“You have a really inflated opinion of yourself, you know that?”
Blaze shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”
CHAPTER 4
Blaze
Blaze had to wonder, briefly, because, surprise, surprise, self-doubt was second nature to most people- even the obscenely rich, if Colette would be so eager to sleep with him if she knew where he’d truly come from. It didn’t matter how much power, respect, wealth, gold watches or designer suits, a man had. Life never boiled down to the size of his mansion. Not that he had one, exactly.
It was funny, how money could change everything. How it could erase the more undesirable details of his childhood and gloss that shit over with a smooth coat of shiny paint, awe-inspiring and so distracting that no one ever asked any questions.
Money could do that.
It could also rent a very nice limo in an attempt to impress a woman who had so far been completely nonplussed and totally oblivious to him. For two goddamn years.
It didn’t matter that he could have any member of the female population.
All he wanted was her.
Blaze checked his watch for the thousandth time. He’d pulled up in front of an apartment complex that no doubt cost less than the timepiece on his wrist. It was dumpy looking, old and worn down. The neighborhood wasn’t bad, though it was mostly rentals and transitional housing, but the complex looked like it was about to cave in on itself.
He made a mental note, while inwardly freaking out about Colette deciding to ditch his ass last minute, to make a few calls to some friends who would deal with building violations and get the city on whatever slumlord owned the place to fix shit up and make it habitable.
Blaze’s cock twitched when he again checked his watch and tried to imagine what kind of retro inspired getup Colette would have picked out for their ‘date.’ His balls told him that he was a pussy for going to all the trouble to rent a damn lim, get flowers, candles, all the typical bullshit that he always scorned.
Colette wasn’t just one of his lays, though.
No. She was the woman he’d spent two years obsessing about. The woman he imagined when he was with other women. The only woman who ever had a face and a name for him. The one woman he thought he’d never have.
Until she sauntered into his office and demanded, actually fucking demanded, that he take her v-card.
He let out a groan into the silent space of the limo, glad the partition was up between him and the rental’s driver. Glad that the guy didn’t know who the hell he was and probably didn’t give two flying fucks. To the guy, he was probably just another rich, annoying, hard to please bastard in a long line of rich, annoying, hard to please bastards, that he had to deal with in his line of work.
He’d be right.
Because Blaze knew he was definitely rich. Most assuredly annoying, and incredibly hard to please.
Except where Colette was concerned. He was pretty damn sure he’d be pathetically easy to please. Just imagining stripping her out of those strange old-school clothes, caressing her petal soft skin, spreading her legs to discover his prize, had him hard and aching.
This time he couldn’t contain a groan and he shifted, arranging himself in his black dress pants so that it wasn’t obvious that his cock was saluting the entire idea the second she slid into the limo.
He’d purposely timed the winner of their competition for a Friday morning. While he had no idea that Colette would freaking come right out and ask him to take her virginity- he had no damn idea she was a virgin, and that alone made him want to blow his load on the spot- he’d hoped that her request would be less than innocent. Or that at least she’d have the weekend to think on it and come up with something worthy of the goddess she no doubt was.
This though… this was a surprise. He didn’t think he’d be sitting at her curb on a Saturday night, ready to whisk her away and deflower her.
His mouth nearly watered at the thought, which pretty much sealed the deal on the fact that he was a true bastard.
He didn’t have any more time to consider it, because the front door of the dumpy complex opened and there she was, looking every bit the serene, beautiful goddess.
Her hair was loose, pouring down in back in a rushing tide of dark curls. She’d picked a red dress, something straight out of the fifties, tight on the top, flaring out at the hips, and paired it with a black cardigan and a set of red pumps. He’d been hoping she’d wear a dress.
Because total bastard and all that.