26

All the King's Horses

“You own a fucking lakehouse?” Angel belted out as soon as they were in the car.

“You sound surprised,” Mr. Sugar said.

She shrugged a little and then turned her attention out the car’s window. “Penny’s never mentioned it.”

“Penny’s only been once. It’s so far out, it never seemed worth the effort just to spend a few days there.”

“Fucking rich people,” she mumbled under her breath.

“Sorry?” But there was laughter in his voice, so he’d obviously heard her.

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Can we get food or something?”

“If you ask nicely.”

“Please, Sir?”

“That’s better.” Drew tapped his fingers against the steering wheel. “There’s a diner just up the road here.”

“I’d eat out a trash can right now.”

“Diner it is. Can’t be too long; our next appointment’s in less than an hour.”

He turned into the parking lot of an overly-cheery looking diner with checkered curtains and white Formica booths. Inside, they had their pick of seats; only two of the tables were in use. Mr. Sugar took them to the furthest window seat.

There were already menus on the table, but he didn’t look at them. Instead, he laced his fingers together in front of him and watched her reading the menu.

“So what’s good here?”

If he seemed surprised at the question, he didn’t show it. “Everything except the livers. Then again, I don’t eat livers, so maybe they’re good too.”

She nodded, glanced up as the waitress walked up to them. “Their coffee?”

He shrugged. “It has caffeine in it.”

“Something to drink?” The waitress — a woman in her fifties with a hairstyle from the same era — gave them a quick scan before concentrating on her order pad again.

“Two coffees.”

“Ready to order?”

“Sure.” Drew sat forward in his seat. “Cherry pie, cream.” He turned his eyes to Angel. “And she’ll have the pancakes. Bacon and syrup.”

She would have grimaced if he hadn’t been staring at her so hard.

“Coming right up.” The waitress gave them a vague smile before disappearing down the aisle with their order.

“I don’t eat that.”

“Pancakes?”

“Bacon.”

“You had it for breakfast the other morning.”

“You had it for breakfast.” She shifted in her chair and crossed her arms over her chest. “I had everything but.”

“What’s wrong with bacon?”

“It comes from pigs.”

“And?”

She shifted on her seat with a downturned mouth. “And I had a pig called Dumpty. He used to sleep in my bed.”

Drew’s eyebrows lifted in surrender, and he gave her a bemused smile.

“You were really going to sell that lakehouse because of Juliet?”

His smile flickered away. “It was more hers than mine.” He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “I went there once, after the funeral. It reeked of her, like she’d permeated herself right into those goddamn pine walls.”

“I thought you hardly ever went there.”

“I didn’t.” Drew shrugged, reached across the table, and tucked a section of hair behind her ear, making her shiver. “But Juliet would go at least once a month. Sometimes two.”

“By herself?” She ran her gaze over his face, watching as it hardened. As a shadow darkened his eyes. As his mouth tightened into a thin line.

Not by herself, then.

Then, as abruptly as that change came, it disappeared again.

“So. Are you looking forward to this weekend?”

Her eyes fixed on his, and she tightened her arms around her chest. “You were serious?”

“As cancer.” He shrugged and sat back in his seat, leaving his laced fingers resting on the edge.

“Why don’t you live there? I would.”

Drew’s eyebrows twitched. “At the lakehouse? No internet. Not much of anything, really.”

“That stock broker of yours said you’re getting paid out like a bazillion dollars tomorrow. I’m sure you could… hire a satellite or something.”

“Is bazillion more or less than a gazillion?” He pursed his lips for a second, but the light dancing in his eyes was anything but serious. God, but she wished she could see his cogwheels turning.

The waitress arrived with their coffee “Food’ll be ready in a few minutes.” She gave them a warm, slightly flaky smile, and left with another look between them.

Drew was pouring cream into his coffee, not looking at her. His foot knocked into hers as he stretched his legs out under the table. “Sit next to me.”

She wanted to argue; here she only had to look out the window or at the wall of faded black and white photographs. If she sat next to him, she had a whole diner of people to contend with. But she recognized the look in his eyes; he was hungry for more than just cherry pie.

Sliding her cup across the table as she stood, she moved around the booth until her hip bumped into Drew’s. He gave her a smile and laid his arm over her shoulder, drawing her close.

“You know we can’t eat like this.”

“Have you tried?”

She pressed her lips into a line and took a sip of her coffee; he was right — all that could be said for it was that it had caffeine in it. She tipped in some cream and tried it again.

“Would you stay there?” he asked, putting his mouth by her ear, so his breath stirred the fine hairs there.

She barely suppressed a shiver. Shrugged. Took another sip of coffee. “Maybe. But I’ve got school.”

“You were planning on going back?”

She gave him a sidelong glance. “Now you sound surprised.”

He slid his hand from her shoulder, pressing his elbows on the table to shift a few inches away from her. “When’s your break ending?”

“You don’t know?” She snorted and took a big swallow of coffee. “Penny’s right; you really don’t pay attention to her. I was there when she told you.”

Drew lifted his coffee cup to his lips, but he didn’t drink. “Don’t ever say my daughter’s name again.”

Cold shock closed over her at the tone in his voice.

“You didn’t answer my question. When’s your break ending?” Drew took a sip of coffee. His one hand disappeared under the table and glided over her thigh.

“In a week and a bit.”

Mr. Sugar laughed then. It was a quiet, rueful chuckle that he cut short just after it began. “You were that confident?”

She crossed her legs, trapping Mr. Sugar’s fingers between her thighs. “Yes.”

“Two weeks to seduce me and get your hands on my money,” he mused quietly. “Did you have a plan, other than to walk around half-naked in my house until I caved in?”

His voice was low, dangerous. She looked up, her stomach growing tight when she saw the far-off expression in his eyes.

She squirmed in her seat. “Not really.”

“How’d you know it would work?” He looked at her from the corner of his eyes. “How’d you know I’d even let you into my house?”

She shrugged. Their waitress approached with two plates. The woman looked up at their table and gave a small frown when she saw that Angel had moved.

Angel put her hand on Drew’s leg. Squeezed. “Call it women’s intuition.”

Drew snorted softly. “More like a girl’s half-assed attempt at being clever.”

She slid her hand up, resting it on his dick. Squeezed again.

Mr. Sugar shifted in his seat.

“Why do we need to call it anything, Mr. Sugar? It is what it is.”

The waitress was obviously in earshot; she paused, glanced behind her as if looking for backup, and then hastily slid their plates onto the table.

“Cherry pie with cream and bacon pancakes. Your drinks still fine?” It came out fast, in one breath.

Angel raked her nails over Mr. Sugar’s hardening dick. “What shakes do you have?”

Drew shifted under her hand, but he didn’t move away. Instead, his hand wormed its way higher up her leg. So high, that it was her turn to shift in her seat.

“The usual.” The waitress said with a shrug. “Chocolate, vanilla, banana, strawberry, bubblegum, lime.”

“Mmm.” She glanced beside her. Drew stared up at the waitress with almost reverential concentration. “Strawberry or bubblegum?”

“Bubblegum,” he replied, without hesitation.

She began rubbing his dick in earnest, hoping to hear a groan. Getting nothing.

“Not strawberry, Mr. Sugar?” Then she leaned in, putting her ear by his mouth. “Which one would you rather taste in my mouth?”

The waitress cleared her throat and began shifting her weight from left foot to right foot as if she was long overdue a trip to the restroom. “Strawberry then?”

“No.” Drew’s fingers had finally worked their way to Angel’s underwear. He stroked her through the fabric, sending an electric surge through her body at the touch. “She’ll have bubblegum.”

“Sure thing.” The waitress grabbed Drew’s empty cup without bothering to ask if he wanted a refill. The cup and saucer clattered against each other all the way to the end of the diner.

“You like bubblegum?” Angel asked, having to work the question through a tight throat as Mr. Sugar’s fingers teased her.

“I like you.” He dug his fingers into her thigh, tugging open her legs. Then he pushed her underwear to the side, exposing her to diner’s warm air. “Fuck knows why, but I like you.”

“That’s sweet.” She couldn’t look away from those dark eyes.

“Nothing sweet about it.” Two of his fingers slid inside her. “It makes me feel dirty, liking you as much as I do.” His lips brushed her ear as he hissed into it. “And I hate myself for it. But I can’t stop. I get hard just thinking about you. Smelling you makes me want to fuck you hard enough to make you bleed. How’s that any kind of sweet, Angel?”

Her eyes fluttered, and she tried to find his zipper so she could get her hand inside his pants.

“No.”

Her fingers froze.

“Eat your food.”

“You kidding me?” Her voice was unsteady as he began working his fingers in and out of her. “I don’t want food.”

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not touching that.”

“Not Dumpty. You can leave him on the plate.”

Was he laughing at her? Her jaw clenched tight, but it was impossible to feel angry at a man who was sending such delicious thrills through her body.

So she released Mr. Sugar’s — at least she’d managed to make his dick strain against his pants — and broke off a piece of syrupy pancake with her fingers. She brought it to her mouth, slipped it inside.

She’d almost devoured the first one on the stack when the waitress returned. She’d expected Mr. Sugar to pull out. Perhaps start paying some attention to his own food. Maybe even blush. Instead, he began massaging her clit while the waitress set down her pastel-blue milkshake.

“I forgot to ask if you wanted a refill,” the waitress asked, not looking up from her pad.

“Nah. I’ll have some milkshake. Can you bring us another straw?”

The waitress nodded — there was a touch of red to her cheeks — and hurried away.

A small moan broke free from her mouth. “God,” she whispered, letting her head fall back against the seat and spreading her legs even wider.

“You’re not eating,” Drew whispered in her ear.

“Fuck.” She sat forward, stifling a moan at the jolt of pleasure that brought, and used her nails to take a chunk out of the next pancake.

“Don’t eat with your hands.”

“Fucking serious?” But she was already grabbing hold of her cutlery and attacking the stack of pancakes with it. She shoved an enormous piece of pancake in her mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed, and she moaned through her food as Mr. Sugar’s thumb began drawing her close to what she already knew was going to be one helluva spectacular orgasm.

“Here you go.” Something tapped on the table.

Angel’s eyes flared open, fixing on the blushing waitress. Then she laughed, pointed at the pancakes with her knife. “These are fucking orgasmic.”

The waitress blinked at her and spun away, practically running from their table.

“Don’t swear, Angel.” Drew slid the milkshake over the table, nestling it between their plates. “It’s rude.”

“You have three fingers inside me, and I’m not supposed to—” she cut off, her mouth gaping open as the first trickle of an intense almost-climax spurted through her. The plates rattled as she brought her elbow down hard on the table, trying to lever herself from the seat so Mr. Sugar’s fingers could work her easier.

“Oh God,” she whispered, her eyes squeezing shut.

“Have your milkshake.”

She was in no position to argue. Her eyes fluttered open. He held out a straw for her. She dipped her head, drank at it, swallowed hard. When she lifted her head, Mr. Sugar’s mouth waited for her.

He captured every moan of that sparkling orgasm as it flooded through her. Captured it and drew out more. Her knee struck the bottom of the table as she convulsed, sending Drew’s fork onto the floor. Her mouth fell open, but Mr. Sugar’s lips drew it closed again.

They were still kissing when his fingers slithered out of her, hot and wet against her thighs. She fumbled blindly on the table, found a napkin, and tried to dry his fingers with it while her body shivered like she’d been caught in the cold.

He moved his fingers away, brought them to his mouth, and sucked them clean like he’d been eating ribs. Then he took another napkin from the table and cleaned her, wiping her as gently as that first touch had been. He moved her underwear back in place, brought her legs together.

She squeezed them hard, trying to will herself to calm down. But that just sent another thrill through her.

“Bathroom?” she managed, her voice thick and desperate.

“No.” Mr. Sugar took a long tug at her milkshake, then reached over and wiped something from the corner of her mouth. “Eat your food.”

So she did. Despite her muscles barely cooperating, she managed to get food into her mouth until her plate only had strips of bacon left on it.

Poor Dumpty.

Mr. Sugar ate his pie with a smug smile, his eyes sparkling every time she happened to glance at him.

“What if you didn’t have to go back to school?” he asked when the last bite of his pie was poised a few inches from his mouth. “Would you stay there, at the lake?”

“Sure, whatever.” She waved a dismissive hand, falling back in her seat and letting out a sigh. “I give absolutely no fucks.”

“Language…”

“Sorry,” she mumbled, dabbing at her mouth with a napkin.

“You could study correspondence, couldn’t you?” he went on.

She turned to look at him, crossing her legs with some difficulty. Her thighs had turned to water. “I guess. If I wanted.”

“I would give it to you.”

Pushing herself up with her hands on the seat, she leaned away from him for a moment. “What the hell are you—?”

“But only if you stayed there.”

She blinked at him. “At your lakehouse.”

“At my lakehouse.” He nodded, slipped that last piece of pie into his mouth. Chewed. Swallowed. Took a long sip of milkshake — all without looking away from her. “Why not?”

“What if I wanted to go to classes?” she asked woodenly.

“Why?” He shrugged. “You won’t need them.”

“Why won’t I need them?” she said quietly as a shiver wormed its way up her spine like a sluggish caterpillar.

“Because you’ll be taken care of.”

“Taken care of?”

“Financially. You’ll be a kept woman.” He glanced up, smiled broadly. “Thank you, that was lovely.”

Angel heard plates clattering, but she couldn’t look away from Mr. Sugar’s face. This expression was new — it wasn’t quite gloating and wasn’t quite self-satisfaction.

Whatever the fuck it was, she didn’t like it one bit.

When he was paying for the bill the waitress had left in her wake, Angel finally managed to look away. Her gaze flew to the window.

The world outside had gone misty and gray. When had it started to rain again?

“You don’t have to decide right away. You can tell me on Sunday.” Drew tapped the side of her leg with his knuckles.

When she looked at him, he gestured her to move out of the booth. She did so, grabbing hold of the side of the table when her legs at first refused to take her weight.

Mr. Sugar slid out of the booth, grabbed hold of her waist, and drew her close. They walked like that out of the diner, drawing the eye of every patron and employee in the place. He pushed open the door, holding it open so she could step outside. Then he slung his jacket over her shoulders and herded her to the car.

The car door slammed hard beside her. The sound echoed in her head. And it sounded more like a prison cell being slammed shut than a car door.

Drew slid into the car, glanced across at her, and smiled.

“Ready?”

She managed a nod. “Sure.”

“Good. One more stop to make, then we’re going home.”

Angel gave him a furtive glance as he slid his hand behind her seat to reverse from the parking bay.

Fuck that; she wasn’t ready at all.