Sugar (15 page)

“Does nothing have a name?” Sliding off the stool, he reached for the laptop.

He was fast, but Sarah was faster. She dove, grabbing the Netbook and snapping it closed. Holding it behind her back, she said, “N-not . . . yet.”

Cole rounded the breakfast bar and joined her in the kitchen. Based on the blush climbing her cheeks, whatever was on that laptop screen must be pretty personal. If she were anyone else, he’d assume she was hiding porn—only Sarah didn’t hide porn. She starred in it, or at least she had until recently.

Blocking him with her body, she looked up at him with blazing eyes. “Since when are you interested in my mind?”

“I’m interested in all of you.”
Oh, shit
, he thought, mentally kicking himself, not because it was a glib lie, but because Jesus, God, it was true.

“Okay, yes, it’s sort of a . . . book.”

Was she keeping some kind of diary or . . . worse, writing some sort of tell-all? From Condoleezza Rice to Justin Bieber, celebrity memoirs seemed to appear on every bookstore and book club reading list. He thought back to their first night together and her paranoia about his phone. Was he the one of them who should have been worried?

The Cannings weren’t celebrities per se, but they were prominent players on the city’s social scene. Across the generations, any private misbehaving had stayed strictly behind-the-scenes. Cole might not give a shit about his last name, but he cared about the foundation. A charity that worked with kids couldn’t afford any sort of sexual scandal.

He forced a shrug. “What’s it about? Is it fiction or nonfiction?”
Let it be fiction!

She looked away. “You’ll laugh.”

“Why not try me?” Reaching out to cup her chin, he turned her face gently toward him. Rubbing his thumb along her cheek, he added, “Better yet, why not
trust
me?”

Green eyes looking into his, she let out a sigh. “Okay, you win. It’s a memoir . . . of my decade in LA.”

LA, as in
pre
-him. Dropping his hand, Cole let out a whoop. What a relief! “Sarah, that’s great!” Smart and funny, well-read and well-traveled, she didn’t fit any of his stereotyped expectations of a porn star, except, of course, in bed—definitely in bed.

“We’ll see. Right now I’m still mainly transcribing. I started a journal on the drive out ten years ago, and I kept it up over the years.”

He felt another inconvenient stab of male jealousy. Any memoir of hers would surely include her previous lovers, on camera and off. Not for the first time, he found himself obsessing over her number. How many men, and perhaps women too, had worshipped the beautiful body he was coming to think of as his?

“I’m not even sure it’s really a book,” she admitted.

Putting his pettiness aside, he shifted to cheerleader mode. “It’s a book. I’m sure of it. And I bet it’s going to be great. I have some publishing contacts. When you’re ready, I can put you in touch with a reputable agent to shop it for you.”

Most aspiring writers he’d met would jump on that offer, but Sarah hesitated, gnawing away at her lip. “Thanks, but I’m not anywhere close to showing it to anyone. I haven’t said anything to Liz even. You’re the only one I’ve told so far.”

The admission had Cole feeling ten feet tall. Still, he had to remember that Sarah was his fuck buddy. Beyond sticking to the boundaries they’d set, the so-called soft and hard limits, he shouldn’t care about her feelings. No one, including Sarah, expected him to log in a lot of time wondering what went on inside her head.

Only he did wonder. He did . . . care. The extent he wondered and cared and obsessed about her not only in bed but out of it set off a bevy of alarm bells. Retired or not, she would always be Sugar, her face and body recognizable around the globe. He couldn’t afford to forget that.

Still, she looked pretty damned adorable in only his shirt, most of her makeup scoured off by his kisses. He reached out and traced her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb. “Hey, ease up and leave some for me.”

She sighed. “Shit, I’m biting my lip again, aren’t I?”

Cole nodded, thinking of all the places he’d like to bite her—her neck, her breasts, and the firm lobes of her ass were all top candidates. “Yep, you are.”

“Sorry, it’s a nervous habit. I thought I’d kicked it. I hadn’t done it in years, and then some stuff happened in LA and I started . . . Well, never mind. Thanks for telling me.”

“You’re welcome.” Cole sensed there was a story there, but he was too distracted to pull it out of her. Imagining slipping his member between her pretty, pink lips, he added, “Your mouth is way too talented to waste.”

The gleam in her eyes transformed her. “You want to fuck my mouth don’t you?” Suddenly she was Sugar, the screen siren who could make men like him shoot their wad with a single, sultry look.

He nodded, feeling himself thicken. “Yeah I do.”

Sliding back and forth between her lips, having her lap him like an ice cream cone, watching her long, elegant throat working to drink him in—the images carried him close to squirting.

Reaching between them, she covered him with her hand. “And then what?”

Hunger for food forgotten, Cole skimmed a hand up her thigh, his knuckles brushing the tip of crisp curls. “Our deal is I get to have you every way you’ve done it on screen. I want your ass.” Claiming her that way was the final frontier.

She stiffened. “I only did anal in one film.”

“
Kink Ass
.” He’d watched it so many times he was surprised the DVD hadn’t disintegrated.

“I didn’t like it. It hurt me. We were running over budget, the director had us under pressure to shoot the scene fast, and we rushed it.”

Slipping a hand behind her, he stroked his index finger along the curved cleft. “You’ll like it with me. I won’t hurt you. We won’t rush. The moment something hurts, we’ll stop.
I’ll
stop. You have my word.”

“You say that now.” She rolled her eyes as if a man’s promise meant next to nothing. Was it her . . . career choice that had soured her on men or something less obvious, deeper?

He speared her gaze with his, willing her not to look away. “Have I ever lied to you, Sarah?”

She looked at him askance. “I don’t know, have you?”

“I think you know the answer to that as well as I do, but for the record, the answer is no.” He found the ring of puckered flesh with his finger and slowly circled. “Does that hurt?” he asked, already knowing her answer. Their play with the beaded thong had proved she really liked being touched there.

Sarah shivered. “No, of course not but that’s foreplay, not penetration.”

He resumed stroking. This time when he circled, his digit slid inside up to the first joint. Applying gentle pressure, he leaned in, bringing their mouths close to meeting.

She caught her breath. “We’ll have to start slowly with toys first, butt plugs. If those go okay, we can . . . negotiate penetration.”

“Fair enough,” he said, knowing he’d as good as won.

Their butt hole games would be far better than “okay.” By the time he finished with her, Sarah would be begging him to enter her ass. But they had to start somewhere. Withdrawing, he mentally mapped the layout of her loft. So far she hadn’t broken out her “goody drawer,” but it must be up there somewhere. The prospect of using toys bought and broken in by other men prompted another pang of pure jealousy, but he guessed he’d have to get over it. Considering their casual status, coming off as needy would be way uncool.

She let out a laugh. “Sorry to disappoint, Canning, but I left my toy chest back in LA. Other than a very boring, standard-model vibrator, the kink cupboard is bare.”

Feeling as though he’d just been handed a clean slate, a grin broke over his face. “In that case, put on some pants, Halliday. We’re going shopping.”

The West Village had no shortage of sexual aid and BDSM costume shops, most open late. They hadn’t had to go farther than Sixth Avenue to fulfill Cole’s wish list. Along with an array of butt plugs, they’d picked up an ass master, a flogger, and a package of clit teasers. Cole had insisted on covering everything—in cash of course. Paying with plastic would be the equivalent of Tweeting their location to
TMZ
. Baseball caps, Sarah’s glasses, and casual clothing had them blending in with their fellow Manhattanites—or so Sarah hoped. Even with all the precautions, the outing was risky business. Nearly everyone had a camera phone. All it would take was one keen-eyed store clerk or fellow shopper to take their photo and post it online, and they’d be outed. By the time they got back to Sarah’s, she was relieved to be in for the night.

Standing in the living room, Cole reached for the remote. “I almost forgot, tonight is a
Doctor Who
marathon. Would you mind if we watched?” he asked, calling out to her in the kitchen.

That he was into the BBC Sci-Fi series was yet another happy surprise. Poking her head over the counter, she looked into the living room. “
Doctor Who
is only the most awesome time-travel series ever. I’ve geeked out to it for years.”

Cole seemed surprised, too. “No shit?”

“No shit,” Sarah said, turning to punch the button on the microwave. “So which actor is your penultimate Doctor Who?” Eleven actors had played the lead role.

“Who’s yours?”

“David Tennant!” they called out together.

Sarah quickly finished reheating the meal. They carried their plates of lasagna, salad, and garlic bread out into the living room and settled onto the loveseat sofa. Later during a commercial break, she got up to make popcorn.

Cole followed her into the kitchen. “Wow, you make it the old fashioned way in a pan with oil,” he said with an approving nod. “Other than my grandma, who does that anymore?”

She looked up to find him standing just behind her, his solid warmth blanketing her back. “Microwave popcorn always tastes like Styrofoam to me. And there are some things that are still worth being old-fashioned about.”

He laid a hand on her shoulder. “Yeah, like what?”

Sarah started to answer seriously when she realized he was leaning over to leer at her breasts. So much for his supposed interest in
all
of her.

“Pervert!” Reaching around, she swatted him, which of course he loved.

Drawing back, he said, “I thought you liked that about me.”

Sarah hesitated. “I do, it’s just . . .” More and more lately, she’d caught herself fantasizing about being more than his fuck buddy.

He sobered, his blue eyes bore into hers. “Just what?” he asked, reaching out toward her.

Telling herself she was stressed out about Liz as well as lonely, she shook off both his question and the hand that accompanied it. “The show’s back on. Go in and watch. I need to finish this,” she added, overriding his protests. “You can fill me in when the commercials come on.”

She’d seen the episode if not a hundred times, certainly a lot. She’d bet he had too.

“Sure you got this?” he asked, gesturing to the stovetop.

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” She forced a grin, but her heart felt suddenly inexplicably heavy. Did he have to be so fucking perfect? So perfect and so unavailable?

Doctor Who
segued to
Buck Rogers in the 25
^th
Century
. Eyelids heavy and stomachs full, they sacked out on the sofa.

Waking up in the middle of the night to a lit room and the TV still on, she lifted her head from Cole’s chest and slid her arm from his torso. So much for a ban on sleepovers! Soft snoring confirmed he was out like the proverbial light. She thought about waking him, but he looked so peaceful and, well, cute with cushion creases on his cheek and his normally neat hair mussed that she didn’t have the heart. Besides, he’d admitted he wasn’t the best of sleepers. She eased off the cushion and stood, thinking to go upstairs and bring down an extra blanket.

Apparently he sensed her shifting. He woke, eyelids fluttering open. “What . . . time is it?”

Resigned, Sarah answered, “Bed time. Are you coming or not?”

She stretched down a hand. Taking it, he staggered to standing, still half asleep.

Sarah looped an arm about his waist. “Hold tight, we’re taking this TARDIS upstairs to bed.”

S
arah stole a look at Cole as he leaned across the restaurant table to Jonathan. “So, Jonathan, I’m figuring you for a pepperoni man. Am I right?”

“I
love
pepperoni!” Jonathan swiveled to his mom. “Can I?”

Head wrapped in a purple-print scarf, Liz smiled faintly. “You know our deal. You get to order whatever you want when we’re out.”

Looking back at Cole, Jonathan explained, “My mom’s a veggie.” He punctuated the explanation by pulling a face.

“Vegetarian,” Liz corrected with a laugh. Despite the eye makeup, blush and lipstick she’d gone to the effort to put on so as not to seem sick, she looked hollow-eyed and wan.

Casting his gaze to Jonathan, Cole took care to look suitably horrified. “Pepperoni it is.” Looking between Liz and Sarah, he asked, “Ladies, what’s your pick? Sarah, I know you’re a green pepper girl. What about you, Liz?”

“Not feeling the peppers today,” Sarah lied.