“Mmm. True.” Chloe sucks her lower lip into her mouth pensively. “Okay. If you don’t end up having the most epic billionaire five-way of your life or anyone else’s, I’ll put up a hundred dollars—and you can keep that dress.”
I look down at the dress in question. It’s pushing my big, perky tits up like total magic, even without a bra, all while clinging to the curve of my waist like a second skin.
“And on the off chance that I do put out for four dudes at once?” I ask.
I’m not going to. No matter how hard it makes my nipples or how bad it makes me want to lick my lips just thinking about it. But I figure it’s probably good to know what the stakes are before I go agreeing to anything, right?
“Then you invite me next time and we make it a six-way, duh.”
Involuntarily, my clit throbs. A mental image of me and Chloe each riding two identical twelve- inch billionaire cocks, caught in the throes of orgasm, flashes through my brain.
“Deal,” I say, with maybe a little too much gusto.
Okay. So maybe Naughty Sofie hasn’t been put back in the closet entirely.
Chloe smacks my ass in lieu of a handshake, pushing me out of the bathroom.
“Cool,” she says. “Go get ‘em, tiger—I gotta wax.”
I run a hand up Chloe’s smooth, tan, hairless thigh and raise an eyebrow.
“Different kind of wax,” Chloe says with a wink. “You might be playing coy with your dates, but I’m definitely screwing mine.”
I withdraw my hand just in time to stop Chloe from humping it as I slip out into the hall.
As muffled noises of hair removal pain follow me out, I do a final appearance check in the golden-framed full-length mirror in the living room.
Hair? Curled, brushed for shine and pinned back into a tousled Brigitte Bardot half-updo.
Lips? Red. Very red. Perfect for cock-sucking, if you ask me. Not that I’m actually going to tonight or anything…
Eyes? Mascara-ed to flouncy, thick-lashed voluptuousness.
Dress? I trace the low-cut neckline and bite my lip. The dress might be a little too slutty, admittedly. Especially paired with my stiletto heels.
The dress is expensive-looking and obviously cut from an amazing fabric, but my curves beneath that fabric look like they’re begging to be ripped right out of it. The heels only serve to push my ass up and my tits out, emphasizing the effect.
But just when I’m about to slink back to Chloe’s walk-in closet to choose something else in defeat, my phone buzzes.
Oh, shit.
My ride is here.
I grab my purse as I trot out the door, taking the stairs down to the lobby. The thought of waiting for the elevator doesn’t even enter my mind until I’m sitting in the back seat of a sleek black town car, gently out of breath.
I’m nervous, I realize. I don’t know who these men are. Beyond dinner, I don’t know what they’ll expect from of me.
All of Chloe’s teasing has me a little on edge. Even I have to admit that wealthy men don’t stay that way by shelling out that much money for a few drinks, a nice meal, and an overpriced dessert.
Unless, I guess, they really like charity.
Or, unless I am the dessert.
I watch the trees and houses pass by in a blur out the window while the evening turns into night. But as the car drives me to the restaurant, it’s not trees and houses I’m seeing.
I’m seeing four men wearing platinum Rolexes letting their hands roam up and down my curves with reckless abandon as the waiter seats me at our table.
I’m seeing four hungry mouths kissing and licking at my neck while the sommelier recommends expensive wines.
I’m imagining two of them wearing out the knees of their designer suits while they spread my legs and kiss up my thighs.
I’m imagining the other two sucking on my perky, aching nipples while the chef recommends the steak.
The car pulls up to an intimate-looking Italian place before I know it.
Fuck. I’ve fantasized the entire ride away. As the driver opens the door and helps me out of the back seat, my knees part slightly and I can fucking smell myself.
I’m wet! Soaking, dripping wet, and worse…
Oh god. I’m an idiot. I was so busy daydreaming and dealing with Chloe’s teasing, I forgot to put on panties. I probably left a puddle of my honey right there on the leather seat.
At this point, though, there’s literally no denying it. My pussy is wet, my clit is throbbing, and I’m about to have an expensive dinner with four men who think I’m worth a cold $150k just to take a meal with.
I must have left my nervousness somewhere on the road to the restaurant, because now? I’m just excited. Wet, horny, and dangerously excited.
I’m dying to know who these guys are, and as I walk through the restaurant’s candle-lit entryway, I know I’m about to find out.
Elijah
I check my watch. Seven minutes to…
Good. Early is on time. On time is late. Late is...fucking unforgiveable.
I’m always early, but I never come too soon. Elijah Kennedy is a man that doesn’t need forgiveness. Not for this, not for anything.
I know that I took a risk hitting the squash court before my date tonight, but it was time to fucking shut Steve down once and for all. All week I have had to listen to everyone tell me that his backswing was the best they had ever seen. That pompous, entitled ass had let the lessons his father paid for go to his head.
I guess everyone needs something to do during the day, even those fucking trust fund princes that don’t have to work, but no one brags about winning on my court except me.
It’s not just about establishing dominance on the court either. Between the auction itself and now having to share my date with three other fuckers, I needed to destroy something. Mercilessly beating Steve at squash feels so good and brings no small degree of satisfaction to me, but it pales in comparison to tonight.
I will take Sofie away from the other bidders, as if they are not even fucking there. This isn’t like that bitch Wanda. Sofie is a fucking goddess and I will make her mine. The other bidders are nothing compared to me.
I've been presented with a unique opportunity tonight. Usually, I get my kicks from business and sports. In addition to once again earning my title of squash champion, I work out daily, I swim regularly, I play basketball twice a week, and I go out for a paintball weekend at least once a month.
Being the PR manager for BioKin, the company I started with my good friends, I am constantly on the move, glad-handing large donors, investors, and pharmaceutical companies, as well as entertaining those scientists that we are trying to recruit...or steal.
Business is war, and I am the type of guy who gets what he wants. Tonight, I know exactly what that is.
After a quick shower, I donned my Alexander Amosu suit, accented with a splash of Tom Ford Oud Wood, and I am out the door.
The cut of my Stuart Hughes Diamond Edition sits better on me, but it seemed in poor taste to wear a suit that cost so much more than I had donated for this date. I mean, it was for a fucking charity event after all. Nevertheless, $150,000 and I still have to share her.
My driver had the door of the black Lincoln open and waiting for me. Normally, I cruise the city streets in my black Mercedes S65 Cabriolet, but I wanted to make an impression tonight, especially when we are on our way back to one of my penthouses, and I need to use both hands.
The driver closes the door after I get in, then without a word, he gets in the car and pulls out onto the road. I don't have to tell him where we are going. It’s his job to know.
We pull up to the restaurant, and I open my own door and get out before the driver has a chance to. Angelo greets me at the candle-lit entryway of Le Cinque Viti, and he escorts me personally to the table.
“Good evening, Mr. Kennedy. You are the first of your, uh, party to arrive.”
Usually, he is smoother than that. Any illusion of the entire restaur
ant not knowing exactly what is going on with this date is immediately dispelled. We walk by several tables, with couples at various stages of their meal—moving closer to each other just as each bite brings them closer to the meal’s end: finishing their coffee so they can leave and start dessert.
The reality of the situation comes rushing back to me as we get to the private table in an alcove hidden behind a vine-covered trellis. Five seats. This feels less like a date and more like a fucking business meeting.
Maybe I should’ve worn the Stuart Hughes.
As Angelo leaves, the waiter replaces him.
“May I get you something to drink, sir?”
“Grey Goose Martini, dry, three olives.” It’s my first drink of the day. The extra olive helps get past the glass cleaner flavor of the first drink. The next few never seem to taste that bad.
Versatile, as far as drinks go, the martini gives you a quick buzz that you can sober up pretty quickly from as well or continue to drink straight into a fucking blackout, though that does take some stamina.
“Right away, sir.” The waiter leaves to get the drink.
I position myself so that I am facing the opening to the restaurant. I’ve never enjoyed the feeling of more going on behind me than I am aware of. Looking out, I breathe in the atmosphere.
I’ll have to figure out how to get rid of these other bidders. It shouldn’t be too hard, once I see what I am up against. Sizing up my opponents—or rather, their weaknesses—is one of my innate skills.
Sometimes dating is war too.
The waiter returns with my drink, and I sip it, wondering about my competition. Whoever they are, I have to compliment them on their taste—Sofie is exquisite.
I am not typically one for idle thought, but I find it difficult to resist while waiting. I remember the day Sofie started working at BioKin. As PR manager, I make it a point to introduce myself to the new interns. It usually only takes only a few minutes, and if well scheduled, can typically be worked into travelling from one meeting to another.
When I met with her group, though, I could hardly take my eyes off her. That was the first time I had stayed for almost the entire tour of the company, as if I had needed a lesson on the company that I had founded.
At the time, I was careful not to focus too much attention on her, feigning interest in the practiced speech of the HR tour guide and spreading my gaze across the rest of the group, many of whom were attractive in their own right, none of whom could hold a candle to Sofie.
It would stand out to them if I treat her differently than the other interns, but it was damn hard not to just spend the whole time staring at her. Harder still not to invite her to dinner.
She is different from any woman I have ever met. It was not just her amazing body, with her full, perky breasts. She arouses something within me I have never felt before, bewitching me with her first glance, and she has no idea who I am.
Yes, she likely knows me as her boss, but she doesn’t know me. All of that will change tonight.
This was alien territory to me. I was the hunter, never the prey. Nothing about this situation was right. I need to get the upper hand here.
It would’ve been easy if there was no cap on the bidding. I would gladly pay more for the chance to spend an evening with Sofie—I would gladly have crushed those other bidders. And with the backing of the third most affluential pharmaceutical research company in the country, I doubt it would have been difficult.
Halfway through my martini, I notice a familiar face walking up to the table. Assuming at first he is just stopping by to say hello while on his way to his own table, I marvel at the odds of meeting him here tonight.
But when he gets to the table, assesses the chairs, and tries to figure out where the most strategic spot left to sit is, I can’t help but laugh.
“Oh, Lucas, say it isn’t so!”
Lucas, one of the co-owners and founders of BioKin and one of my best friends, turns a lovely shade of embarrassed, grinning sheepishly. “Hello, Elijah. Fancy meeting you here.”
I drain the rest of my martini, regarding my long-time friend.
“Alright, Lucas, spill it. Why Sofie?”
Lucas pauses for a moment to think. “I don't know that I can really describe it. There is something about her. Something undefinable.” He sits, thinking for another moment, before giving in. “The words may escape me, but I know I want her. I need her!”
I stare into my empty glass, knowing exactly what he means, thinking that tonight may be more difficult than I first thought. Looking up, I wave the waiter over. “Another martini for myself.”
Lucas turns to the waiter. “Whiskey for me, thanks.”
We sit in silence, waiting for our drinks, our usual banter, refined over years of working and playing together, somehow missing entirely. How funny it is, my good friend and I, upon realizing just how similarly our tastes in women run, are so completely thrown off our game.
We’ve been friends for too long for something like this to get in the way, though. The waiter returns in moments with the drinks.
Raising my glass, I say, “A toast to the best man winning the girl.”
“Hear, hear.”
Smiling, a thought occurs to me about a unique opportunity that Lucas’s presence offers. “How is the S10 project coming?”
Lucas throws me a sidelong glance. “Elijah, can’t you leave the office at all? You really want to discuss that now?”
No, discussing our latest and most successful option for erectile dysfunction was not the most prevalent topic on my mind at the moment. I let him know. “Not in the least bit, but now I feel less guilty should I get questioned for this ‘business expense.’ So far, the night has only cost the company $300,000.” I raise my glass and add, “And the drinks, of course.”
“Betty in Accounting is going to have a field day when she finds out that you are declaring this.” Lucas chuckles to himself. “You know what would really make it a business expense is if Ian were here.”
“Huh, I wonder who our other bidders are.”
We both look at each other for a second and start laughing.
Lucas
"Well, speak of the devil," Elijah laughs.
“I always knew that ginger was a horny bastard.” I smirk into my Vieux Carre before taking a sip.
The smoothness of good rye, the fruity florals of the cognac, and the herbal sweetness of the sweet vermouth all flood over my tongue as Mystery Guest #3 enters the ring.
Of course, he wasn’t much of a mystery to begin with, and he’s even less of one now.
I should have known that any skirt I chased, Oliver Robertson wouldn’t be following far behind.
The presence of Elijah Kennedy only increased the likelihood that our red-headed step-child of a best friend would be arriving shortly. Even all the way across the restaurant, I couldn’t miss those damned ginger waves if I tried.
“Ollie, old pal,” I say, shaking my head. “We’ve got to quit meeting like this.”
“I concur,” Oliver says, shaking his head right back before inclining it towards the door. “Why don’t you two take a hike, and I’ll wine and dine the lovely Sofie on my own.”
“Ha! And let you bore her to death with R&D mumbo jumbo?” Elijah howls, slapping his hand down on the table. “Not a chance, kid.”
“Even with my sadistic streak,” I admit, “Sofie’s too pretty to be put through that kind of pain.”
“I guess it’s a four-way, then.” Oliver shrugs our gentle ribbing off his broad shoulders and takes his seat.
“Five-way,” Elijah corrects him. “Date #4 isn’t going to know what hit him.”
I have to admit, for a total nerd, Oliver is a snappy dresser. Elijah dresses like he’s running for office—something he’s picked up from his senator father, no doubt.
I’ve taken a more casual approach to the evening in a sleek, tan Italian suit. White tailored shirt. No tie.
But you can’t fault Oliver for bringing
a little class to the table. In his grey wool Glen Check, he looks like he’s ready to pose with a couple of faux-intellectual supermodels for GQ.
We all bring a different flavor to the table, but somehow, it works for us. As far as friend groups go, Eli, Ollie and I aren’t so different from my Vieux Carre in that sense. Three different tastes, but we all work together just fine.
Eli is right, thought. Date #4 has his work cut out for him.
“Fuck’s sake,” I swear, looking over my two best friends in disbelief. “This is some kind of sick joke, isn’t it?”
“We should have known,” Oliver agrees. “Historically speaking, the statistics that this would happen again are…”
“Off the charts,” I chuckle.
“Ordering a drink, Ollie?” Eli asks, leaning forward onto the white linen tablecloth. “Or should we just assume that you’ll have what we’re having?”
Ollie delivers a million dollar shit-eating grin and flags down the waitress for a gin martini. Like I said, he’s a fucking nerd, but you can’t fault his taste.
Especially since we all seem to have the same type.
At least, as far as women are concerned. This isn’t the first time we’ve all lusted for the same woman, and it certainly won’t be the last.
Lucky for us, we’re all generous bastards. It’s what brought us to the Fostering Angels auction to begin with.
If we play our cards right, and Sofie is game, that generosity might see us through the night just fine to boot.
It’s just as the waitress arrives with Oliver’s martini that I see her. And let me just set the record straight here: I see her first.
Beautiful, beautiful Sofie. The belle of the ball. Hair cascading over her shoulders, lips plump and sexy and begging to kissed—among other things—wearing a dress that leaves just enough to the imagination without making an unimaginative charts-and-numbers guy like me have to think too hard.
As the maître d' checks for her reservation, Sofie’s gorgeous eyes scan the restaurant for her dates. The nervous way she bites her bottom lip as she does it…fuck.
Women throw themselves at me often enough that they don’t usually have this effect on me anymore. But Sofie—sexy, sultry Sofie—she’s really, truly something else. I can hear my heart beat in my fucking ears just looking at her.
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