The Billionaire’s CamGirl

by Wylder, Penny

  “So what do you ladies have planned this weekend?” Chris asks.

  “Actually,” Kate slurs, looking up from the plate of onion rings she’s almost finished off, “I was planning on stopping by the food and wine expo tomorrow morning. Early. It’ll just be a couple of hours. I promised my partner I’d talk to this truffle farmer. I’ll be back by noon and then we can hit the city. I swear, Weaver.”

  “I figured your timing was pretty convenient,” I kid Kate. “I’m taking Kate to Staten Island tomorrow afternoon. There’s a small Italian restaurant, a real hole-in-the-wall, but they serve the best Carbonara outside Italy. Kate and I used to spend hours there in college, and then take the ferry back, completely drunk on Chianti.”

  “Those were some wild times,” Kate says, her eyes softening with nostalgia. “We had some of our best conversations on that ferry, huddling together to stay warm. We could never sit inside, Chris. Always outside in the fresh air. A heavy meal, too much wine, and the rocky New York Harbor were a very bad combination.”

  “We did learn our lesson once,” I howl. “I’d never been so sick in my life.”

  Kate and I tell Chris a few more stories about college and our adventures, but I can tell Kate’s fading when she leans her head back on the booth and her eyes start to flutter closed. It’s time to call it a night.

  “Wake up, Katie,” I coo softy to her. “Time to go.”

  I stand up and grab my purse, and Chris stands up behind me. He takes my hand in his and leans down and whispers, “Tomorrow. I won’t take no for an answer.”

  His breath feels so good on my skin and his lips are so close to mine. I want to turn my head, it would just take the slightest quirk of my chin to make my lips brush his, to feel that electricity one last time. But I can’t. Not now. Not in front of Kate.

  So all I do is say, “OK,” and I walk away, leading Kate out the door and leaving Chris behind, staring after me.

  As soon as we’re on the street, the night air revives Kate and she starts the interrogation.

  “What do you know about him? Do you really think he just happened to run into you tonight? This seems pretty, pretty fishy to me,” she says.

  I step into the street and look up and down for an available taxi. A few speed by, but they’re either occupied or off duty.

  “Let’s walk up a few blocks. We’ll have better luck,” I say. “And I think you could use the fresh air. Tell me all about Gray Prada. You two looked friendly when I saw you last. Spill it.”

  “Weaver,” she says, placing both hands on my shoulders and stopping me in my tracks. She’s trying to look serious, but she’s definitely swaying. “Let me tell you what I know about Chris. He’s not a guy to take lightly. His family is one of the most powerful and wealthiest families in Europe. He’s not just some guy to hook up with. I see that he’s sexy, and he’s definitely charming, but he comes with a lot of baggage that I’m not sure you want to get involved with.”

  “Kate,” I say, matching her tone. “I hear you, but there’s no serious happening here. We had a night together, we ran into each other at the club, maybe we’ll see each other again while he’s in town. I don’t need to know the intricacies of his life to see the guy again. He’s no more important to me than Gray Prada is to you.”

  “I just worry about you, Weaver,” she replies. “I’m so happy to see you again, but I’m sad. I feel like I hardly know you anymore.”

  I take Kate in a big hug. I squeeze extra tight because I understand what she’s feeling. She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know the half of it, and it’s my fault.

  “Don’t say that,” I say. “You know me. And you’ll feel better in the morning.”

  I pull away from her and hail a cab that’s vacant. Tomorrow at Piccolo Formaggio I’ll tell her everything. After all, she’s right. The man who’s been supporting me for all these months, who hid his identity from me, and then ambushed me at the club, he is complicated. More than I might realize. And I’m going to need someone in my corner as I navigate this.

  9

  Weaver

  I could barely sleep last night, so after tossing and turning through the early morning hours, I snuck out of my apartment and hit the pool.

  I’ve lost count of how many laps I’ve swum. I’ve lost count of how many times my feelings have changed about Chris’s revelation last night. As I do the breaststroke across the pool, my shoulders burn from the exertion, and I play back every conversation we’ve had on chat, trying to figure out if he ever tried to tell me. Did he get off on the con? Was that part of the fun for him, tricking me?

  On the way back across the pool, on my back, I notice I’m smiling, grinning like a total dope, because I have a rare feeling of excitement, excitement for someone. Despite all the unknowns, I’m positive I do like Chris, and regardless of how things have transpired over the past few months, I want to see him again.

  I could swim for the rest of the morning debating and analyzing in my head, but it won’t get me anywhere. I pull myself out of the pool and quickly dry off.

  Back upstairs I peek in on Kate. She’s dead to the world and I don’t think she’ll be making the food and wine expo like she’d planned to. I close the door softly behind me, so I don’t disturb her. She’s going to have a wicked hangover when she wakes up, so I decide to prepare her some huevos rancheros for later. I’m pouring myself a cup of coffee when I hear my phone ping. It’s Sugar Girl, and a message from Chris. It’s weird to have him contacting me through the app, but he doesn’t have my phone number and I don’t have his.

  You promised me I could see you today. Now seems like a good time. You free?

  He adds the address of his hotel to the message.

  Kate surely won’t be awake for another couple of hours, so I don’t feel guilty leaving her. But if I go to see Chris, I’m going for answers. Real answers. I can’t continue in this limbo, filling in the blanks on my own, trying to understand what motivated him, what he wants. It’s tempting to go to his hotel, to order room service and then forget about it, falling into bed together instead. But that would only be postponing the inevitable and continuing down an uncertain path. A hot and sticky and sexy path, my primal brain pipes up.

  Before I have a minute to reconsider, I text him back.

  Let’s grab breakfast instead. I’ll meet you at Good Enough to Eat. Twenty minutes work for you?

  He replies instantly,

  I’m already grabbing my coat and heading to the elevator.

  I can’t stop the smile that creeps on my face as I read his last message. The idea of him running down the hallway, hopping into a cab, speeding up Broadway to see me makes me feel good. Damn good. And I decide I’ll take my time getting showered and dressed. It will take me five minutes to walk to the restaurant, and I could get there in twenty minutes—easily, but I think I want to make him wait. I’ve been at his beck and call for months now, he’s had total control, and it’ll serve him right to have a taste of his own medicine. So I shower and wash my hair, rinsing the chlorine from my body. I have a bruise on my hip where Chris grabbed me last night, and he left a small mark on my shoulder from sucking there. I wash between my legs gingerly, because it had been a while since I had sex and Chris isn’t a small man. Fuck, he’s not even an average man, he’s pretty big, and my pussy feels sore, thoroughly used after last night.

  By the time I’m getting into my jeans and a sweater, I’m kicking myself for recommending a restaurant. All the images from the alley last night are flooding back to me, and there’s a small panic beneath that says, what if he’s leaving New York tonight? What if I don’t have another chance to be with him? I check my phone. It’s ten minutes past the meet time. Fifteen minutes making him wait seems about right to me. But honestly, it’s me who can’t wait any longer.

  I may have jogged the last two blocks to the restaurant, but as it comes into sight, I slow down to a leisurely pace, not wanting to seem eager when Chris first sees me. This meeting is about ge
tting answers and I plan to set the agenda.

  I see him sitting at a table through the window. He’s sipping a coffee and looking over his phone. At nine o’clock on a Saturday morning he stands out in the restaurant full of customers who look like they just rolled out of bed. He’s wearing what looks like a red cashmere sweater with a collared shirt underneath. He’s freshly shaved, and I imagine touching his cheek, his skin smooth under my fingertips and smelling like cedar. A waitress approaches him and she’s flirty. I know that move, sister, I think. Nothing usually amounts from flirtations with customers, but it is a fun way to pass the time. Speaking of time, what am I doing out here, my nose pressed against the glass? This was my plan, and I came seeking answers, so why am I reluctant to actually ask the questions?

  I feel heart palpitations, so naturally my mind starts to worry. What if he doesn’t like me, in person, in the light of day? What if he’s into some really kinky shit and the webcam business was just a trial? What if he’s married? A criminal? An international spy or a member of a drug cartel or worse…boring? All of a sudden, this date seems foolish. A normal woman would have told him to take a hike; she would have some self-respect in the first place and not stripped on camera for strangers. What if he’s the nice the guy, and I’m actually the woman he should be avoiding?

  “Weaver,” Chris says. I jump a foot in the air and make a sound that’s a cross between an injured cat and a teakettle. “Come on inside, it’s cold out here.”

  I look down to see he has my hand in his, and he’s immediately leading me inside the restaurant.

  It’s cozy inside, and the small restaurant is filled with the smell of bacon and coffee. It’s a lovely space, with paneled walls of reclaimed wood and enormous plants hanging from the ceiling. I realize in the past twenty-four hours, I’ve been out more than I have in the past few months. I forgot how much I love this place. Chris’s table is against the wall, and we snake through the labyrinth of other tables hand and hand. Most of the tables are occupied by couples, and I wonder if they all think Chris and I are a couple. Heck, I wonder that, too.

  “Coffee?” he asks, and before I answer he pours me a cup, from a small pot on the table. “Sorry, I don’t know how you take it,” he says, pushing the cream and sugar over to me.

  I pour some cream in my coffee and watch the white blossom spread through the dark liquid. I feel awkward that I haven’t said anything yet, but I’m not exactly sure where to start. I take a sip and it’s delicious; the warmth spreads through my chest and I sit back in my chair and finally look him in the eyes.

  “Are you really here on business?” I ask, getting straight to the point.

  “Yes, although I came in early because I wanted to see you,” he says.

  He’s being honest, I feel that on a gut level, and despite his past secrets, I think he’s going to be willing to answer my questions now.

  “But you always knew I was here. I didn’t make a secret of that when we met in Paris. Why now? What changed?” I ask, hoping I know what his answer will be but still afraid for the unexpected.

  We’re interrupted by the waitress, who I think looks a little disappointed to see that I’ve joined Chris. I can’t help it, I feel proud.

  “So are you guys interested in having breakfast?” she asks, in a voice that I imagine is a little less cheerful than before.

  “I’m starving,” I say, looking over the menu. “I’ll have two eggs over easy, a side of bacon, and some sourdough toast.” I hand her back the menu, and Chris hands his over too and says, “I’ll have the same.”

  “Alrighty. It’ll be out shortly,” she says, and leaves.

  “I’m not risking ordering a different meal from yours. I barely had two bites of the Reuben last night. Do you do that a lot? Regret your order?”

  “Don’t change the subject,” I say. “And yes, I do often regret my meal choices. Tell me, why now? I need to understand.”

  Chris leans in, trying to give us some privacy in the noisy restaurant. His proximity is distracting, and my eyes are drawn to his, noting again the unusual coloring, and also this time, an earnestness behind his eyes.

  “Because I’m done hiding behind the keyboard, Weaver,” he says. “None of this was planned. It just got out of control. That night in Paris with you, I couldn’t let it be the last time I saw you, but you left. You cast a spell over me, what can I say? Look at you! You’re funny, sexy as hell…Jesus, that night. You were fucking wild, taking everything you wanted from me, so game…

  “And like I told you last night, I tracked you down. After that first night…on Sugar Girl…God…you were so fucking hot. The way you talked dirty to me. I’d been thinking about you for days at the point. I was rock hard thinking of you, desperate to see you again. But then after that first session, after what I did, I wasn’t sure if you’d want to see me, if I could be honest with you about WildCaptain.

  “So it went on, and logging onto Sugar Girl became the best part of my day.” He lowers his voice. “I couldn’t get enough of your body. Watching you come for me. Remembering how it felt to touch you, to be inside you.” He coughs and leans back when the waitress appears with a fresh pot of coffee.

  As soon as she leaves, he leans in again. “I never understood why you just left me like that in Paris, with no contact information. I wasn’t sure if you really wanted to see me again, and I got scared,” he says. Then he takes my hands in his and says, “But Weaver, the past month, all the times we’ve spent chatting, getting to know each other in other ways, not just sexual, I couldn’t believe there wasn’t something between us. My desire for you had grown, but it wasn’t just for your body, I wanted more.

  “I couldn’t wait another minute. That night, when you told me exactly where you’d be, I had to take the chance. I was in Boston for a meeting, and I knew I could be at the club in hours. And when I saw you, finally, dancing under the lights, you were so wild and free, well I hadn’t felt that settled, that sure of anything in my entire life. I knew I had to have you. All of you.”

  The intensity in his gaze and words have me looking away. I withdraw my hands from his to drink my coffee, to take some space.

  “Just hold on, hold on,” I say, my voice raising into a loud whisper. “It sounds to me like you were unaccustomed to a woman calling the shots. I think the chase turned you on, got you hooked. What if once you “get” me, it’s no fun anymore? What if you’ve just built me up as the one who got away?”

  “It’s not that,” he says, seriously. “You know it isn’t. Why are you playing games?”

  “Because I don’t really know you, Chris. You don’t really know me. This is too much. It’s too sudden.”

  “What do you need to know?” he asks, throwing his arms out wide, as if he’s an open book. “Ask me anything. I promise I’ll answer truthfully.”

  He looks sincere, and I wonder how far I can go with this game of twenty questions. Then I’m stuck, because out of all the things I don’t know, and there are plenty, I suddenly wonder what questions are important. His favorite color? His most embarrassing tale from college? Those stories don’t reveal who a person is. It’s experiences that show you a person’s true character. Like the way he cracked through that punk rock chick’s tough exterior, or the way he humored drunk Kate last night under her borage of suspicions. Or the way he fucked me, and prioritized my pleasure, in person and on our cam sessions.

  “Food’s on,” a chirpy voice announces. I look up and it’s our waitress, arms full of plates. She places my meal in front of me and its mirror image in front of Chris. Damn, I really was hoping he’d ordered the pancakes.

  “So what’s your favorite color?” I ask, because I can’t think of anything else.

  “Easy,” he says, taking a bite of his toast. A smile spreads across his face. “There’s this spot, on your cheek. I don’t know if you’ve ever noticed, but when you get flushed, that spot burns brighter, a deep red. That’s my favorite color.”

  My breath catch
es in my throat hearing his answer. I’ve only ever heard my mother talk about that mark on my face. She says when I was little, she always knew when I was really upset because that spot would grow dark. She called it my “early tantrum warning system.” Now Chris has noticed it too.

  “What’s your job?” I ask. “Not who do you work for, but what do you actually do?”

  “In a nutshell, I do whatever my family tells me to do,” he says. “For the past year I’ve been flying all over the world auditing businesses we’re considering acquiring or investing in. I go to meetings, people show me their spread sheets and balance sheets and pitch me, and I decide if the company’s a good risk for my family.”

  I watch Chris cut into his eggs, the yolk runs down the side of his plate, and he dips the toast in quickly, scooping up the golden liquid and popping it into his mouth. Every move he makes is filled with confidence. The way he’s answering these questions as if he knows every answer is the right answer.

  “How does someone get as confident as you? What’s the secret?” I ask.

  He chuckles, and sits back in his seat, his laughter growing louder.

  “What’s so funny,” I ask, a smile creeping over my face now, although I’m not yet in on the joke.

  “I just think it’s funny you see me as this confident guy,” he says. “I mean sure, I am to a certain extent, but when it comes to you? I’ve been jerking off behind a computer for the past four months afraid to tell you who I was. That doesn’t scream Mr. Cocky to me.”

  Leaning across the table, he runs his hand over mine, his fingers rub the sensitive skin on my wrist. “I’m happy to take you back to my room and show you Mr. Cocky, though. I feel like we have a lot of missed time to make up for.”

  His fingers are tracing lazy circles on the palm of my hand now, and his eyes are piercing, practically hypnotizing me to say yes, but I’m not sure. Not yet.

  “Is it the money?” he asks. “Are you worried about the money?”