Sugar & Spite
Sapphic Romance
by Aurora North
Pairing: FF (Sapphic)
Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno
Tropes: Age Gap, Sugar Mommy, Enemies to Lovers, Ice Queen, Forced Proximity, Contract/Arrangement, Control/Surrender, Dominant Woman
She invested out of spite. She stayed because she’s in love.
Riley Chen is broke, brilliant, and building a queer video game that nobody will fund. When the ruthless venture capitalist who publicly destroyed her pitch offers a private deal — living expenses, luxury hardware, and full creative freedom in exchange for being her kept girlfriend — Riley knows she should say no.
She says yes. Because the rent is overdue, the laptop is dying, and Vivian Hale’s terms come with one clause Riley didn’t expect: no strings on the sex. Optional. Opt-in. Per encounter. The money flows regardless.
The problem? Vivian isn’t the cold-blooded algorithm Riley thought she was. She’s a woman who plays Riley’s game at midnight and cries at the right parts. Who cooks Thai basil chicken and leaves Post-it notes and carries Riley to bed when she falls asleep at her desk.
The arrangement was supposed to be simple. The feelings were supposed to be optional. But the ice queen is melting, the game dev is falling, and the contract between them can’t hold what’s growing — something ungovernable, uncontractable, and completely, terrifyingly real.
You’ll love this book if you enjoy:
✅ Sapphic age-gap romance with a power imbalance that combusts
✅ Ice queen x chaotic creative energy
✅ Sugar mommy arrangement that catches feelings
✅ Enemies to lovers with a kitchen counter that’s seen things
✅ Explicit, graphic, emotionally devastating sex (🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️)
✅ HEA guaranteed
⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic FF scenes including strap-on use), strong language, depictions of financial hardship, burnout, imposter syndrome, and past betrayal trauma. Intended for readers 18+.
📖 Read Chapter One Free
Not sure yet? Read the full first chapter right here.
Chapter One: Pitch Day Massacre
The bathroom stall at the Pacific Heights Innovation Center smelled like lavender and venture capital, which meant someone had spent actual money making a toilet smell aspirational. I was sitting on said toilet—lid down, pants up, dignity in free fall—rehearsing my pitch to a water-stain on the ceiling that looked vaguely like Miyamoto if I squinted.
I could do this. I’d pitched Thornheart at six showcases in the past year. I knew this game inside and out—I’d built every pixel, written every line of dialogue, coded every branching path in my apartment at three in the morning while eating dry cereal out of the box. I knew this game the way I knew my own heartbeat.
The problem was that knowing your heartbeat didn’t help much when nobody wanted to fund it.
[Full chapter continues in the published novel…]
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