Roger's Sugar Babies: Suddenly Wealthy He Can Afford More Fun

By Suzy Bright

Roger’s wife had secrets—filthy, recorded ones. After twenty years of routine and restraint, a few unlocked videos shatter everything Roger thought he knew. Affairs, deception, lust captured frame by frame in the bedroom they once shared. Just as his marriage implodes, Roger inherits a fortune he never expected—$140 million and no strings. With his past in ruins and money no longer an issue, he walks away. Clean slate. Clean bed.

Then comes Mia—his friend’s daughter, now grown, gorgeous, and fearless. Hired to help furnish his penthouse, Mia brings more than design sense. She brings heat. Curves that distract, eyes that challenge, a mouth that doesn’t hesitate to say what she wants. And what she wants is him.

What starts as flirtation escalates—fast. Champagne, shopping sprees, stolen touches, nights that leave nothing untouched. She calls it mutual benefit. He calls it irresistible.

Roger’s Sugar Babies is a slow-burn-turned-blaze erotic romance about a man torn apart by betrayal, rebuilt by desire, and consumed by a young woman who wants everything—and gives even more.

For readers who love:

Erotic Romance

Contemporary Erotica

Billionaire Romance

Age Gap Romance

Sugar Daddy Romance

Older Man Younger Woman

Forbidden Romance

Taboo Relationships

Power Dynamics

Wealth and Seduction

Revenge Romance

Infidelity Drama

Erotic Suspense

New Wealth Fantasy

Luxury Lifestyle Fiction

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzy Bright
• Release date: Jun 24, 2025

Suzy Bright

Suzy Bright is a provocateur with a pen, crafting stories that peel back the velvet curtain on desire, power, and the messy magic of human connection. With a wink and a whip-smart voice, she explores the intersections of lust and liberation, giving readers permission to indulge their darkest curiosities—no judgment, just juice.

Book preview

Chapter one

Roger stands before the bathroom mirror, razor poised against his cheek like a question mark. Forty-three years old and his face still surprises him sometimes—the deepening lines around his eyes, the gray sneaking into his temples. He studies himself with clinical detachment, as if assessing a stranger who happens to occupy the same space, breathe the same steamed air of the morning shower. Twenty years of marriage to Elena has made his life as predictable as the beads of water that collect and fall from the showerhead, one after another, endless and the same.

He scrapes away the stubble with practiced strokes, revealing patches of skin that look too vulnerable in the harsh bathroom light. From the bedroom, he hears Elena's movements—the soft thud of dresser drawers, the whisper of fabric against skin. Their morning ritual, performed in separate rooms like actors waiting for their scenes together.

I'm showing the Beckman property this afternoon, Elena calls out, her voice carrying the professional enthusiasm she reserves for her real estate clients. Might be late.

Alright, Roger responds, the word falling flat in the steam-filled bathroom. He doesn't ask for details anymore. Somewhere along the line, they stopped needing them.

Their house—a three-bedroom Tudor in a respectable neighborhood—feels more like a stage set than a home some days. Everything meticulously arranged: the wedding photos chronologically displayed on the mantel, the throw pillows Elena changes seasonally, the books they've collected but rarely read. It's comfortable in the way a waiting room can be comfortable—designed for temporary contentment, not lasting joy.

Roger finishes dressing and makes his way to the kitchen. Elena stands at the counter, her back to him, preparing a smoothie. Her silk blouse catches the morning light, revealing the outline of her bra beneath—black, lacy, not the practical cotton he's accustomed to seeing draped over the shower rod. His eyes linger on the unfamiliar choice, but he says nothing.

Coffee's fresh, she says without turning.

He pours himself a cup, black with no sugar, same as every morning for the past decade. When did they stop surprising each other? He remembers how Elena used to wear his shirts to bed, how she'd leave lipstick marks on his collar deliberately, a territorial marking she'd laugh about later. Now, they orbit each other with careful precision, their paths intersecting but rarely colliding.

You look nice, he says, the compliment sounding stiff, unpracticed.

Elena turns, smoothie in hand, her smile quick and professional. Thanks. Big clients today. She glances at her watch—the new one she bought herself last month. I should get going. Dinner's up in the air, okay?

She brushes past him, a cloud of perfume trailing in her wake—something new, something with jasmine and something else he can't identify. He catches her arm, surprising them both.

Have a good day, he says, leaning in for a kiss. Her lips meet his briefly, a cool press that feels more like closure than connection.

Her phone chimes in her pocket. She pulls away quickly, checking the screen. A subtle change crosses her face—a tightening around her eyes, a flush across her cheeks. I've got to run, she says, already moving toward the door. Love you.

The words hang in the air after she's gone, like clothes left out on a line.

At work, Roger stares at spreadsheets that refuse to hold his attention. He manages the accounting department for a local manufacturing company—a job that once gave him satisfaction in its order and predictability. Today, the numbers blur together as his mind circles back to Elena. The new perfume. The black lace. The way she looked at her phone.

He's being paranoid. Eighteen years of marriage builds patterns, and patterns become invisible until they're broken. Maybe she's just trying something new. Maybe he should too. He makes a mental note to buy tickets to that jazz festival she mentioned months ago, to make reservations at the new restaurant downtown.

His phone buzzes with a text from Elena: Meeting running late. Don't wait up. No x's or o's, not even an emoji. Just information, efficiently delivered.

Something tugs at him—instinct, intuition, or just the accumulation of a hundred small inconsistencies. He leaves work two hours early, telling his assistant he has a migraine.

The house feels different when he enters—quieter, as if it's holding its breath. He moves through the rooms, noticing details with new eyes: Elena's half-empty coffee cup on the counter, a magazine open to an article about solo travel, a receipt from a hotel restaurant across town where they've never eaten.

In their bedroom, he sits on the edge of the bed, hands clasped between his knees. This is stupid. This is the kind of behavior he's always disdained in movies—the suspicious spouse snooping through drawers, checking pockets. But his eyes keep drifting to Elena's nightstand, where her tablet sits plugged in.

He shouldn't. There should be trust. There has always been trust.

His hands are numb, but he feels a warmth in his chest, an uncomfortable heat that he recognizes as fear, not guilt. He reaches for the tablet.

The screen lights up to her email, still logged in. Nothing unusual there. He checks her calendar—client appointments, lunch dates with names he recognizes, yoga classes. He's about to put it down, ashamed of his suspicion, when a notification slides onto the screen. A text message, automatically synced from her phone:

Last night was incredible. Can't stop thinking about how you felt. Same room tomorrow?

The sender is saved only as M. No last name. No identity beyond that single letter that now brands itself into Roger's consciousness.

He sets the tablet down carefully, as if it might explode. The room suddenly feels too large, too empty, too full of years of assumptions. The comfortable life he thought they'd built reveals itself as a thin veneer over something he doesn't recognize.

Another text appears: Wear that black thing again. I want to take it off with my teeth.

Roger sits very still, watching the words glow on the screen. Twenty years of marriage collapsing into twelve words from a stranger. The truth doesn't hit him all at once—it seeps in slowly, like water into the foundation of a house, promising to bring the whole structure down in time.

Chapter two

Roger doesn't confront Elena that night. He lets her lie flow between them like a third presence in their bed—her late meeting explanation hanging in the darkness while she sleeps beside him, her breathing even and untroubled. He stares at the ceiling, replaying the text messages in his mind, each word a small cut. In the blue-black hours before dawn, he makes a decision: he needs more evidence before the confrontation. He needs to know exactly how deep this betrayal goes, how long it's been happening, how much of their life together has been fiction.

Morning comes with cruel brightness. Elena kisses him goodbye, her lips soft against his cheek, the same lips that have been elsewhere. He watches her leave, cataloging details he once overlooked: the extra care in her appearance, the lingering scent of that new perfume, the slight bounce in her step as she walks to her car. Has she always looked this way heading to betrayal, or is he inventing signs in retrospect?

Working late again? he asks that evening, his voice carefully neutral as she slides earrings into her lobes—small diamonds he bought for their fifteenth anniversary.

The Stevenson listing is a mess. Her hands move with practiced grace, adjusting her earring. Title issues. You know how it is.

He doesn't know how it is. What he knows is the taste of bile rising in his throat, the effort it takes to nod, to play along with this performance they're both engaged in for different reasons.

Over the next week, Roger becomes a detective in his own home. He checks Elena's phone bill online, finding repeated calls to three numbers he doesn't recognize, always during her showings or client meetings. The calls are short—three, four minutes—as if they're arranging something, confirming plans. He writes down the numbers, the times, building a pattern of deception in neat rows on a spreadsheet.

Credit card statements reveal small charges at hotels—always on weekday afternoons, always for just a few hours. There's a pattern to the names: Hyatt, Marriott, Holiday Inn—chain hotels where anonymity is part of the business model. He finds receipts for lingerie he's never seen her wear, restaurant bills for lunches with clients that cost too much for business meetings.

Elena moves through their home with the confidence of someone who believes her tracks are covered. She has no idea that Roger now sees everything through the lens of suspicion—her late-night showers, her newly waxed body, the way she keeps her phone face-down and takes calls