Sugar (9 page)

Suddenly ravenous, Sarah tore off a stalk of celery from the bunch and bit in, the briny juice squirting into her mouth. The salty taste reminded her vaguely of Cole. Assuming he stuck around for a while, she looked forward to having him come in her mouth on occasion.

Imagining his spray striking the back of her throat, she swallowed—hard. “I have a proposition for you?”

The glint in his eye was back, as was the boner pressing against his pants. “A proposition, huh? I like the sound of that.”

Swallowing, she said, “Hadn’t you better wait until you hear it?”

“Okay, let’s have it.”

“You can walk away now, and we never see each other again, or you can stick around for a sex-only relationship strictly behind-the-scenes.”

A black brow lifted. “Are we talking exclusivity?”

Sarah hesitated, mulling that over. “For safety’s sake, that would probably be best—but only for the time we’re together. Once one or both of us gets bored, we go our separate ways, no drama, no hurt feelings.”

“What kind of sex are we talking about? All the flavors?”

She nodded, feeling her panties dampen. “The whole freezer case, provided whatever we do is safe, consensual, and discussed in advance. Oh, and we both need to get tested.”

By law Sarah had had to be screened monthly for HIV and other STDs in order to have on-camera sex. That along with the passage of Los Angeles County’s Measure B mandating condom use on all porn film sets made her a much safer bet than the socialites, bottle girls, and barflies a guy like Cole ordinarily hit on. If anyone had taken a risk last night, it was her.

His face registered astonishment. “Let me get this straight, you want
me
to get an HIV test?” He thumped a hand to his chest.

Sarah nodded. Sucking him off sans protection the night before hadn’t been her most brilliant move, but there was no point in beating herself up about it—or in continuing to be careless. “Unless you’ve been living like a monk before last night, which I seriously doubt, then yes. Besides, once you have the results, unless you also start sleeping with someone else, you can deep-six the condoms. I’m on the pill.”

As she’d anticipated, the condom-free sex sold it. He nodded. “Fair enough, I’ll make an appointment and go first thing on Monday.”

Could it really be this easy? All the angst people went through over relationships, the online dating sites, the endless search for that perfect someone that might or might not exist. Had she and Cole just reduced all the heartache and hassle to a straightforward contractual arrangement?

“Great, I will, too,” Sarah said. Having polished off the celery, she wiped her hands on a towel.

Cole hesitated. “I’d like to suggest a . . . modification.”

Sarah went into instant alert mode. Damn, she’d known it was too good to be true. In her experience, conditions meant caveats, and for the person on the receiving end, they never meant much good.

Bracing herself for a deal buster, she asked, “Really, and what’s that?”

“We act out the scripts from your films, one boy-girl scene per film.”

Sarah relaxed her shoulders, the rest of her body following. His suggestion held enormous appeal. No one, not even Liz, knew it, but she’d never come on camera. It had all been acting. Having Cole as her friend with benefits would be a golden opportunity to revisit—and reclaim—each filmed scenario, this time purely for pleasure—hers.

“You do realize I’ve done a hundred films?”

A smart-ass smile broke over his face. “In that case, consider it a career retrospective.”

“Even if we met every night, it would take more than three months to go through all the roles.”

He shrugged. “I have some time. Any thoughts on where you’d like to start?”

It was Sarah’s turn to smile. “We start by having dinner.”

“I can’t believe you cook,” Cole said, following her over to the stove, a stupid statement since she was doing exactly that and with a fair level of expertise from what he could see. The way she took command of her closet-sized kitchen, marshalling her un-matched pots and pans and random cutlery, reminded him of Rachel Ray.

Turned away to puree the tomatoes she’d just finished peeling, Sarah answered with a shimmy of slender shoulders, a subtle movement that wreaked havoc with his reason—and his erection. The latter had throbbed to life more or less the moment he’d crossed her threshold. Her simple white cotton T-shirt, skinny jeans, and flat sandals turned him on far more than the couture his usual “dates” draped themselves in.

“Porn stars have to eat just like everyone else, besides I’m part Italian. This spaghetti sauce is my grandmother’s recipe,” she added, turning away to stir the pot and inadvertently giving him a full-on view of her sexy, spankable backside—or maybe not so inadvertently. Considering her background, had she maybe planned it?

The prospect pissed him off. Growing up under the rule of a manipulative mother—his made Margaret Thatcher seem like a cuddle bear—that a woman might be playing him made him all kinds of crazy, especially
this
woman.

He resolved to keep his gaze high and his hard-on in check, at least until they’d finished with the formality of the meal. “Right, keep up your strength.”

She dropped the wooden spoon. “Son of a bitch!” Whirling, she reached out and punched him in the arm—hard.

“What was that about?”

Pretending to be hurt, he made a show of rubbing the sore spot. What he really wanted to fondle stood squarely in front of him, a petite, bristling blonde whose proud, perfect breasts, he knew from last night, fitted his palms like she’d been fashioned for him.

“Consider it a reminder,” she shot back, her beautiful eyes aiming arrows. “Better yet, a warning.”

“Of?” he asked, beginning to enjoy their cat-and-mouse game, wondering if tonight’s play would lead them to bed before dinner rather than after. As amazing as her grandmother’s secret recipe smelled and probably tasted, it wasn’t food that would satisfy him.

She didn’t back down, not that he’d expected her to. “A warning not to be an asshole,” she answered. Her steely gaze and lifted chin reminded him that he wasn’t the only one of them invested in keeping their “relationship” as strictly sex only. “Just because we’re fucking just for fun doesn’t mean you have a Get out of Jail Free card to treat me like shit. So, let’s be sure to keep the ‘buddy’ in fuck buddy, okay?”

She stretched out her hand. Small and slender, the medium-length nails painted with clear polish, it could as easily have belonged to an elementary school teacher as it did to her—a world famous porn star.

He reached out and wrapped his own, much larger hand around her fragile wrist. Feeling her pulse hammering beneath the pad of his thumb, Cole found his smile. She might try playing things all bad ass and cool, but the truth was she wanted him as much as he did her. Before the night was through, she was going to get him—all of him.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

In one clean, swift, calculated movement, Cole jerked her toward him, crushing her body to his.

It was a good thing Grandma Campanelli’s sauce called for several hours of simmering. Sarah and Cole’s first scripted encounter proved to be even more intense than the previous night. Rested and unrushed, they took their time easing into their first reenacted movie scene.

Straddling him on the sheet-covered couch, Sarah asked, “Coach Runk, must I?”

Loosely based on the seventies classic
Debbie Does Dallas, Cheerleaders in Love
was one of Sarah’s early films. The dialogue was on the silly side, but the simulated power exchange between the sexy, older football coach and her character, Nicole, the virginal captain of the cheerleading squad, was a favorite with diehard fans. Acting it with Cole sans film crew watching felt more exciting and . . . real than Sarah would have imagined. Unfortunately she hadn’t had any pom-poms lying about. A pullover sweater, pleated white tennis skirt, and side ponytails tied with red ribbon were her improvised cheerleading costume. The loveseat in her living room served as the sofa in the coach’s office.

Sitting on its edge, his dampened hair combed back from his forehead, Cole stared up at her. “I’m a busy man, Nicole. I have a football team to coach. Do you want to go to Paris with your class in the fall or don’t you?” His tone struck just the right chord of sexy severity.

“Oh, I do,” Sarah simpered, slipping more deeply into her role. She’d always gotten off on kneeling, and the couch burn on her already bruised knees only seasoned her excitement. “It’s just . . . I’m going steady with Matt. He gave me his varsity jacket to wear, and I don’t know if it would be right—”

“Do you want to earn this or not?”

A folded fifty materialized between his index and forefinger. Holding it out, he tempted her with the money—and his smoldering stare.

She nodded solemnly. “I do. I want . . . to see Paris so badly.”

He brought the Benjamin higher, just beyond her reach. “Then stop stalling and show me your breasts.”

“O-okay.” Descending deeper into the fantasy, she felt her mouth trembling as though she really was Nicole, about to relinquish her purity for the possibility of Paris.

Recalling her first time seeing the Eiffel Tower and strolling along the Seine, Sarah couldn’t blame her. A stunning, magical city, Paris existed for lovers. She’d bought her first, and so far, only overseas property on its Left Bank, a balconied pied-à-terre in Saint-Germain-desPrés, with the thought that it would make a great honeymoon hideaway. She’d taken Danny there a time or two, but the short trips had been far from fairytale. She’d promised herself that her next visit would be with a man she truly loved who loved her back.

The wistful thought fueled “Nicole’s” heavy sigh. She snagged the hem of her sweater and slowly lifted it, pulling it over her head and off. She wore nothing beneath—that was the point. Dropping the garment to the floor, she looked back at Cole. Though he’d lavished her breasts with plenty of attention last night, this was the first time “Coach Runk” was seeing them. The intensity of his stare brought Sarah budding.

His broad chest rose and fell sharply, as if breathing had become an effort rather than an automatic response. “Very pretty.” His hand holding the money hovered between them. The other fisted at his side. Sarah drew back, allowing him to look his fill. When he was ready, he reached for her. Slowly, very slowly, he dragged the edge of the folded bill across her left nipple. It was new money, the paper crisp and fresh-smelling, as though recently minted. It scraped across her sensitive skin, back and forth, side to side, circles, soft and slow, hard and fast, again and again. It was Sarah’s turn to struggle with breath. The small room suddenly felt very warm—burning. Bracketed by her thighs, Cole’s jeans-clad hips shifted. A massive erection tented his pants and shoved against his zipper. Another flick, this time over her right nipple, tore a sob from her throat. Moisture dampened her panties. A strumming ache settled low in her loins. How was it possible to be this turned on this soon?

During the filming, the byplay with the bill had done nothing for her, the chafing mostly annoying, even uncomfortable. But with Cole as Coach Runk, suddenly Sarah saw what her younger actor self had missed. After all these years, she got it. Nicole didn’t only want to go to Paris. She wanted to go with the knowledge that she’d afforded the trip by prostituting herself to the sexy, worldly coach, first by stripping and then by selling him various favors for which he had to explicitly ask— and pay. Cole’s character might hold the money, but Sarah’s cheerleader held all the cards. The moment she’d taken off her top, she was the one with all the power.

Owning it, she cinched her thighs tighter around him. The short, pleated skirt bunched at her waist, exposing damp thighs and a peak of her panties. Locking her gaze on Cole’s, she took the folded money— and slipped it inside the front of the thong.

Cole swallowed—hard. He dragged his gaze up to hers, his eyes fevered. “Fuck yourself for me. Fuck yourself
on
me.” Despite the command, his voice came out ragged.

Sarah didn’t hesitate and not only because it was in the script. Scarcely able to wait, she rose up, shifting position to ride his leg. Seating herself over his erection, she anchored her hands to the shelf of his shoulders. He shoved the skirt up to her waist and locked his hands on her hips. Heart racing, Sarah looked down. The thong she wore was a whisper of silk, the see-through crotch slit for easy access, the beaded strip bisecting her buttocks, grazing her anus. As if reading her mind, Cole reached behind her, slipping his fingers beneath the beads. A sharp tug sent her bucking, the metal biting into her ass, a thrill thrumming through her.