He Spoils Me Like a Sugar Baby

I met him at a charity gala I had no business attending, a friend's plus-one's plus-one, wearing a borrowed dress and feeling like a fraud among the champagne towers. He found me hiding by the dessert table, amused at my own audacity, and within ten minutes he'd made me laugh harder than anyone had in months. He was older, successful, silver at the temples, and he looked at me like I was the most interesting thing in a room full of important people.

He didn't propose anything crude. He proposed spoiling me. Dinners. Weekends away. Beautiful things. All he asked was my company, and my honesty about what I wanted. I said yes before the valet brought his car around.

The first weekend was Miami. He flew me down Friday morning, first class, and a car was waiting. The penthouse suite overlooked the bay, marble everything, a bathtub the size of a small boat, a closet he'd already half-filled with things in my size. Dresses. Shoes. Lingerie laid out on the bed like an offering, delicate and expensive and clearly chosen by a man who knew exactly what he liked to see on a woman.

I'd never been sugar baby spoiled like this, and I won't pretend I didn't love every second of it.

Friday afternoon he took me shopping on Espanola Way and let me try on everything, watching from the little velvet chair outside the fitting room with this indulgent smile, vetoing nothing, buying nearly everything. At one point he slipped into the fitting room with me, just stepped past the curtain like he owned the place, while I stood there in nothing but a lace bra and a price tag. He turned me slowly in front of the mirror, his hands skimming my waist, and told me I was the best-dressed woman in Miami even half-naked. The salesgirl knocked. He told her we'd take everything. My face burned for an hour.

He picked out the lingerie himself, black lace, barely there, and told the salesgirl to wrap it up, and the look he gave me said we'd be christening it that night.

Dinner was a private chef in the suite, candles everywhere, the city glittering below us. He fed me bites of things I couldn't pronounce. He told me I was beautiful so many times I finally started believing it. And when dinner was cleared, he drew me a bath, rose petals, champagne on ice at the tub's edge, his own hands washing me like I was something precious. I sat in that warm water with his fingers tracing slow patterns down my arms and felt like the luckiest girl alive.

What happened in that bathtub, and then in the enormous bed with the bay windows open to the night air, was the filthiest thank-you I've ever given anyone. He worshipped me, there's no other word for it. Unhurried, attentive, completely focused on my pleasure, like my body was the only thing in the world that mattered to him. He took his time with the black lace lingerie, appreciating it before removing it piece by piece. He made me come twice before he even thought about himself, and when he finally did, it was with my name on his lips and his hands tangled in my wet hair.

Saturday was the spa, couples massage, the works, his treat, and I dozed on the table while two therapists worked us over, his hand finding mine between the tables. Afterward we floated in the rooftop infinity pool at sunset, the sky going pink over the bay, and he pulled me into the shallow corner where the water hid everything. His hands were on me under the surface, slow and knowing, while a few feet away a couple argued about dinner reservations, oblivious. I had to bite my lip to stay quiet. He loved that, loved how hard I had to work to keep my face neutral while he unraveled me where no one could see.

Sunday morning, room service in bed, and him telling me to pick the city for next month. Anywhere. His treat.

I picked New Orleans. He booked it before checkout.

Here's the thing nobody tells you about being spoiled like this: it's not really about the things. The dresses are lovely and the suites are unreal, but what keeps me up at night is the way he looks at me, like I'm a gift he gets to unwrap, like my pleasure is his favorite hobby. I've never felt so wanted, so thoroughly and completely adored.

Next month, New Orleans. A suite in the French Quarter, if his assistant's email is anything to go by. He's already sent me a picture of the lingerie he bought for the trip, red this time, and a note that just said: pack light. You'll barely need clothes.

I'm counting the days. And the nights are the worst, alone in my ordinary bed, remembering marble and rose petals and his hands, and knowing exactly what's waiting for me in Louisiana.