Hot Sugar

But no, it was Carrie for sure. You can’t fake this kind of innocence and goodness, the sweet purity and giving nature. There was a confused look on that pretty face, to be sure. But I’d straighten it out. Stick with me, sweetheart, all your problems will be solved.

Because money can’t buy love. But money buys a helluva lot. It buys a place to stay, food to eat, and a boatload of comfort. And it sounded like this girl needed moolah bad. She needed cold, hard cash to solve whatever family problems were going on.

Mentally, I flipped through the dossier on my desk again. Because like an asshole, I had a PI on the brunette as soon as our meeting was on, investigating everything about the girl. That’s right, it’s a precaution for billionaires, standard practice. We aim to know everything about everyone, so yeah, a little sleuthing was the answer.

And the results were pretty sad, to be honest. Carrie’s the older daughter of a deadbeat couple. Mom and Dad arrested multiple times for brawling, public indecency, loitering, all sorts of stupid shit. They’d even spent some time in the slammer, what with all the nuisance complaints.

So yeah, the brunette seems to be holding the family together on her own. Taking care of a younger sister, who’s a dependent. Going to school part-time, trying to get a college degree. Hell, it was incredible that she’d even finished high school, given the cesspool of her home life.

So I know exactly what she needs, what buttons to press to get my way. I just didn’t expect the teen to be so innocent. So goddamn trusting and giving, her heart on her sleeve.

Because what the fuck am I gonna do with that? I’m a hardened asshole of forty-five, a dude who takes what he wants. Girls who offer their souls on a platter? No thanks, next.

So yeah, I’m torn. Because the brunette doesn’t deserve this. I get it, it’s a transaction, she supposedly understands the deal. But in some respect, she doesn’t get it. I can tell. Carrie has no idea what’s going on, and if I were a better man, I’d push her away for her own good.

But I’m not that upstanding, moral man.

Not by a long shot.

Not when the brunette’s so delicious and curvy, that sweet pussy filled with cream.

Because I felt her folds under the table, and fuck, but it was delicious. Puffy and swollen already, the sweltering heat like a tropical jungle between her thighs.

Fuck me.

I should kick her out of my apartment.

But instead, I’m doing the opposite.

Because we’re at my place now, a penthouse in the sky, and Carrie’s looking around, eyes wide and astonished, lips slightly parted in wonder.

“You live here?” are her whispered words. “Really?”

I can see why she’s awed. The place is huge with gleaming white walls and polished marble floors. The ivory furniture is immaculate, low-slung and comfortable so that it doesn’t obscure the view.

Because it’s the view that makes this place. I have the biggest, best apartment on the highest floor of the ritziest apartment building in NYC. That’s a lot of –ists, but hey, I’m a guy who takes it to the max, and this apartment fit my tastes. Below, you can see Central Park in all its sprawling grandeur. There’s the reservoir, there’s Sheep’s Meadow, the glimmering twilight making the green lawns sparkle invitingly.

“This is beautiful,” the brunette breathes, eyes captivated by the view. “Absolutely beautiful.”

“I agree,” comes my rough growl. “Gorgeous.”

And the girl turns then, flushing. Because I’m not looking at the view. Or I am, but it’s not about the park. I’m looking at her.

What a sight. What a magnificent portrait. Those huge tits, pushing against the vee of her dress. That giant ass, jutting out in back, round and luscious. And the swinging hips, making my mouth water.

“Oh,” she murmurs, melting before my eyes. “Oh Mason.”

I can’t wait anymore. The snake in my pants is too powerful and hungry, and in an instant I’m on her. Right there in the living room, I’m on the sweet girl, seizing her mouth in a kiss, my hands all over those soft curves.

But she loves it. Carrie’s mewling and writhing in my grasp, kissing me back, opening her mouth to let my tongue sweep inside.

“Oh,” she gasps again, those huge tits soft and plush against the hard wall of my chest. “Oh god.”

But then she straightens, eyes dazed but determined, hands pushed against the hard wall of my torso.

“Mason,” she says softly. “I’m not on birth control, not yet.”

Shit. Fuck shit fuck. That’s right, she told me she was going to the doctor next week. Shit shit shit! What do I do now?

But fortunately, I’m a man of imagination. Because there’s a ton you can do without spurting into a creamy pussy, much as I’d like to. There are ways to make her feel good and to get yourself off, even when the female’s not on birth control.