Bad Boy Rich

My lips make their way to his, and with the click of my seat belt, I’ve removed it and straddle him. I grind myself against his crotch, watching that devilish smile play on his lips. Our kisses become deep—my desperate moans escaping into his mouth as our bodies heat up.

“You need to stop or we’ll never get out of this car.”

“So what?” I clasp his face, bringing it close to me so I could taste him again. I hated the smell of cigarettes. I wanted to tell him that. And despite my hate for nicotine—I was becoming addicted to the taste of him.

I clear my thoughts, though with much difficulty, and then—a slap of reality knocks me fierce. “It’s too much. It’s not me.”

I climb off him, laying against the seat and taking a deep breath. He pulls me back onto him; a slight struggle as my dress tangles on the heel of my stiletto. His stare—deep and with intention—only makes me more self-conscious.

I wasn’t like any of the Hollywood women. I plucked my eyebrows, and never professionally waxed anything. I thought life could be solved with a shaver and tweezers. Once, Phoebe made me go to a beauty salon so she could get false eyelashes for prom. I remember sitting there, flabbergasted. The lengths that women went through to beautify themselves. Mom once told me that women would kill to have my lashes.

Then there was the whole body-image thing. I expected only the finest of plastic surgery tonight. Artificial breasts and pouty lips. Botox faces and still expressions.

“You’d run circles around these women. They know it. You’ll feel the wrath of their jealously. And the men…you just stay by my side.”

“But…”

He kisses my lips, softly, pulling back and gazing at me with his mesmerizing eyes. “You’re beautiful…and mine. Stop worrying.”

The calm of his voice eases my concerns. I pull myself off him, resting into his side as we continue the drive. I take note of his advice. This would be the first time I had ever attended such an event. I’ve done the prom nights, weddings and the occasional bar mitzvah, but nothing that involved rich people throwing around their money for a charitable cause.

The car turns the circle, past a massive stone fountain, and parks out front. The driver courteously opens the door, guiding Wesley out first. Wesley extends his hand, allowing me to hold on as these new stilettos were difficult to balance in.

I wondered if the driver saw anything behind the privacy screen, but as I watched his goodbye, he remained professional and didn’t let anything on.

In front of the main entrance, a white strip of carpet leads to double doors which open courtesy of the doorman. He kindly offers to take our coats; Wesley had his suit jacket on which he hands over without a thank you, and I take mine off, revealing my dress in full. I thank him, unsure if I needed to tip him but I’m not left with much choice as Wesley pulls me into the foyer.

“Again, you look sexy as fuck.” He kisses my neck, not caring that people lingering in the foyer are gazing at us.

“You said I dressed like a nun.”

“Well if nuns dressed like this I would be lining up at the convent begging for forgiveness.”

I slap his arm, gently. “You look handsome…okay kinda hot.”

“Kinda hot?”

“Okay you look hot. But if I focus anymore on your hotness, I could mop the floors with my panties,” I tease, the excitement running through me.

“Damn, and here I was thinking you were going commando.”

“Maybe I am. What if I said that to throw you off? Nothing like an unsolved mystery of panties versus no panties.”

As if—commando wasn’t my thing. I hadn’t even graduated to a thong. I’m wearing this lacy number; French cut which is as small as I could go without my ass hanging out.

He shakes his head, laughing. “Save it for later, baby. And thanks for your visual.”

With my hand in his, he leads us to the main room but not without a che

eky gesture of ‘accidentally’ brushing my hand against his crotch. He’s rock hard; testing me with a delicious smirk that only fuels the desire burning through me.

We enter the large room filled with guests. It’s such a beautiful room; high ceilings with fancy chandeliers that lit up the room and created a warm ambience. Each wall is covered in artwork; expensive looking, though put together with the lighting and silk drapes—made the room look amazing.

People are standing around, happily chatting in small circles. Almost everyone is dressed in black or white; a few wore some daring colors and stood out in the crowd. A waiter walks past carrying a tray of champagne which brings attention to my thirst. Wesley grabs two for us, at least, I thought they were for us. Instead, he drinks both of them, one after the other.

Annoyed, I grab my own and follow on cue.

“Waiter,” Wesley yells, annoyed. “We aren’t done yet.”