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Holy shit. Her sincerity rocks me to the bones. Fuck. I’ve never heard those words from a woman before. Usually, it’s more along the lines of, “Can you buy me this?” or “How about that one then?”
Carrie’s words are the opposite.
Absolutely mindblowing.
Enough to make my heart pump like a machine.
But I put a lid on it.
Acting casual, my reply is nonchalant.
“I’m just up the street, sweetheart,” I chuckle. “Not so far away.”
And the moment passes.
“Okay, you’re making fun of me,” she sighs. “Again.”
But I’m not, I’m really not.
“No, sweetheart, it’s all good. I really am up the street.”
I can almost hear her roll her eyes.
“What are you doing?” she says, switching topics abruptly.
Hmm, what am I doing? Thinking of you, sweetheart, what else? But my lips form another answer.
“I’m gonna grab lunch,” I say, glancing up at the clock. “And then there’s a meeting at three, another one at four, and shit, another one at five.”
Yep, that’s how my days go.
“Well, they start at three,” she says suggestively. “You could come and visit if you want. You did say you’re just up the block.”
That’s true. I could go to her, and not the other way around.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, thinking about that luscious form. “I can swing by for a little bit. Maybe we’ll grab some lunch.”
“Oh really?” she squeals excitedly like a little girl who’s received an unexpected gift. “That’d be awesome Mason. We’re in the middle of decorating, and I’d love to get your opinion on some things.”
Ugh. Decorating. Really, I’d rather not. But there’s no point in saying the words.
“I’ll be there shortly,” is my rough promise before ending the call.
And grabbing my jacket, I stand, striding out into the reception area.
“Rach, what’s the itinerary for Paris like?”
My assistant’s head swivels around, a jack plugged into her ear.
“Mr. Channing!” she says, surprised at seeing my big form appear out of thin air. “Just the regular – private jet into CDG, private car to the venue. You’re there for four days, and then it’s back to New York.”
Okay, that’s pretty standard.
“Why, is there something you wanted to do in Paris?” Rachel asks curiously. “I can make arrangements.”
Shit, there is something I want to do. Or someone, more accurately.
And like that, the decision’s made.
“Add a plus one,” are my curt words. “I’m bringing a guest.”
Rachel’s mouth almost falls open, but then it snaps shut. She’s too professional to show her surprise.
“Of course,” she nods. “Can I get your guest’s name?”
And here it comes.
“Carrie Newman,” is my smooth reply. “The same young lady who accompanied me to the gala last week.”
Rachel nods, still scribbling onto her pad.
“Got it,” she says. “One plus one for the Paris trip.”
And like that, it’s done. On the one hand, it’s no big deal. Other executives bring their wives and girlfriends all the time. You practically need it at some of these functions.
But there’s a big difference with Carrie. Because she’s not exactly a wife or girlfriend. She’s a sugar baby, the kind rich men pay.
Shit.
What am I doing?
Am I really thinking of bringing her to Paris?
Fuck.
But it feels right, and shrugging my shoulders, I go with it.
Because I’ve learned to trust my instincts. Two decades ago, the decision was made. I was marrying my career. So women to me are mistresses only, my one true attachment the Channing empire. Obviously, boundaries are needed. You can’t have your mistress busting in while you’re with your wife. And as a result, the sugar baby set-up is perfect. The females need money, I want sex on call, so it’s a match made in heaven.
Typically, I pay an allowance, drill a girl once or twice a week, and go on about my business. There’s never been cuddles or even conversation. But now I’m considering going on vacation with Carrie. That means a full five days in her presence, that sweet form lying against mine, her beautiful sighs filling my nights.
Shit.
I don’t even know who I am anymore.
She’s just so perfect.
So sweet and sincere, without a mean bone in her body.
What are the chances?
Against all odds, I found an amazing woman on a mercenary site like Sugar Babiez.
None of it makes sense, but sometimes, you just gotta roll with it. Like I said, I’ve learned to trust my instincts. Too much thinking will fuck up a good thing, and right now, I’m ready to take it up a notch. Carrie deserves to be on my arm. She deserves more than that. She deserves everything.
Thoughts racing, I step into the apartment.
And shit, but a tempting sight greets my eyes. Holding her index finger to her mouth, my sweet brunette’s lost in concentration, poking her hip out while looking over two swatches of cloth.
Tiny jean shorts hug her curves perfectly, and her breasts look practically edible. But then the brunette looks up, and time stops.
