Page 2 of Sour Candy (Sour Candy #1)
Noah Stern was exhausted. He’d had back-to-back meetings all day, with everybody looking to him for answers on how to fix the latest crisis. He still had to work out before bed. And now his big brother was marching down the hall, grinning.
Noah sighed and pulled up a winning smile. “Hey, Mikey. Didn’t know you were back in town.”
“Then you should keep better track of your CEO!” Michael pulled him into a hug, clapping his back so hard it stung.
Noah slapped him just as hard. They’d started doing it back in their twenties as a way to rebel against their dad, who had been all tight handshakes and minimal eye contact. He was CEO of Stern Appliances for thirty years before handing the title down to his oldest son, Michael.
Noah got CFO. He was always more mathematically minded, as his father said.
Michael was the leader. It was technically true.
Michael always took the first opportunity to be in charge.
Whether he was good at it was another problem.
Michael had coasted through life on good looks and charm, happy to let others do the work for him.
Which would’ve pissed Noah off less if he weren’t one of the guys picking up Michael’s slack.
“Hope the golf was worth it,” Noah said, pulling back. “I pulled two ten-hour days last week.”
Michael rolled his eyes. “Sounds like you need to make your useless assistant do some work every once in a while. Live a little, bro! Take off early! Go get laid! You know you need it.”
Noah ducked out of the way of the friendly punch Michael aimed at his torso. “I’m doing fine, asshole.”
“Really? That’s not what these say.” Michael squeezed his biceps through his suit. “You’ve been working out like a machine , my guy. Only do that when you’re horny as fuck.”
Noah tolerated his pawing with another eyeroll. “At least I’m working out. Are your arms getting thinner?”
Michael laughed, his face creasing. His muscles were just as defined as Noah’s.
Michael was three years older, but he looked almost identical: clean-shaven, well-fitting gray suit, tanned skin, brown hair slicked back.
They even used to have the same cologne until Noah decided it was too weird and changed it up.
The only visible difference was that Michael had a ponytail.
He insisted it made him look laid back. Noah thought it made him look like a surfer who stumbled into a leadership role.
“You wish,” Michael said, heading past him down the hall. “Seriously, we should go out. Get laid. Work off some of that stress somewhere other than the gym. And we should get lunch soon! Feel like we haven’t caught up in ages.”
“We could catch up more if you actually came into the office,” Noah called after him. “Aren’t you going to ask me about the merger?”
“Already got the email,” Michael said. “Looks to me like it’s handled.”
“They’re cutting a lot of jobs, Mikey.”
“But our profit margin keeps going up!” Michael turned, shooting Noah the smile that made everyone give him whatever he wanted. “That’s the goal here, remember! Gotta remember that sweet, sweet line!”
“But—”
“Gotta go! Don’t party too wild!”
With that, he turned the corner. Noah watched him go, trying to ignore the stress headache brewing.
He’d been a big partier in high school and college, but his party days were behind him.
Going out to a club just made him think about how loud it was, or how blinding the lights were.
He used to go to find a date, but that led to more one-night stands than actual dates.
That being said, he hadn’t slept with anyone in a while. He might just chance it.
He headed back to his office. His assistant, Tia, was sitting behind his desk, a half-empty glass of whiskey next to her. Her bare feet rested on the wood as she scrolled through her phone.
“That’s disgusting,” he told her. “You’re fired.”
“Oh no,” Tia said in a monotone, sipping her whiskey. “Whatever will I do?”
She slung her feet off the desk, straightening her vest. She was a vest-and-slacks girl, to the dismay of his late father. Yet another one of Noah’s father's opinions that he ignored. He wasn’t going to force his best friend into a skirt if she didn’t want to.
Tia Highsmith had been a vest-and-slacks woman since he first met her in college.
She was the first friend who called Noah out on his bullshit during a terrible group project in freshman year that he had, admittedly, been slacking on.
Once the yelling was over and a hastily redeemed group project was handed in, they discovered that they got along stupidly well.
She became his roommate once they moved out of the dorms, and now she was his assistant, doing his filing, scheduling his meetings, and drinking whiskey with him when she wanted to gossip.
“We should go out,” Noah announced. “There’s that new club on Gleeson. I could get us in.”
Tia stopped fiddling with her frizzy black hair long enough to give him a wry look through her glasses. “Do we have to go through this again?”
“Go through what?”
Tia sighed, sagging against his chair with a hand over her forehead. “ Tia, let’s go clubbing! Tia, you have to get a taxi home, I found this really cute person! Tia, things didn’t work out! You know what the chances are, finding someone compatible— really compatible—at some random club?”
“I know it’s unlikely,” Noah argued, “I just…”
He pulled his tie loose. He wanted someone he clicked with.
Every time he took someone new to bed, it was the same deal.
He was too intense , they told him awkwardly, and he would hold himself back because he wanted them to have a good time.
But then they’d leave, and he would feel like he just ate a salad when he really wanted a steak.
He needed someone who wouldn’t get freaked out when he wanted to tease them for an hour, or pin them down, or pound them until they cried.
Someone who was okay with his constant texting and calling and wanting to be around them all the damn time.
“You need to get laid,” Tia finished, pouring him a whiskey. “You’ve been so snippy lately.”
“I’m not snippy ,” he grumbled. He grabbed the whiskey and took a large mouthful, collapsing into the couch near the windows.
Tia followed, still scrolling through her phone. “You know, there are places you can go to make sure people have the same tastes, right? Sex clubs, websites?—”
“I’m not getting papped going into a sex club,” Noah said dryly, taking another swig. “Mikey would die laughing. He’d never let me live it down.”
“Well, that leaves websites.” Tia showed him her phone.
Noah took it, frowning. It was a sugar baby website, pink high heels glowing in the top banner. It looked… tacky.
“They don’t even screen their clients,” Noah said, appalled. “This could be anyone, Tia.”
“So could you,” she pointed out. She tucked her feet up underneath her, hiding the chipped toenails that Noah had painted several weeks ago during a night much like this. “You don’t have to pick that one, it’s just the first site that came up. We’d make them sign a contract, obviously.”
“Obviously,” he repeated, scrolling through the sugar baby profiles. Lots of college girls in bikinis. Dubiously lit bedroom shots. Bras and panties, no face pics.
He was about to exit the website and go find something more reputable when a profile caught his eye.
A man’s chest. Pale and narrow, the lighting quality even worse than the other profiles. It looked like it was taken in a public bathroom, his shirt pulled up to show his dusky pink nipples.
Noah wanted to bite them. He scrolled down.
BENJAMIN, 20.
Artist. College student. Don’t message me if you’re an asshole.
WILL DO: Anal sex, oral sex, blowjobs, mutual masturbation, phone sex/sexting, rimming, facials, begging, gagging, dirty talk, spanking, toys, orgasm delay/denial, lingerie.
WON’T DO: Anything not on that list. Willing to try subbing but good luck getting me into subspace.
The last note made a surprising wave of lust wash over him, his cock throbbing in his briefs. This boy was a brat . At least, he wanted people to think he was. Sugar babies were meant to be demure; this profile was less inviting and more actively hostile.
He eyed the last sentence curiously. Did he want to sub? If he did, he sounded perfect. Noah had always fantasized about coaxing a sub under when they weren’t sure if they could do it.
He flicked through the other photos. A pair of hands splayed over slim hipbones. A long, white neck that was begging for Noah’s hand to wrap around it.
His thumb hovered over the sign-up button.
“Noah,” Tia prompted.
“What?” He looked up. He’d barely eaten all day, and the whiskey was hitting him. “I don’t know. It feels risky.”
Tia leaned over, examining the screen. “Ooooh, he is so your type. If only he wasn’t a bitch.”
“Hey,” Noah said defensively.
Tia eyed him knowingly.
“I’ve never even met the guy,” Noah said. “He could be lovely.”
Tia scoffed, leaning against his broad shoulder. “He better not be. If he’s a secret sweetheart under all that brat, that guy could ruin your goddamn life.”
I wish, Noah thought.
He pushed the button.