The Billionaire's Toy

She grabs my hand. “I would never. But you are adorable. Just a few poses and they’ll let you go. Come on.”

The flashes when I exit the car are blinding. Shouts of my name and questions that range from the most innocent of ‘what’s your favorite color?’ to racier things like ‘do you like to be on top?’ echo around me as I walk toward the entrance. I follow Fleece as she breezes down the carpet, and follow her lead. I stop, pose for the cameras, even though I don’t really have a clue what I’m doing. For the hundredth time in the last month, I ask myself what the hell I’m doing here. The photographers seem happy though, so I must be doing something right.

It takes longer than I expect to make it all the way down the carpe

t, but I do, and Fleece is waiting for me. She loops her arm through mine, and together we walk into what I think must be a wonderland.

8

Never in my life have I seen anything like this. There’s not one theme, there’s ten, or so it seems. The only thing that connects everything is ‘excess.’ In the main room, fabric cascades from the walls like a circus tent and aerialists swirl above our heads. Lights pulse and the bass of music thrums through my chest. Another room looks like it landed from the future, metal and chrome and what seems like a thousand computer screens playing different music videos and fashion ads. Everywhere I look there’s glitz and glitter, drinks, and people in gorgeous clothes. It’s more than overwhelming.

Fleece, however, is totally in her element. She’s chatting with people she knows, model friends and people she’s met on jobs. It’s really too bad that Andrew generally doesn’t hire models with her look because this feels like it was meant for her, not me.

A hand lands gently on my shoulder and I jump, turning to find Andrew behind me. “Mr. Xellum,” I say. Damn. He looks hot all the time, but just the sight sends a thrill through my body. He’s wearing an absolutely incredible suit, dark fabric with a sheen of color that seems to match the fiery colors in my dress, though the lights make it hard to tell. His shirt is definitely the same dark maroon, and I realize he’s the dark flame to my bright one. The shadow behind it. It’s a perfect statement for designer and muse, and I wonder who here will notice. The suit shows off his body perfectly, broad shoulders and trim waist. God, I want to see what’s underneath that fabric.

The lights highlight the planes of his face, making him more angular. Striking. I’m suddenly finding it hard to breathe, and realize that I’m just standing there staring.

He smiles, and it’s not that little one that he seems to always be wearing. This one is genuine. “You can call me Andrew,” he says. “We’re going to be working together enough. Besides, Mr. Xellum feels too formal.”

I smile back at him, “Okay, Andrew.” At least now I don’t have to keep biting my tongue before saying his name. “Thank you for the dress.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Dressing you is a pleasure.” I blush, and look away, but he reaches out to stop me. “That embarrasses you?”

“Not really…I’m just not used to people saying things like that to me.”

Andrew grabs a drink off a passing waiter’s tray and presses it into my hand. “You should be. You’re beautiful, and more than that you’re smart and talented. People should be making a big deal out of you.”

“Thank you,” I say, blushing. “For what it’s worth, I’ve really enjoyed working with you. It’s strange, and I’m not sure how good I am at yet, but it’s better than I ever expected.”

“Well,” Andrew says, “I’m glad. It’s been awhile since working with someone has felt this…natural, so I know what you mean.”

“Tell me something about you,” I say spontaneously. “Something that has nothing to do with fashion.”

His voice is deadpan. “I’m allergic to peanuts.”

“I’m serious,” I say. “I feel like you know everything about me, but you’re still this mysterious handsome fashion mogul.”

A raised eyebrow. “Handsome.”

“Of course that’s what you would pick up on,” I roll my eyes.

“Something that has nothing to do with fashion,” he says, like he’s rolling the question over in his mind. “I love to travel.” His voice is as soft as it can be in this party and still have me hear him. “And not the kind of ‘let’s fly on a first class jet and go on red carpets’ travel that people probably think of when they think of me. I like to walk. Take trains. Find hidden little places off the beaten path that make for a good story later. I never get to do that now.”

A small smile creeps up on my face, “That was perfect. But why don’t you get to go? If you want to, do it.”

“Honestly, it just seems like I never have the time. There’s one opportunity and then the next and everyone is asking for more. Before you know it, a year goes by.”

I reach out and touch his hand on instinct, and I get a jolt of electricity from his skin. “If you want to go, you should make the time.”

“You’re right,” he says. “I should.”

He’s leans closer, and I know it’s so that we can hear each other in the crowded room, but my heart rate speeds up, and my body remembers the pleasure I’ve given it while imagining him. Muscle memory is a thing. Is pleasure memory a thing, because the way I’m wet between my legs seems to say that it is.

“And for the record,” he says, “I don’t know everything about you, but I’m very excited to learn.” My breath catches as he continues. “Your turn to tell me something.”

“I don’t have anything glamorous like that.”

Andrew chuckles. “It doesn’t have to be glamorous.”

I shake my head, words barely coming.

“I just never thought this would be me,” I say. “I never wanted to be a model. A month ago I worked in a department store.”

His mouth curls up into a half-smile. “What did you want to be, then?”

“I hadn’t really figured it out yet.”

Andrew puts a finger under my chin and lifts it so that our eyes meet. “When we first met I told you I liked honesty. But what you just told me isn’t the truth. What’s the truth?”

A flash of pain and memory go through me, but I plaster on a smile. “It’s not a story for a party like this. And I’m sure you’ll hear it some day since we’re going to be working together.”

He searches my eyes, and I’m not sure what he’s looking for, but he seems to find it. He drops his hand from my chin to my shoulder, his thumb tracing absent circles on my skin. I take a deep breath, trying to control my heart and I get a hint of cologne that only makes things worse. What is he doing to me?

I’ve had a handful of boyfriends and one-night-stands in my life, but nothing has ever affected me as viscerally as Andrew’s looks or touches. This is only a touch on the shoulder. What on earth would happen if that hand went elsewhere? I shudder, and his thumb stops moving. He’s looking at me, and that hungry look from the audition is back. “Dance with me,” I breathe. It’s barely loud enough for him to hear over the music, but he does. I can see the words surprise him.

He’s opening his mouth to answer me when a loud, drunken shout comes from behind him. “Xellum! My man, how are you?”

Just like that the spell is broken and whatever moment we were trapped in together is gone. Andrew’s hand drops from my skin, and I feel it’s echo like a brand. It’s probably for the best. He was probably about to say no, that he can’t dance with me, that we can’t do this. I’d rather be interrupted than actually hear him say that.

I knock back the champagne he handed me, and walk away while his back is turned, talking to the man who called his name. I find Fleece at the bar near the dance floor, already buzzed and giggly with another model friend of hers. She throws her arms around me as I appear. “Delia! My friend. The woman of the hour!” She raises her glass. “I love you, you know that?”

I laugh. “How much have you had already?”

“Just a couple, but they make good drinks here. I would know.”

“Yes, you would,” I say, grabbing what’s left of her drink and finishing it. “Want to dance it off with me?”

She jumps up off her stool and nearly trips. “I’ll dance it off and then I’ll have more!”

I pull her with me through the party into a room that looks like it’s entirely made of stars and is the center of the dancing. “I’m certainly not going to tell a bartender how much she can drink.”

“Damn right!” Fleece raises her hands above her head and lets the music take her, and I follow suit. The lights and the music, it’s all perfect. I dance with Fleece as the alcohol starts to go to my head and I feel really good. I really didn’t think that this would be my life, but right now I’m not compl

aining. I spin around with Fleece, arm in arm, laughing as we dance. I can’t remember the last time I felt this carefree.

The song changes to something just a little slower, the beat moves through the room and makes it seem a little darker. A handsome man takes Fleece’s hand and then they’re dancing together, moving together like they’re one. Fleece has always been a good dancer.

I dance on my own, I don’t need to be swept of my feet or attached at the hip to have a good time at this party. A hand touches the small of my back, and I turn to decline the dance when my mouth goes dry. It’s Andrew. “I believe,” he says, “that we were interrupted.”

I let him pull me closer, so our bodies are pressed together as he leads. “We were,” I say. “But I thought you were going to say no.”

“Why would you think that?” His hand strokes his hand down my back, fingers resting right where the fabric meets my skin, so close to skimming under my dress. That same arousal I felt earlier roars back to life, and I press closer to him, doing some roaming of my own. I can feel the body that his clothes are hiding, and just the thought of what it might look like has my mouth watering.

Andrew Xellum is notoriously private when it comes to his own life. I couldn’t find any shirtless pictures of him anywhere, and believe me, I tried. But what I feel beneath his shirt, and what I can feel growing hard in his pants, would be well worth waiting for. His hand strokes down my back again and I get goosebumps. “You avoided me after the last show,” I say. “And I heard that you don’t do this with people who work for you.”

He moves us in circles with the music, hips locked together as we move. It’s so dark in here—the lights having faded to nothing but the starry backdrop—that I can barely see anyone else. It feels like we’re alone.

“We haven’t done anything yet,” he says, fingers teasing that line of fabric. I’m very aware that I have nothing on underneath it. I wonder now if that was intentional.

Tilting my face up towards his, I try to see his face in the dim light as he spins us together. “Yet?”