Billion Dollar Stranger

Rubbing my sweaty palms onto my skirt, I note that he hasn’t turned to check I’m still here. He doesn’t need to; such is his confidence. Shit. If Maya were here, she’d know exactly how to deal with Mr. Cocky. She’s been a personal assistant in the City for long enough to be proficient in rejecting unwanted male advances. She’d bat him away with a roll of her eyes and a flick of her wrist at the location of the nearest door.

I touch the place where he stroked my finger. It’s bare of a ring that would denote I’m taken, bare of any commitment. That stroke of his finger still echoes between my legs. The ice clinks in the glasses as the barman prepares drinks, and I know I’m running out of time. I can get up, head to the door to retire to my room of impersonal décor and loneliness, or I can sit here and see where this is going. I can let this man who walks like he holds the world in the palm of his hand try his best to seduce me.

Sex is a physical function. That’s what the article said. Can I think of it that way?

Jessie did. She confided in me about her Cinderella story. How Ryan offered her $50,000 for her company for a month. How they fell in love. An unconventional fairy-tale beginning.

That isn’t what this feels like, though.

As I gaze at the masculine silhouette of the most powerful man that I’ve ever found myself in the presence of, I think maybe I should try. Tying sex to love hasn’t been that successful or pleasurable if I’m honest.

Maybe it’s time to do this differently.

The stranger returns with another drink for us both, setting them on the table with precision. He takes the seat opposite me, pressing his leg back against mine as though that is where it is meant to be.

“Thanks,” I say, and take another big mouthful, relishing the cool sensation against my gums and down my throat. I take another, gulping it into the pit of my nervous and hollow stomach. The cold burn is shocking and then numbing, and all the time he watches me like a hyena just waiting for the right time to pounce.

“Drinking to forget?” he asks quietly, still so serious, as though he can see inside me to the gaping hole in my chest, and the loneliness I feel seeping from every pore. It’s disconcerting to realize how badly I conceal how I feel. Just those three simple words strip me bare.

I shrug my shoulders, not wanting to go where the answer might lead.

“I’ll drink to that,” the stranger says and downs his half-finished drink, pushing the empty glass along the table and reaching for the second. “What shall we drink to now?” He moves his leg ever so slightly, easing mine apart under the table, and I shudder as the air hits the bare skin on the inside of my thighs. He nudges my drink toward me with the back of his hand and holds his glass, waiting for my response.

“To something worth remembering,” I say, looking at my drink before finishing it in one gulp. He pauses, his eyes suddenly darker, and does the same. I know I’m playing with fire, but the frisson of nerves that runs up my spine and over my scalp makes me feel wild. I know I’m provoking him, but it doesn’t feel wrong. It feels dark and exciting, like licorice on my tongue.

I want to know what’s in his glass, to taste what he tastes as he seduces me with his words, presence, and actions. “I’ll have one of those,” I say, and he nods, rising again to go to the bar and returning with a matching pair of amber-filled glasses. I bring it to my nose, smelling the rich aroma of whiskey that I know will burn all the way to my stomach. I want to feel the heat, hoping it’ll distract from the strange feeling that is growing low in my belly the longer I look at him. When I drink, the heat makes me gasp, and he grins.

The first smile to grace his lips is breathtaking.

“That noise you just made is something for me to remember.”

I feel a flush rise to my cheeks, and his eyes sparkle as though the sight of my embarrassment fills him with joy. Or maybe it’s not joy. Maybe it’s the wicked thrill of control.

Under the table, his feet push in between mine and very slowly ease them apart again. All the while, he holds my gaze, watching my mouth as my lips part with my thighs.

The alcohol is making its way into my bloodstream, but I’m not so drunk that I don’t know what I’m doing. He hasn’t told me his name, but I know what his mouth will taste like if I slip my tongue inside it, and the thought of it makes me want to moan.