Rebecca winces. “Ewww.”
“Well . . . it’s true,” I spit. “He only wants to have sex with me.”
“And . . . the problem is?” says Daniel.
“I’m not into casual sex.” I straighten my back to sound more convincing.
“Oh yes you are,” Rebecca chimes in. “What about Heath, you two fucked like rabbits for months without a care in the world.”
“That was Heath, he doesn’t count.”
“Why not?”
“Because he had just got out of a relationship, we were rebound fucking.” I sip my wine. “That’s different.”
Daniel screws his face up in disgust. “You would actually rather have blah rebound sex with Heath, than hot and steamy with sex god Elliot Miles?”
“He’s my boss,” I scoff.
“All the better. Ask for a raise while you’re giving him head. Get a two-for-one bonus.”
We all giggle.
Rebecca’s eyes flick up from my phone as she reads. “Did you really look at his dick?”
“No,” I scoff again. “He’s dreaming. I’ve got better things to do at work than look at his stupid trouser snake.”
Daniel and Rebecca burst out laughing.
“Where do you come up with these analogies, Kate?”
“Growing up with my brother, Brad.” I shrug. “I know every name there is for a dick. Lizard, schlong, rhythm stick,” I mutter dryly as I sip my wine. “You name it, I’ve heard it.”
“Hit me with your rhythm stick,” Daniel sings. “Isn’t that a great song; they need to bring that shit back. Why isn’t someone remixing this? I swear I should be a record producer.”
“Do they even have record producers anymore?” says Beck. “I mean there are no records, so what’s that job called now?”
“Good question,” I agree.
“Here you are.” The waitress smiles as she arrives with our meals and places them down in front of us.
“Thank you.”
She makes her way to the back room and we all begin to eat.
“Oh, and on Saturday night we’re going out.” Daniel cuts into his steak.
“Where to?” Rebecca asks.
“Club 55 are having an opening at their new venue. I’ve got four VIP tickets.”
“Four tickets? Can I bring Brett?” Beck asks.
“Yeah, sure, why not,” Daniel says as he chews his food. “Don’t forget we’re going work-clothes shopping tomorrow, Kate.”
“We just got new stuff on the weekend?” I say.
“Yes, but now the ante has been raised, your hot boss wants to fuck you. We need to make his balls so blue that they fall off . . . until he’s begging.”
“He’s not going to beg.”
“Oh yes, he is.”
I roll my eyes as I bite the food from my fork. “Great. The way you’re spending my money I really do need to earn a bonus.”
“Do it on your knees,” Daniel says with a raise of his glass. “Earn that dirty money, girlfriend. Tell him you’ll swallow for a company car.”
“Stop.” I laugh. “Will you shut up?”
“Just saying.” He shrugs.
I try to hide my smile as I chew my food.
I’d swallow for free.
I sit in the café and stare across the street at the black Bentley parked out front of the Miles Media building. It’s just six-thirty, and from the way that the driver is out of the car and leaning on the side as if on standby, I know he must be leaving soon.
I sip my coffee as my mind runs away with itself.
Does he always have a driver?
“Is this seat taken?” somebody asks as they pat the stool next to me.
“Oh, no.” I smile. “That’s fine, take it.”
My attention goes back to the building—I wonder where he lives? I take out my phone and for the first time ever, I type “Elliot Miles” into Google.
Elliot Miles is the third son of media mogul George Miles and his wife Elizabeth.
Listed along with his three brothers in the USA rich list, he has an estimated wealth of seven hundred million dollars.
“What?” I whisper.
No stranger to publicity, and true to family tradition, Elliot Miles has been linked to some of the most beautiful women in the world.
Affectionately nicknamed Casanova Miles by the press due to his apparent ability to get women to do anything he wants, he’s previously been linked to Emmaline Howser, the renowned pianist, Heather Moretti, the acclaimed art director for US Vogue, and more recently, Clarissa Mulholland, the human rights lawyer for the United Nations.
He likes his women intelligent and interesting, beauty a very close but obvious third.
I click on images, and rows and rows of pictures come up with him and women—black-tie events, yachts, nightclubs, opening nights.
He’s like a fucking rock star.
I bite my lip and raise an unimpressed eyebrow. Ugh, Casanova Miles . . . give me a fucking break.
Who cares. I click out of images and go back to the main page.
I read on.
His art collection is one of the best in the world, estimated to be worth over two hundred million dollars, and is housed in a private gallery in New York. It is understood that his most intimate pieces are kept in his London home.