“You're dating a billionaire, Creampuff. Comes with the deluxe package.”
“Right.” Sipping her wine, she slowly wanders around the living room. “I've always wondered what kind of people live in places like these.”
“Most of them are weird and unpleasant.” I lean back, watching her. My latest prize. “Not me, though. I'm the most amazing man you'll ever meet.”
“Not hard in this city,” she says. “Don't get too full of yourself.”
“What are you searching for?” I ask her after a moment as she tries to surreptitiously look through my penthouse. Somehow I don't mind her trailing her fingers over the priceless art on the shelves.
“I'm looking for the skeletons in your closet that are going to let me know what your deal is.”
“My deal?”
Winnie hikes up her skirt and, wineglass in hand, sits on the coffee table in front of me.
I want to pull her in my lap, kiss the sugary mouth, slowly tug the zipper of her dress down. But this is highly entertaining.
Novelty.
I want to savor the moment like expensive wine.
I'll fuck her later.
“Why are you interested in me? Why would you ask me out on a date?” she demands.
“I just love the way you fawn all over me, sacrifice your needs for mine, crush your own desires and personality to appeal to me,” I tell her, sardonic.
She picks up one of the objets d'art I have on the coffee table threateningly.
“Creampuff, put that down.” My tone is mild.
“Scared?” she demands.
“No, that's a twelve-hundred-year-old Roman statue. It's a priceless artifact.”
“Oh my god.” She gingerly sets the little carved horse back on the table. “Really? Because it looks like you bought it on sale at HomeGoods.”
“She wounds me.” I clutch my chest. I open the box of pastries. “Ooh, watermelon cake.”
“Seriously?” she says as I cut off a forkful. “What are you trying to pull?”
I hold it out to her.
She's determined. Jaw set.
“Maybe I saw you come on a cock and lost my mind.”
“You—saw what?” She yelps, a little panicked.
“I said I saw this watermelon cake a few weeks ago and lost my mind when you didn't carry it anymore.” I feed her the cake. “Or maybe I just like you.” I take a forkful of the cake for myself. “Creamy and tasty. Just like you.” I toast her with my glass. “More wine?”
I head to the wet bar.
In the reflection of the polished bronze backsplash, I see her head into the next room.
I follow her with fresh glasses of wine and swap hers out. “Look away. I have nothing to hide.” Yeah, because the secret door to my collections is closed and locked. She's just going to find a standard-issue billionaire in this penthouse.
Her intelligence, though, is fascinating. She knows something's up, knows it in her bones. It's that knife-edge PE analysis training. The good ones sniff out bullshit like those truffle pigs that I ended up having to dump on my brother's island because they kept eating my mushrooms.
