Page 8 of Sugar Baby

That would set me up for the entire year. And if I ever chose to take on a few non-sex dates or got a part-time job, then I could put a chunk of the money toward my student loans.

I look down at my cut off shorts, which are literally that—a pair of thrift store jeans that I had cut into shorts. Maybe I could actually go to a department store and buy some new clothes, rather than relying on thrift shops.

I can’t even remember the last time I owned something that wasn’t a hand-me-down.

It’s like I’m playing a weird game of “what would you do for ten thousand dollars?”

Would I let four old guys fuck me while I acted like a brat the entire time?

It’s just sex.

I’ve been paid for it, in a roundabout way, in the past.

For food.

A place to sleep.

Tray.

How is this any different? I’ll be using the money to keep me fed and clothed. Yeah, it’s with more guys than I’m used to, but it’s still just sex.

I hover my thumb over thePick Me, Daddybutton.

It’s just sex.

One night and I'm set for the rest of the year.

I press the button and go back to scrolling through the options, none of which interest me right now. My heart jerks around in my chest as I swipe past dozens of invitations.

It’s just sex.

I don’t get a response from them before I fall asleep.

Chapter 3

Emery

I shuffle out of my bedroom in search of the amazing smell. A music video plays on the TV while Oakley shakes her blue-panties-covered ass in the kitchen as she waves a set of tongs above her head.

I squint for a second, glancing back at my bedroom, wondering if I’m actually still asleep.

I run through all the points for still being asleep.

Oakley is normally asleep until midday—a quick glance at the oven tells me it’s seven thirty-six.

Oakley isn’t wearing enough clothes—just her panties and a worn gray midriff T-shirt.

But I guess, after all the things I was scrolling through on my phone last night and the accompanying internet searches to learn what the odd phrases meant—thank you, Urban Dictionary—it shouldn’t be surprising that I’m dreaming about Oakley in her underwear.

When she does a half turn of her upper body, now using the tongs as a microphone, she spots me over her shoulder. Instead of acting surprised or embarrassed at being caught, she leans into her microphone and really goes for that high note.

I wince and cover my ears in fake pain. “Please, no. My ears are going to bleed.”

She just smirks and prances over to me, turns, and presses her back into my front, sliding down a little as she grinds against my body.

If I wasn’t so amused, I’d shove her off me.

But I’m starting to like my roommate, which is totally not something I expected to happen.

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