Hot Sugar

And slowly, the alpha pulls out, the hot slide making my cunt shiver once more. I look over my shoulder, panting for air, meeting the billionaire’s eyes.

And he grins lasciviously.

Because yeah, there’s that fuckrod, huge and glistening, coated with my cream. But there’s still a long loop of semen connecting the tip of his dick to my cunt, dangling heavily in the air.

“Oh!” I gasp softly. “Ooooh.”

And Mason knows exactly what to do. With one big finger, he breaks the strand. But instead of wiping it off, or even bringing it to his mouth, the alpha does something so unexpected that the room vibrates with intensity.

Because he presses that gob of spunk back into my pussy, tunneling his finger in, making sure the sperm gets in good and deep.

“That’s right,” the alpha rasps hotly, eyes glued to my most precious spot. “It belongs in you sweetheart. This is where my semen goes, inside this sweet snatch.”

And I shiver uncontrollably again, nips going hard once more, cunt juicing as he strokes my inner channel. Because yes, I want it. I shouldn’t. We’re in a transaction for crying out loud, hot sex and a pretend girlfriend in exchange for money. So this shouldn’t be happening at all. I shouldn’t be sloshing with his cum, pussy filled until it’s overflowing. Condoms are necessary, diaphragms, any type of birth control in fact.

But we’ve never used any protection. He’s been coming in me bareback, again and again, deep and raw. And truthfully, that’s how I want it. This is where he belongs. This is where his cock belongs, where his semen belongs, where his mouth belongs. This is right, and I can feel it in my core, in every cell of my being. But unfortunately, the “us” is over … because it never really existed.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Carrie

My nerves jangle. Loud, like a banjo twanging, making my spine stiffen.

Because I swore up and down that I’d tell Mason our arrangement was off. It was supposed to be real easy, just a quick conversation that’d be over in two minutes.

After all, why would he care?

There are a dozen girls like me, young and supple, ready to do anything for a billionaire.

But nausea overcame my frame when the time came. Or more accurately, I was suffering from a constant state of nausea. And there was no good time. Not when I was laid out on his bed, accepting that big cock. Not when I was on my hands and knees, crying out as he thrust inside.

I must have tried ten times at least. My mouth opening, but then closing once again silently. The words were on the tip of my tongue, but my vocal cords wouldn’t squeeze open.

So here I am. Sitting in the foyer of my apartment, with a truckload of suitcases scattered about. I’m all packed, ready for Paris, like a good little fuckdoll.

Oh god!

Why is this happening?

There weren’t supposed to be feelings. There aren’t supposed to be tears. So why am I leaving for the City of Love with a man who doesn’t love me?

My shoulders cave, sobs wracking my chest.

It hurts so goddamn much.

But least Nicole isn’t here to witness this sad sight. I sent my sister away to stay with friends for the duration of the trip. But even now, she’s on my mind.

If I quit, how are we going to survive?

What kind of job can I realistically get? Can she realistically get?

I wipe at my cheeks. Barista? Waitress? That stuff pays pennies on the dollar. We wouldn’t be able to afford an apartment anywhere, much less on Central Park West.

Plus, how would Nicole go to school? I’m hoping my sister gets into college somewhere, but you can’t count on scholarships. And Mason joked with Nicole a couple days back, saying he’d pay her tuition if she went to his alma mater.

That’d made my heart pound.

Imagine. My sister in college. Six figures of tuition, solved by the billionaire.

I want it for her so bad.

But this life is killing me.

So standing up, I wander about the apartment like a ghost, drifting from room to room. It’s so beautiful. If we leave, there will be nothing like this. Not these elegant rooms, high-ceilinged and spacious. Not the closets tucked cleverly away, flat-screen TVs that rise from the floor.

And listlessly, I flip on one of the TVs just to pass the time as I wait. Distraction’s needed. I can’t have these thoughts hammering through my head, twisting my soul into painful knots.

But suddenly, something catches my eye. As the channels flash by, my fingers pause on the remote.

Because what?

What is that?

There’s a female reporter standing outside of my parents’ building in the Bronx. And nodding her head seriously, she begins.

“It was here in this typical neighborhood where young Carrie Newman used to live. She was fresh out of high school when her parents say she met an older man.