Trillionaire Boys' Club: The Clothing Mogul

by Aubrey Parker

  Ashton has an immaculate style that falls somewhere between retro-classic and cutting-edge, but it’s exactly my speed. I shop bargain racks because I have to, but I’m not so shy that I won’t admit to thinking I do damn well with what I can afford.

  We both like Hurricane Apparel. I didn’t want to admit that earlier — when Ashton was being such a dick — but I own a few pieces, despite the expense. Ashton is all too willing to bask in his own glory.

  I think he’s hot.

  He is hot.

  He thinks I’m hot.

  And while I still never feel totally put-together going out, I guess I agree that I’m okay.

  We start touching. A lot. Over and under the table. Our chairs end up closer than they were. I feel like I’m on a real date, and I’m surprised by the guy. He’s different from the man I met before, the one from the zoo. The one who told me to watch out the next time we met, because when we did he was going to …

  I don’t want to admit the thrill I get remembering what he said and seems to have forgotten, but I feel it just the same.

  The strange spate of giggles finally dies, and we find ourselves in a lull. Our entrees have been taken, our wine has been topped off, and our waiter used this little metal thing the size of a comb to remove our crumbs. The waiter keeps calling me “Miss” and Ashton “Mister Moran.” They really go the extra ass-kissing mile at this place, always bending from the waist in their fine coats, white linens over their arms like butlers.

  “So,” Ashton says. “I guess we’re doing this.”

  “We’ve been doing this for hours.”

  “I mean pretending.”

  Ah. Yes. Our stage play for the media. “That’s what my contract is for.”

  “Alyssa says you agreed.”

  “Signed and sealed.”

  “I wondered. After the zoo.”

  “That was an … interesting sort of interview. But my dad has been nagging me to get a job, anyway.”

  “Is that what you told him? That you got a job?”

  I nod. “A job at the zoo, actually.”

  “Hmm. How will you explain me?”

  I hadn’t thought of that, even though Alyssa spelled it out the first time we talked about this. Ashton is my boss and my fake boyfriend, but that won’t play well for my father. Even if I found a way to change my story from “I’m working at the zoo” to “I’m working for Ashton,” Dad will see our relationship as an unwise case of dating my boss.

  We’re different enough without that obstacle, and Dad, because he can investigate anything online, will already be suspicious of Ashton. The man’s a playboy, and too old for me. It’ll look to Dad like Ashton only wants to have fun. Making him my boss helps nothing.

  “I guess I’ll just tell him we’re going out.”

  “How did we meet?”

  “Maybe through Alex and Nathan?”

  He sort of nods. That’s plausible, unlikely as the whole thing is. But you could say the same thing about everything in my world right now. “Think he’ll buy it?”

  “The truth is stranger,” I say. Then: “Must be nice, to not have to keep track of all of these lies.”

  “I have to lie. Pretend you and I are in a relationship.”

  “To the media,” I say, rolling my eyes to indicate the depth of iniquity.

  A strange look crosses his face. I sense something coming that he wouldn’t have told me yesterday — before our laugh-fest, or all this wine.

  “Don’t be so sorry,” he says, “that you have people to protect.”

  “I guess you’ll have the same. There’s always friends and family.”

  “I don’t have much of either.”

  I look at Ashton. The simple sentence sounds so sad. I can’t help but reach out to touch his hand on the table.

  But Ashton snatches it away.

  His quiet face suddenly hardens. Mirth and laughter disappear.

  Now he’s back to being the harsh, arrogant asshole from before.

  Ashton stands. “Get your coat,” he snaps.

  “I didn’t bring a coat.”

  “Get your coat,” he repeats, “and don’t talk back.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  JENNA

  I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE the coat check is, seeing as I didn’t use it coming in. But Ashton disappeared seconds after putting me in my imagined place, and I don’t know where he went. Probably to his car. This is how the rich finish their dates: they tell their companions to fuck off and go home.

  That’s how I feel when I finally find the coat check: used, discarded, and foolish. Ashton knocked me down even easier than he felled Cole Ellison. It didn’t even take force of will. I’m less than nothing — gum that got stuck to his shoe. He flicked me away. Get your coat was another way of saying Get out of my face, and now he’s done with me.

  It’s his right, I suppose. I’m an employee, here to do a job. I figured we’d leave together so the paparazzi could snap some photos, but what do I know?

  I’m a dumb college girl, present as a pretty prop in a billionaire’s game.

  The coat check woman, who’s about a thousand years old, looks like she just sucked a lemon and still has some in her mouth. She manages to make me feel unworthy without a word. Her wrinkled old hand stretches out to take the claim stub I don’t have, but her squinted eyes say she’s not buying it — there isn’t a single coat in her collection that I could afford, or would deserve to receive as a gift.

  Then powerful hands grasp me hard enough to practically dislocate my joints. I’m blindsided — dragged so that I lose one of my heels. It’s dim back here, and I’ve been spun around, so I don’t see Ashton’s face until we’re twenty feet further on.

  “What the fuck?” I say when we stop.

  He looks like he might speak, but it’ll be a shout if he does. He looks livid, and I have no idea why.

  Instead of responding, he reaches past me, pushes open a door I’ve had my back to, then shoves me forward. The lobby and coat check area were dim and moody, but this space is shining bright. Every surface is white: floors, walls, sinks, and bathroom stalls. Urinals. We’re in the men’s room, and I don’t think I’ve ever been in one before.

  There’s a short Latino man in a vest and bow tie chattering in Spanish. On the counter beside him is a stack of hot towels, a tip jar, and a large bowl of bright green mints. Either he doesn’t speak English well, or the way Ashton has shoved me in here has disarmed his language centers, because there isn’t a word spoken in our native tongue.

  He’s coming toward us, hands raised, saying many things that begin with “No.” I don’t know the words myself, but his attention is on us both, so I translate from context.

  To me he’s saying, No women, no ladies, this is the room for men.

  But to Ashton it’s something like, Why are you doing this? What has this woman done to make you so angry. Should I call the manager?

  “Get out,” Ashton says to him.

  “No, no, esto es un cuarto de baño privado!”

  Ashton turns me around. He fumbles at the back of my dress and I realize in horror that he’s going for the zipper.

  I open my mouth to protest but nothing comes out.

  “No, no! No, señor!”

  Ashton buries a hand in his pocket then shoves a wad of cash at the man.

  “GET. OUT.”

  The attendant takes a few steps backward, money clasped to his breast like a penitent man grasping a crucifix. His eyes are wide, but it isn’t Ashton’s cash that’s making him leave. It’s his eyes, now holding none of their earlier spirit. He’s bipolar or something. This isn’t the man I was sipping wine and laughing with just twenty minutes ago.

  The attendant is locking eyes with me, seeming to ask if I’m okay.

  I realize I am.

  The attendant must be looking at my face, etched with unadulterated lust.

  I guess neither Ashton nor I are who we try to be beneath the floodlights of reason.
/>   Ashton says, “Espera afuera.”

  Half of that one, I know:

  Wait.

  Meaning, Stay out there until I tell you to come in.

  Meaning, Guard the door, and don’t let anyone enter.

  With my zipper down, Ashton spins me roughly around and yanks down the top half of my dress. I didn’t have a strapless bra, so I went without. I’m standing in front of him with my breasts out, nipples at full attention.

  He looks at me like I’m property. Like I’m his possession, and he’s deciding on the best way to use me. “Get on your knees.”

  “In the bathroom?”

  “The châteaubriand here costs two-hundred dollars. I could drop caviar on this floor and make you lick it off the tiles.” His hands are on his belt. It’s open, and his fly follows. “Now get down on your fucking knees.”

  Slowly, I follow his orders.

  “Ask me for what you want.” He frees his cock, which flops out inches from my face. Hard as stone, throbbing through the head.

  “W … what?”

  “Don’t play stupid. I’m going to stick my cock wherever you want for as long as you want it. But you’re going to beg before I do.”

  “I … I don’t …” It’s not that I don’t know what he’s saying. It’s that I’m disoriented. I’m realizing, quite to my own shock, that I’m so aroused it hurts. My pussy actually aches — enough that it’s all I can take, as I kneel on the tiles with Ashton’s thick dick inches from my face, not to reach into my panties and make myself come.

  It wouldn’t take long.

  And now me, reacting like I am. I’m so wet my panties slide around whenever I shift position.

  “You want my cock. So beg me for it, Jenna. Let me hear that filthy mouth of yours tell me what you really want. I want to hear the words on your pretty lips before I put my cock between them.”

  I take his shaft in my hand. It’s hot to the touch. My mouth is on him, wetting the tip. I feel him throb in response, but his hand is in my hair, grasping a handful and pulling my head back.

  He’s staring down at me. Into my soul.

  “Beg me for it.”

  “I … I want you.”

  “Say it better.”

  “I want to suck your cock.”

  “You want my cock in your mouth, Jenna?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to suck me off until I come?”

  Holy fuck am I wet. With my left hand occupied, my right hand surrenders. It’s on my soaked clit seconds later, rolling across the bud, sending shivers down my legs and across my ass, making my tits swell and my nipples stand taller.

  I need to come, and can barely focus on what Ashton wants me to do.

  “Yes.” It’s more exhalation than a word.

  “Tell me you want it.”

  “I want it.” Then: “Please, Ashton. Please fuck my mouth!”

  His hand tightens in my hair. The other hand moves to my cheek. He bends back so he can look down to watch me. Then he slides his cock all the way into my mouth, its bottom hot as it traverses the length of my tongue. I gag as he passes too far, feel it strike me all the way back. I choke and push him away, a fat trail of spit dripping from his dick to land on my tits.

  He turns my head up to face him. “Say it.”

  “Fuck me,” I say.

  “No. Say that you love it. Say that you never want to stop fucking me. Say that you want it forever and ever.”

  “I want it!”

  He lifts me up, plants my bare ass on the chilly marble countertop, enters, then shoves himself deep. It’s rough, but not uncomfortable. I want more.

  “I love your pussy. It’s so young and tight.”

  “Fuck my pussy,” I breathe.

  His face is in my neck. He licks my tits. Makes me come.

  Twice.

  Three times.

  I’m seeing stars. I only know bliss. He’s still giving me commands, insisting on things for me to say. But I can’t hear any of it. Some other part of me is in control.

  Ashton growls, pounding me faster. I’m sure he’s about to come inside me but he pulls out and starts jerking his cock. He’s aimed at my belly, still mostly covered by this expensive gown.

  I guess it’s his to spoil.

  Ashton comes so hard he misses my bunched-up dress entirely. Most of it hits my tits, but hot blobs land on my cheeks, chin, and panting mouth. I should be disgusted but I’m not — at least not until my third and final orgasm passes. Then he slumps to the side and I’m left covered, wet from end to end.

  This isn’t how real people fuck. This is like something out of porn.

  It’s the opposite of love — which is exactly what both of us want.

  I should yell at him for disrespecting me. Instead, I run my finger across my cheek and lick it clean.

  Ashton watches me, hard cock slowly flagging, chest rising and falling with hate-fuck exertion. “You’re incredible,” he says.

  It’s an insult, the way he says it after what we just did.

  But he was right: he wasn’t the only one who wants it this way. I got mine four times as much as he got his.

  This is the way it should be. This was right, in its way.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  JENNA

  I CAN’T ENTER THE HOUSE without stopping at a gas station to check myself in the mirror. My dress is stained, but I can play that off as spilled soup. A missed blob on my face or neck, on the other hand, will be a lot harder to explain.

  Even after checking, I’m sure evidence of tonight’s transgressions is still visible. So as Dad shouts his hello, I duck into the bathroom and close the door. It’s right next to my room, so I can dart back and forth, changing just in case.

  I toss the gown in the laundry, then realize I can’t just put it into the machine with my workout shorts. I toss it into a pile, then do my evening facial routine, banding my hair away from my face and scrubbing with exfoliant. Once I’m done, I’m still sure I’ve somehow left evidence. But deep down I know I’m being paranoid, so I force myself to say hello. To hug my father, keeping my face from brushing his … just in case.

  He asks me how it went.

  I tell him it was fine.

  He asks me if I’ve been on a date, which we never really ironed out. It’s obviously a date dress, but we’re careful with assumptions — or at least about admitting them.

  Yes. It was a date.

  With Jean?

  That’s hilarious. Even my father must know that Jean couldn’t afford a dress like the one I wore tonight any more than I could … and if he’s been paying attention, he’d know that even if I could afford that newly stained dress, I’d never waste it on a trip to the Pitch and Putt with Jean.

  No, Dad. Not with Jean.

  He doesn’t pry because I don’t offer. We’ll do this bit by bit, but there are things he must suspect. This new beau clearly has money. Which means he must be older and … a whole host of things no good father should worry about.

  But during our talk I told him to stop fretting about me and spend some time on himself.

  But you had fun.

  Yes, Dad.

  And he was … He corrects himself, knowing how that would have sounded and what it would have implied. … he IS a gentleman?

  He’s great, Dad. And my traitorous mind adds, He even gave me a towel after he came all over my face.

  I just want you to be happy, Pumpkin. You know that.

  Of course, Daddy.

  Again he looks like he’ll say more. He wants to ask if he can meet this new boy. He wants to hear his qualifications to date an amazing girl like me. He wants to ask if we’re being careful — if the guy is smart enough, if we’re doing the things Dad hopes we’re not yet, to use a condom. He wants to ask if my guy is kind, if he’d make a good husband and father — not that it’s time for me to think of such things. He wants to know if I’m being careful — not with my body, but with my heart
.

  Am I being bold but not too bold? Am I being brave but not too brave? Is this a relationship he’d approve of, or something blighted, and perhaps inspired by his divorce?

  My father wants to know: Have you started a healthy relationship? One that will fulfill you and never cause you any pain?

  Instead he sort of nods and smiles, holdings his worries close.

  Good night, Dad.

  It takes me hours to turn in, then hours more to fall asleep.

  I’ve been conditioned to feel shame and guilt, like pretty much everyone. I feel like I’m letting my father down. Like he wants something for me that I’ve failed to deliver.

  A series of internal questions finally helps me find sleep.

  I ask myself, Did I enjoy myself tonight, no matter the details?

  And I think, Yes, I did.

  I ask, Did Ashton make me feel good, no matter his methods?

  And a big, double yes to that one. He made me feel good with fun and laughter, then he made my body feel amazing. There was no right or wrong about that unless we let the judgments of others enter our equation. Only convention would let me feel used by the experience.

  But do I want a real relationship right now?

  Of course I don’t. Not even a little.

  Do I want to feel good right now?

  Oh yes. I definitely do.

  Has Ashton proven twice that he can make me feel amazing — three times, if you count our nonsexual time before the bathroom?

  He has.

  And does his lifestyle, as I tag along as his fake girlfriend, promise endless thrills and experiences that I could otherwise only dream of?

  Hell yes, it does. The life of a billionaire? Who’d turn that down?

  So: if what I’m doing by agreeing to this arrangement with Ashton is setting myself up for months of amazing, no-strings sex in the lap of luxury, is that a bad thing? At all — even a little?

  No.

  I don’t want a boyfriend any more than Ashton wants a girlfriend. But our bodies like each other plenty.

  We don’t need a “happily ever after.” We don’t even want one.

  I’m tired of thinking about the future. Right now, I’m much more interested in satisfied.