by Cassia Leo
“Okay, it’s true. I’ve spent the past few years going through women like a fat man goes through Cheetos, but don’t let my past scare you.”
“Your past?” she scoffs. “You call front page of this week’s Star magazine your past?”
“I thought you said you don’t believe everything the media tells you?”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Can I have my wrist back?”
I smile as I let go, trying to brush off her mention of this week’s media scandal, though inside I’m really hoping she didn’t read any of the articles. Especially the one in Star magazine.
Lana Trudeau, the reporter at Star, has a love-hate relationship with me ever since I fucked her brains out in L.A. a couple of years ago, when I was trying to convince her not to print a story about a very wild trip I took to Cabo. This week, Lana printed a timeline of all the famous women I’ve been spotted with since Vanessa’s death. I’m sure that really impressed her bloodsucking coworkers.
“You don’t have to worry about that club policy with me, because I’m no longer a customer. I just quit gambling.” I take a step closer, so close I have to look down into those wide chestnut-brown eyes. “I think you should celebrate with me.”
She swallows hard and, for a good minute, she seems to be staring at the top button of my shirt. Finally, she glances over her shoulder, toward the elevator, then she looks up at me.
“I’ll go home with you on one condition.”
I blink a few times, surprised that she’s giving in so quickly. Obviously, it doesn’t take most women very long to acquiesce to my whims, but I expected Kara to make me work a bit harder. And honestly, that’s kind of what drew me to her. Maybe she’s not as smart as she seemed when I was sitting at her table earlier.
“What condition?” I ask, hoping her terms will prove my new suspicions about her are incorrect.
“You have to make me want it,” she replies, the corners of her luscious lips turning up in a seductive smile, and it takes everything in me not to kiss her right there, just to taste her lip gloss. “And I don’t want you to make me promises you don’t intend to keep. I’m not the kind of girl who falls for that shit.”
I smile as I realize she is the smart girl I thought she was. “No promises. Just a good, clean fuck,” I reply. “And trust me, sweetheart, I won’t just make you want it. I’ll make you need it.”
“We’ll see about that.” She takes one more glance over her shoulder, as if she’s starting to get paranoid. “Well, make that three conditions. First, you have to make me want it. Second, you cannot tell anyone even remotely associated with the club about this. And third, you have to agree that there are no expectations afterward. You don’t expect me to call you and the same goes for me. Do we have a deal?”
I cock an eyebrow. “Do we need to put this in writing? Should I get my lawyer on the phone?”
She rolls her eyes and begins to turn around, but I grab both her arms and press her up against the back of her SUV.
“Looks like you’re calling the shots on the terms of this deal,” I whisper, my face inches from hers. “But first, we need to get something crystal clear. I call the shots in the bedroom. Because when I fuck you, I’m not just going to fuck that sweet little pussy of yours. I’m going to take every inch of you, and true to my word, you’re going to beg me for it. Understood?”
6
Kara
I don’t know whether to scream bloody murder or kiss him right there. His gaze is locked on my eyes, telling me I have no choice but to agree to his terms if I want him to agree to mine. And, though I can’t let him know, I probably want this more than he does. This is my chance to make my dad’s medical bills disappear by expediting his insurance claim with Union Oil. If Cash can sleep with a new girl every night just for the sake of getting his dick wet, then I can sleep with a billionaire for roughly a hundred thousand dollars.
It doesn’t take a lack of morals to have a one-night-stand. All it takes is a little desperation, a touch of motivation, and a large dose of animal attraction. And maybe a little alcohol.
“I need a drink,” I declare, without acknowledging whether I agree to his terms.
He narrows his eyes a little, then he seems to let this slide as he backs away. “Come with me. We’ll go in my car.”
I shake my head. “No. I need to take my car in case I have to leave. If I can’t take my car, I won’t go.”
He chuckles. “Okay, Dex will drive your car and you’ll ride with me. That way you won’t have to pay for valet parking or show ID to get in the parking garage.” He tilts his head when he notices my trepidation at letting someone else drive my car. “You said you wanted to be discreet, didn’t you?”
I nod as I hand him my keys and he walks around to the other side of the SUV, where his two enormous bodyguards are standing. I shoot off a quick text to my dad’s caregiver to let her know I’ll be back late. Then, I watch through the windows as Cash hands the black guy my keys and the Hispanic guy follows him toward the back of the car.
“Let’s go.” He holds out his elbow for me to take his arm.
I smile as I tuck my hand in the pocket of my jeans. “Let’s go.”
He shakes his head as we head up to the top level of the parking garage, where the billionaire customers park their cars right underneath the roof of the structure, which is reserved for two helipads. I wonder if he has a helicopter. I chuckle to myself at this thought. Of course he has a helicopter. He’s a self-important billionaire who’s only concerned with his image.
I can see that much from the Armani suit and the fact that not a single hair on his head is out of place. I roll my eyes as I realize he probably has a personal stylist who dresses him and does his hair every day. She probably schedules his regular teeth-whitening appointments, facials, and mani-pedis, among other things.
It’s even hotter on this level than it was on the employee level. I pull my hair up and fan my neck as we walk. The last thing I need is for my sweat glands to ruin the mood.
Cash opens the back door of the silver Mercedes for me, his gaze raking over my body as I step forward. “You look insanely hot in that outfit.”
“You mean, I look like I’m about to melt. I hope overactive sweat glands turn you on,” I say, getting into the car.
He smiles as he holds the door open. “The sweatier and slicker the better.”
I let out a deep breath and press my thighs together, trying to quell the throbbing between my legs. Inhaling the scent of leather and lemon-scented leather conditioner, I lean back into the comfortable seat.
Cash slides in through the other door, then the bodyguard pulls out of the space and heads out of the garage. We sit in silence for a couple of minutes until the Mercedes is out on the streets of Vegas. The back windows of the car are heavily tinted, but I can still see the gaudy neon lights as we drive down the Strip.
“Why did you give in so easily?” he says as casually as if he’s asking my favorite kind of pizza topping.
“Excuse me?” I replying, cocking an eyebrow, so he knows I’m kind of offended by this question.
“You heard me. Why did you give in so easily? You don’t seem like the kind of girl who goes home with strangers very often.” He turns so he’s facing me square on, almost as if he’s challenging me. “You said you don’t want anybody to know about this. So if you’re not in it for the fame or the notoriety that comes with saying you fucked Cash Westbrook, then that means you want something else. So, what is it? Do you need help with your student loans? Do you need a job recommendation? Need to get into an exclusive club? What’s your deal?”
I laugh as I shake my head. “Well, cut to the chase, why don’t you?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing. Are you going to answer the question or not? What do you want from me?”
I swallow hard as I try to think of a good excuse for why I’m going home with a billionaire I just met six hours ago, but I can’t think of a single legitimate reason other
than wanting to be fucked. I hope he buys it. Otherwise, I have a feeling I’m going to have to come clean sooner than I anticipated.
“I already have a job,” I begin. “So I don’t need a job recommendation. And it happens to be at the most exclusive club on the Strip, so I don’t need to get into any clubs, thank you. I don’t have any student loans because I never went to college.” I turn my torso to face him head-on. “You want to know what my deal is? It’s as simple as this: I broke up with my boyfriend six months ago. I want to be fucked, and you seem like the kind of guy who’ll fuck me with a condom and not expect me to give you my phone number.”
He chuckles as he sits back in his seat and gazes out his window. “You obviously don’t know me.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
He shakes his head as he continues staring at something outside. “It means you think you know me because you’ve read a few articles about what club I was spotted at and with whom.” He turns to me, a wild fire in his eyes. “You know as much about me as you know about Hector.”
“Who’s Hector?”
“See.” He smiles and taps the back of the driver’s seat. “Hector, you want to tell this lovely lady who you are?”
“No, sir,” Hector replies as he turns into the entrance to the Parkway Condominiums high rise building.
“Why not, Hector?” Cash asks with a smile.
“Because if I told her I’d have to kill her.”
I smile back at him, trying not to let him see how Hector’s reply has made me a bit nervous. “Looks like we’re home,” I say as the car pulls through the curved driveway in front of the entrance.
“Home, sweet home,” Cash replies.
Hector opens Cash’s door and a valet opens mine.
“Good evening, miss,” the young blond gentleman greets me with a nod.
I nod at him as I exit the Mercedes. “Good evening,” I reply, though the words seem too formal coming out of my mouth. I don’t think I’ve ever said the words good evening in my life.
Cash thanks the valet and hands him a tip before we set off toward the entrance, where a doorman waits with the door already open for us. He shakes the doorman’s hand, and I’m pretty sure he also slipped him a tip. And I don’t know if I’m going crazy, but I think he tipped the valet and the doorman one hundred dollars each.
Maybe I’m just seeing things. Just dazzled by all the glitz and glamour.
The ceiling in the lobby is at least sixty-feet high. Off to the left is a concierge desk where a young man and woman in navy-blue blazers wave at us.
“Good evening, Mr. Westbrook,” they call out in unison.
“How’s it going, you two? Busy night?” Cash calls back to them as he continues toward the elevator at the back of the lobby.
“Pretty quiet here,” the girl calls out. “Enjoy your evening.”
He chuckles a little. “I’m sure I will, Amal. See you tomorrow.”
I narrow my eyes at him as he presses the elevator call button. “You realize you sound overly confident, don’t you?”
The elevator doors open and he ignores my question as he addresses Hector. “You and Dex take the night off. Just tell Dex to leave the valet check for her car with the concierge, so she can pick it up in the morning.”
“Will do, boss.” Hector turns to me as he holds the elevator door open for Cash and me to enter. “Goodnight, miss.”
“Kara,” I reply. “Please call me Kara. That whole miss thing is weird.”
Hector laughs and turns to Cash. “Good luck with this one.”
The elevator doors close and I round on him. “What does that mean? And you think I’m going to pick up my valet check from the concierge in the morning? You’re awfully confident I’m going to spend the night. I told you, this is not that kind of one-night-stand.”
He smiles as he nods. “Of course. You’re going to fuck me and leave me, right?”
I grab the safety rail as I lean back against the wall of the elevator. “Pretty much, yeah.”
He chuckles. “We’ll see about that.”
I roll my eyes at his infuriating certainty. “Do you normally blow that much money on tips or are you just trying to impress me?”
He looks annoyed by the question. “Yes, I normally blow that much money on tips. If you don’t recall, I tipped you ten grand a few hours ago.” He takes a step in my direction, placing his hand on the wall just above my shoulder as he looks down at me. “But I don’t really consider it blowing money. These people care for me, my home, and my cars. It’s important to me that they not only take great care with my possessions…” His gaze slides down to my chest then slowly back up, stopping on my lips. “It’s equally important to me that they’re financially able to care for themselves.”
I draw in a deep breath that is rich with the heady fragrance of his warm skin. “So, are you some kind of—”
Before I can finish my sentence, his mouth is on mine and his hand is on my hip, pulling my pelvis toward his. His other hand slides between my legs, massaging me through the fabric of my jeans and panties.
His lips are smooth and firm, with a slightly sweet aftertaste of whiskey, claiming my mouth as if it were one of his precious possessions. His tongue brushes against mine as it goes back and forth, moving in time with the grip of his hand on my crotch. Oh, God. I haven’t been fucked in so long, I’m going to come inside my panties. But just when my clit becomes almost painfully engorged, he lets go and grabs my hand as the elevator doors slide open.
“We’re home,” he declares, in a husky voice, and even though he’s walking ahead of me, I can still see as he uses his other hand to adjust his crotch.
He uses a fancy fingerprint reader to get inside the door to his penthouse. And once we’re inside, I begin to wonder if I am in way over my head.
“Come with me,” he says, letting go of my hand.
I follow him through an entryway with polished concrete floors into a loft-like living space with twenty-foot ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Strip. The living space is open to a gleaming white and stainless steel kitchen. He grabs a bottle of white wine out of the fridge and pours a couple of glasses. I can’t help but feel a bit…common. Not just because I’m not rich, but also because I’m probably the thousandth girl he’s brought here. And I don’t know why that bothers me.
I shake my head as he offers me a glass of wine. “No, thanks. I prefer beer.”
He smiles as he sets both glasses on the kitchen island and grabs a couple of cold bottles of Sierra Nevada from the fridge. “I prefer beer too, but most women prefer wine. Or, at least, they pretend to.”
I sit on a modern white leather stool at the breakfast bar, admiring the view through the windows as I take my first sip. “I don’t like to pretend.”
“Neither do I,” he replies, setting his beer on the counter.
He walks slowly, his eyes taking me in as he makes his way around to my side of the breakfast bar. I swallow hard as he positions himself right in front of me and attempts to spread my legs, but my muscles go rigid.
“For someone who just wants to be fucked, you seem awfully tense,” he remarks.
I wince at this accusation. “Maybe I shouldn’t have come here.”
He grabs my beer and sets it on the bar behind me. “You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” He reaches up and brushes the pad of his thumb over the ledge of my bottom lip. “Or you can let me do everything, if that’s what you prefer.”
I swallow hard. “I think I’d prefer that.” He leans in to kiss me, but I press my hands firmly into his chest to stop him. “But first, I think I need to get to know you, just a little bit.”
He nods as if he was expecting this. “Sure, I can do conversation all day long. What do you want to know?”
I look him in the eye, taking a deep breath as I gather the courage to ask the first question most people think of when they see the name Cash Westbrook. “If it wasn’t your fault, wh
at actually happened to Vanessa?”
The muscle in his jaw twitches, and a spark of something—anger, possibly—flashes in his eyes. For a moment, I think he’s going to tell me to leave. Instead, he takes a step back and offers me his hand to help me down from the stool. I don’t need his help, but I take his hand anyway. Sliding off the stool, I allow him to pull me toward the cream-colored sofa in the living area. Once we’re seated, I can feel the tension brought on by my question slowly dissipating.
He leans back on the sofa, loosening his tie as he makes himself comfortable. “We were at a club for a birthday party. The party was for a mutual friend. We were drinking a lot. I’d taken an oxy, so I cut myself off at about ten p.m. Vanessa didn’t take any oxy, so she kept drinking. Before we left the club around midnight, she went to use the restroom.”
He draws in a breath and lets it out slowly. “We caught a cab to the beach, and on the way there I was trying to kiss her. But she was kind of…not doing a good job of kissing me back. I didn’t think anything of it. Figured she was just more drunk than normal. But when the cab drove away and we started making our way across the sand, she was stumbling a lot. I asked her if she’d done anything else and she admitted someone had given her suboxone in the bathroom. A few minutes later, she stopped breathing.”
He doesn’t blink as he stares out at the city lights. I don’t have to know him well to know he’s telling the truth. I recognize that look. It’s the look my father wore for years after my mother’s death. It’s known to most as the thousand-yard-stare. The blank look a person gets when trying to detach themselves from a trauma they’ve experienced.
“My mom died in a car accident when I was six,” I begin. “I don’t usually talk about this…with anyone.”
“You don’t have to talk about it just because I told you what happened to Vanessa.”
I shake my head. “No, that’s exactly why I have to talk about it. You see, the day my mom died is kind of a blur to me. I was so young, and I’m sure my brain has tried to block the memory, to shield me from the trauma of the experience. But there’s one detail about that night that I remember clear as day: Before my mom got in her car to go to the store that night, her final words to me were, ‘If your dad wakes up while I’m gone, tell him I’ll be right back. I just have to pick up a prescription.’”
