“What is your problem?” Winnie stumbles after me, the wine in her glass spilling as I drag her through the party to an out-of-the-way alcove. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“So you crashed my party to find some rich man?” I snarl.
“Your party?” she chokes out.
“Who else do you think is going to get a bunch of rich men and the women who worship them all together in one room? An influencer? A cupcake queen?” I sneer. “But,” I add off the cuff, trying to stay casual so I don’t throw everyone in the party out, finally let us be alone. “I respect that you can hustle. Game recognizes game.”
“Gross.” She’s dismissive. “I didn’t crash. I have a ticket.” She opens up her clutch.
“So you’re here to drink and flirt and bend over and let a billionaire fuck you?” I spit out.
“Fuck you,” she snaps. “I’m here to do business.”
“That didn’t look like business. You practically had your tits out in that guy’s fucking face.” I circle her.
“It’s your own fault, yanking my lease out from under me. What did you think I was going to do? Come crying and begging to you for a favor?”
Her on her knees? Begging?
She’s just fucking with me. I elbow her back up against the column and settle my hand on her waist, the other on the stone behind her head. Through the thin fabric, her skin’s hot from the wine she’s been drinking. Even in the heels, she has to stare up at me.
That thing in me I try really hard to keep leashed wants out. My hand comes to rest on her shoulder.
Her bare skin under my hand is hot. I shove her against a marble column.
She slaps my hand. “You don’t own me. And since I’m here, maybe I will find a rich guy. I’m in my season of multitasking.”
I grab the back of her neck and turn her to face the party. “Yeah?” I whisper in her ear. “So which man with a big bank account did you want to fuck you? Wrong answers only.”
She purses those red lips.
“Tell me, just between friends. Who are you after?” I croon.
“No one. I do not like their vibe, and they are crusty. Nothing more. They’re in the business bucket, not the pleasure bucket.”
“You came here in that dress—you might as well have walked in here naked in nothing but those shoes and that bow on your neck with ‘fuck me’ painted all over your tits.”
“My grandmother bought the wrong-size dress. It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing. I’m not here for male attention and validation.”
“That’s not what it looked like to me.”
She swallows hard. “I’m focused on my net worth. My financial house is in order. I don’t need a man to save me.”
She elbows me. Hard.
I grab her arm. “You don’t have a boyfriend. I know you’re lonely.”
I’m this close to giving it away, giving it up that I’m the one in her house, carding my hands through the dresses in her closet, that I’m the one she looks forward to at the end of a rainy, dreary Seattle evening.
“I could ask you the same question,” she hisses, wrenching to face me. “Which dumb model are you going to take back and fuck while they fake an orgasm for you?”
I’m careful not to let the rest of my body touch her. “Women don’t fake for me. My creampuffs are handmade.”
“You couldn’t tell the difference,” she whispers. She’s standing next to me, trailing her fingernails up my arm.
“You trying to flirt, Creampuff?” I force out, trying really hard to keep my eyes from rolling up inside my head.
I notice she got her nails done.
