“Can I leave it here then, like, on the counter? I can’t just bring it into the restaurant.”
“Creampuff, did you bring pasta salad as a hostess gift?” The deep voice slides over my skin.
My blood pressure shoots up then drops as the billionaire brushes a kiss on my cheek, way too close to my neck for it to be a friendly kiss.
“Janice, have someone take the pasta upstairs to my penthouse, please.”
“No! What the hell are you doing here?”
He takes the bowl from me and sets it on the counter with a dull thud. “Maybe, Creampuff”—his voice drops—“I should ask you what you’re doing here at my dinner with another man after you refused to be my date for the evening.”
“Shit.”
“Yeah. Shit.”
15
FITZ
The black dress hugs her curves. The low-slung strappy sandals would be easy to kick off.
Her hair’s soft at the nape of her neck when I grab her.
“You want to tell me why you lied to me, Creampuff?”
“It’s not lying.”
“You’d rather date my employee than me?”
“It’s not a date.”
“Not a date?” I snarl.
“You don’t own me.” Her voice is starting to quiver.
I tighten my grip.
“He paid me,” she confesses.
“What?”
I have to carefully release her before I slam her against the wall. She stifles a scream when I lunge, sending my fist through thewall.
I just bought a Manet when I was in Manhattan. It will go nicely over that hole in the drywall.
“You need money?”
“No.”
“What, then?” I push her back against the wall. “It’s some kink? It turns you on to have a man pay you for the pleasure of your company?”
“You’re overthinking it.”
I want my cum all over her—in her hair, on her tits, her pussy—to make sure she and everyone else knows she’s mine.
“Why the fuck are you taking some man’s money—some man who’s not me—so he can fuck your pussy?”
She slaps me. “Don’t use that word.”
