoffing comment sent his face freezing. Obviously she’d struck a nerve, a major one. Even though the counter stood between them, instinct sent Sarah backing up.

“You can cut the hero crap,” he hissed, his fierceness confirming she hadn’t only crossed a line but vaulted over it. “I did my job, I served my country to the best of my ability, and then I came home—in one piece. You want to talk to a real hero, go see my former teammate, Joe, at Walter Reed in DC. He doesn’t have legs anymore, but he’s learning to get around on prosthetics. Bionic stilts, he calls them. He kinda moves like R2D2, but on the bonus side, I guess he doesn’t have to worry about blisters.”

The self-loathing lacing his tone took her aback. Yet again it hit her there might be more to Cole Canning than the privileged party boy she’d first met in the bodega. It wasn’t only his buddy, Joe, who’d been wounded. Cole’s big, beautiful body might be unscathed, but he obviously bore deep emotional scars.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”

Sarah never had the chance to finish. “Save it, Sherlock.” Cole’s eyes burned into hers. “Because I know who—what—you are too. Or do you prefer I use your professional name . . .
Sugar
?”

H
e
knew
! Panic seized Sarah. Had he outed her online? Last night she’d taken his phone, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have sent a Tweet or posted a status update on Facebook once he’d gotten it back that morning. New York entertainment reporters were pussies compared to LA paparazzi, but if they knew she was in the city, it wouldn’t take them long to track down her rental and stake out the building. For all she knew, someone was on it already.

“You son-of-a-bitch.”

Cole smiled. Obviously savoring having the upper hand, he picked up an apple from the counter and tore off a big bite. Mouth full, he went on, “I’m your biggest fan, or at least one of them. Last night I knew I’d seen you somewhere before, but I couldn’t place where. It was like we’d met, and yet we hadn’t. I was going through some stuff in my apartment, and I came across a box of DVDs—your movies. I would have brought a couple so you could autograph the boxes but knowing how prickly you can be, I didn’t want to presume.”

Sarah rested a fisted hand on either hip. “What are you going to do?”

A lifting of black brows greeted her question. Chewing, he took his sweet time in answering, “Well, I’m not going to TMZ if that’s what you’re worried about. Given you obviously Googled me, you must know I don’t need the money or the media attention.”

As a Canning living in New York, he would have an abundance of both. It didn’t hurt that he was young and hot and heralded as a hero. Still, sometimes people did crazy, illogical things for no apparent reason, and Sarah’s safety was at stake. Tipping off the media meant tipping off her stalker as well. Even a casual comment made in passing could bring heavy consequences. If he’d talked, or worse bragged, about sleeping with her, she needed to know.

Pointedly she demanded, “Have you told
anyone
?”

Biting off more of the fruit, he shrugged. “The only person I’ve talked to since I last saw you is Carlos . . . my doorman. We exchanged
opinions
on the Yankees versus the Red Sox—he’s from Boston—but that’s about it.” Swallowing, he added, “What makes you so sure I’m going to out you?”

She was the world’s highest-paid porn star, as well as the only female actor in her industry to launch her own production company. Did he really imagine she’d gotten to that level by being dim? “I dunno, let me think. Bragging rights?”

Tossing the apple core into the can, he looked at her askance. “Do I seem like a guy who needs to come up with shit to brag about?”

He had her there. “No,” she admitted.

Even though she’d met Cole fewer than twenty-four hours ago, he struck her as a lone wolf, not a pack animal. Last night he’d been out by himself. He’d just admitted he’d been on his own again today. More to the point, he couldn’t out her without outing himself. Considering his social standing and position in the philanthropic community, sleeping with a porn star would be seriously bad press.

But the problem of Cole Canning remained and not only because he was once again inside her apartment. She couldn’t undo meeting him, even if she wanted to—and to be honest she wouldn’t want to. More than just sex, their night together stood as a powerful symbol of reclaiming her sexuality, her body, as hers alone. Maybe there was a way to turn the situation into a win-win. She was a former porn star living incognito and looking for a partner she could trust to pleasure her privately and discreetly. Cole was a rich guy with a sexual appetite to match hers and a similar desire for discretion. Based on the previous night, they were compatible—okay, incredible—together in bed. As long as they stuck to their mutually agreed upon rule of no-strings-attached sex, there was no reason the situation couldn’t work brilliantly for them both.