Sugar Read Online Free Page B

collar-length hair. If she had any willpower remaining, she’d get up, go home and settle for the simple, safe release of her vibrator. But this man, Cole, seemed to melt her resistance, much like the ice cream turning into a puddle on her plate.
    He ran his gaze over her, his darkened irises unpeeling her layered clothing, until she felt as though she were naked. “You’re not from here.”
    Despite her desire for subterfuge, his faulty assumption had the native New Yorker in her bristling. “I’ll have you know I’m a Brooklyn girl, born and bred. Di Fara’s on Avenue J, best slice in the city.”
    Her reference to the iconic Midwood pizzeria got his attention— and seemingly his respect. “I stand corrected.” He eased back in his seat, dunking a triangle of toast in the broken yolk of one over-easy egg. “So, Brooklyn, what brings you back to Gotham?”
    Sarah hesitated. Other than her identity, she had nothing worthy of detecting. Starring in porn films wasn’t illegal. Neither was being superlatively successful at it. Her taxes were paid, her driving record spotless, her personal life a squeaky-clean solo act—flat lined, boring. Jaywalking was her only infraction, and that was just since moving back to New York.
    He popped a piece of bacon into his mouth. Chewing, he slid his gaze over her, taking his time. Sarah stiffened, suddenly carried back to her first casting call, those terrible tense moments waiting to take off her robe in a roomful of strangers for the very first time.
    Swallowing, he finally said, “You all but radiate sunshine and fresh air, you still smell like the beach, and you’re wearing pastels. You don’t see all that many New York women in orange and green.”
    The woman he described sounded mainstream, utterly wholesome, more like a soccer mom than her carefully crafted porn persona. As Sugar, she could make men pop with a single sultry look, but as Sarah she was considerably less confident. Unsure of whether she was being complimented or criticized, she glanced down at her patterned Ann Taylor knit-wool sweater. The v-necked, slim-fitting cardigan was one of her go-to pieces. Until now, it hadn’t occurred to her that it might not be right for New York. Then again, other than a weekly coffee meet-up with Liz’s friends and a few solo restaurant dinners, she hadn’t gone out since she’d gotten here.
    “That would be coral and mint,” she corrected.
    He rolled his eyes in the way of a man who couldn’t care less about clothes, despite being dressed in custom-tailored, designer evening wear. The sapphire studs sparkling from his French cuffs would cover the rent on her Soho sublet for several months. “I’m figuring you for West Coast.”
    Surrendering, she admitted, “LA, I just moved back.”
    “Job relocation? Family?”
    “Spanish Inquisition?”
    He dropped the toast point and held up both hands. The movement caused his sleeves to ride up. The sudden fantasy image of strapping cuffs around those thick, masculine wrists took her breath away. “Mea culpa, just making conversation, Brooklyn. Forget I asked.”
    His sarcasm made her feel silly. Was she taking this incognito crap too far? “Sorry, it’s just that I’m . . . a very private person.” A very kinky private person who, it seemed, badly needed to get herself laid.
    “Duly noted.”
    “I moved back in part to help out a friend who’s . . . going through a hard time.” Even to a stranger, okay an almost stranger, who’d never met and would never meet Liz, the Big C seemed too big of a deal to confide.
    He nodded. “That’s very altruistic.”
    “Jesus, are you mocking me?”
    He looked genuinely surprised. “No, but you might want to offload that chip on your shoulder. It must be getting pretty heavy.”
    Feeling like a jerk, she subsided back against the vinyl-covered booth. What was it about this guy that made it so easy for her to lose control? “Sorry, it’s just . . . weird being