Sugar Daddy (18 page)

I nodded.

Centering on my lips, he spread them apart, spearing me with both thumbs. “How about this?”

“Oh my fucking God.” Wet heat spilled from me.

Diving his tongue inside me, he nosed my tight nub. “How long since a man touched you like this?”

I hauled his head up. “There’s only been Palmer. And not for a very long time.”

Between rough laps through my slit and long sucks at my clit, he said, “The things I’m gonna do to you, Shay.”

The windows fogged; my hands clawed the seating. He plucked and teased until I had him in a chokehold between my thighs. He snacked on me–nibbles and bites–murmuring against my labia. His chin damp, his lips swollen, he smiled. “Gonna get right inside you.”

His shoulders bulking, he shoved my thighs over his arms, lips rough against my aroused pink ones, tongue inflaming me, tasting me, rolling inside me until his hooked fingers joined the chase.

“Oh yeah!” My heels punched the roof, my hips gyrated against his mouth while he pumped me with two and three fingers. I grabbed his wrist, babbling when he turned his fingers to dive so fucking hard.

The giant wave of my orgasm obliterated all the bones in my body. I hung onto his hands and his hair, driving him into me.

He sat back on spread knees. His lips were shiny when he brought his fingers inside them, greedily tasting me.

I couldn’t wait to get to him. Cruising over his clenching abdomen, I kissed his chest, running my tongue to his belly.

“Shay.”

“Shut up.”

Apparently he was also of the gift horse mentality, because a few seconds later I was blessed with the sight of him. And I’d never wanted a camera phone more.

His cock leaped when I barely touched him. He sucked in a breath, harshly laughing, “This won’t take long.”

“Now that’s beautiful.” I held his weight in my hand, lightly stroking a few times before taking him faster. He thrust into my fist and I stopped. “You never decided.”

Disbelief cracked his voice. “What?”

“Handjob or blowjob.” I pursed my mouth above the swollen tip, running my tongue around his head, tapping the tiny slit.

He lowered me to him. “Suck me.”

Oh
, he filled my mouth. I moaned around him, taking my time, tasting each raised vein and the thick shelf of his head. Fondling his sac and gripping the base, I concentrated on his tip until his muscles turned rigid as rock, and his release jetted into my mouth.

His handprint was visible in the steam on the window where he’d slapped the glass. Our clothes strewn all over the cab. Planting his hands on my ass, Reardon toppled me forward for a ferocious kiss.

I snuck into the warm hollow of his shoulder. “Hottest backseat action ever, baby.”

* * * *

More subdued than last week, Jane met me in the cafe.

Her skin sallow, her eyes a bruised purple color.

I asked, “Bad week?”

“Bad few years.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.”

I understood that.

Mostly we discussed girly things: the agony of being a woman and all things rip, dip, and clip. Our mutual love of Walgreens over the CVS, our hatred of time wasting manicures that never lasted past the first dishwashing.

She became more animated as we talked until we were laughing about stupid shit.

Her phone ringing, she excused herself.

Deflated again, she returned.

“Husband?”

She turned off the cell. “Brother. Or bother, I should say.” She shook her head to herself. “Sometimes he’s so up his own ass, you know?”

“Not really.”

“Only child?”

“Yeah.”

“Siblings can be a pain, but we’re lucky, really.” Sadness sloped her shoulders. “Mostly.”

My cell bleeped next.

I smiled at the name on the screen.

Jane sat up. “Husband?”

“Definitely not.

“Someone else?” She leaned forward.

“Long story.”

“Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.”

I didn’t know if she understood or not, but she didn’t ask any more questions while I checked Reardon’s text:

Cocktail Reception at Tides, Saturday.

Wanting you. That night, the truck, Shay…

Lessons in comportment, starting Friday.

Reardon Boone

CEO Radaman-Slaughter

Sent from my iPhone

Lessons in comportment?

I’d show him comportment, with my stiletto shoved up his fine ass.

Chapter 8

Host with the Most

My training in comportment went down about as well as the time I’d crushed my vibrator into submission with too much lustful enthusiasm. DOA.

Reardon interrupted me and Miss Temperance, spotting me tilted back in the Louis-whatever non-reproduction chair, shuffling oodles of cutlery like it was a deck of cards. He took over my lessons in his office, minus Temperance’s input on fine china versus Chinet.

Because I still wanted to put my foot somewhere–in my mouth, apparently–I asked if he had any children.

“You think you wouldn’t know if I had children? You think I’d be such a terrible father I’d farm my kids off?” His inscrutable expression coupled with the sour words had me backpedalling.

Not very far. All I managed was a pathetic mutter. “No, I mean, yes. I mean...I didn’t mean…”

The subject of family once again off the table, he barged forward, in full biz mode, informing me Slaughter would be at the event, and he didn’t want me alone with him.

“Christ
,
Reardon. How can you work with someone you have no faith in?”

“There’s a difference between faith and trust, Shay. I trust him with our business,
I have trusted him with the lives of my family.” He shoved away from his desk. “Promise me you’ll stay away from him.”

All I could do was nod.

Good footing, right?

Sure
. But in my next breath, I tactlessly asked, “How much are ya worth, anyway?”

Cue the upright posture and pursed lips. “I’m not in the habit of discussing my financial portfolio.”

My enormous eye-rolling might’ve been over the top. But he got the picture.

Taking off his glasses, he planted his arms on the desk. “I trust you, Shay. I have faith in you.” He pried his fingers apart and pulled my hand into his. “And that scares the hell out of me.”

Fantastic. We were two fucked up freaks in a peapod
.

He kissed my fingertips and clasped my hand to his cheek so my fabulously displayed cleavage was in his face. Still, he managed to keep his eyes on mine. “I know you’re not in it for the money.”
Money shot, maybe.
His undertone full of disbelief, he grumbled, “Took you a damn week to cash your first paycheck.”

When his eyes went to the prize staring him in the face, I fired off, “So are we talkin’
Fortune
500
rich?”

“
Forbes
400,” he corrected.

“Whatever
.
And?”

“Not quite, but I have enough to get by.” And buy the goddamn Love Boat aka
Ransome III
.
“Enough to look after my own.”

His rightful pride was provocative. His well-deserved arrogance made me tingly. Perfect
.
He was ripe for a lap dance. I’d been promising for ages, at least a month.

“Glasses back on,” I commanded.

“What?”

“You heard me. They’re hot.” Quickly unbuttoning his shirt, dragging his tie out of the way, I pinned his wrists with the shirtsleeves.

Reardon’s seductive scowl was supposed to scare me. The only thing frightening me was the imminent explosion in my so-called nether regions.

“What are you doing?” Suspicion gave way to arousal, excitement tinting his cheeks.

“No questions.”

He shuttled the chair back to make room, lifting bound wrists behind his head, hooking fingers over the back of the chair.

Dragging a fingernail over his lips, I fed off his heat.

“You taking control?”

I parted his legs, yanked his tie, and gyrated from the floor to his thighs. “You need to let loose, baby.” I swooped my ass to his groin. “No more dicktation. Give.” I swayed into him.

He shivered under me, wrestling out of the shirt, his palms gripping my hips.

“And I’ll take.”

’Course the lap dance escalated to out-of-control, clothes askew, full-body contact. My demand for his obedience ended with me upended, suspended between his cock and the desktop, his fingers rasping my nipples, when a goddamned knock-knock-knock sounded on the door.

I bit my lip over fucktus interruptus, pulling my knees aside, clasping his shaft with absolute aim.

In a husky voice, Reardon called, “Yes?”

“The party planner is here, Mr. Boone.”

Party pooper, more like
.

The hot head of his hard shaft rolled against my entrance.

He stroked away. I followed. He swallowed hard.

He placed one hand on the desk, the other smoothing my skirt into place. “You do know I wouldn’t make love to you the first time on my desk, right, Shay?”

Yeah, you keep tellin’ yourself that, buddy.

We were almost dressed, a shirt button or two missed, when Augie–Augie!–entered the room.

Crap, shit, fuck, no.

His appearance–decorator extraordinaire, all around busybody, and basically my best friend–had me miming the shit of out of the telling situation.

Taking one look at my off-kilter blouse, he raised an eyebrow over the stilettos and made a face that said,
“Ooh, Miss Shay. Addy was right. Workin’ for the man.”

Cutting a finger across my throat, I made it plain I didn’t want Reardon to know about our friendship. And vice versa. Etcetera. Whatever.

The meeting was fraught, but Augie kept quiet.

He stared at Reardon’s ass too much for my liking.

Walking him out, as a pro PA would do, I expected a lecture, or high-fives.

“This your job?”

“Yep.”

“Palmer know?”

I shifted away. “Don’t you make me feel worse than I already do.”

“I only want you to be right about this.”

“You’re such a shit. Bangin’ on about me gettin’ banged and then–”

“Has he?”

“Not quite, thank you very much.”

His laughter boomed. “Color me jealous.”

“Really?”

“You gotta be jokin’. If I’m not mistaken by your head-to-toe flush, y’all have actually touched Reardon’s royal jewels, right?”

Hugging his arm, I bit my lip. All confirmation he needed.

“Yeah, exactly.”

Augie’s crush on Reardon
Sugah Dade
Boone almost rivaled mine.

“I swear, if you breathe a word of this to anybody–and by anybody I mean Addy–I’ll shatter all twelve place settings you picked out for your imaginary nuptials with Prince Harry.”

He sent a prayer to Heaven, “Not the trousseau china!”