Chapter 5 Julia

Idrop my phone onto the bedspread and curse inwardly. I am the queen of self-sabotage and I rule over a kingdom of regret and rash decisions. Common sense is my jester and I keep rationality locked in the stocks. Hubris is my most trusted advisor, and we've loaded the catapult and declared war against willpower and a good night's sleep.

Fuck.

It's four in the morning and I've just finished reading FundRight's 10-K. I started on the plane to Boston from Ibiza and continued nonstop throughout the entire flight, customs at Logan, and the car ride to my house in Beacon Hill. Briefly, I took a break to shower, and then climbed back into bed with every intention of finishing in the morning.

Clearly, things went awry.

I've never read a 10-K before. I didn't even know what a 10-K was until I realized I had no idea what FundRight even does. Naturally, instead of copping to my ignorance and asking Davis, I googled What the hell does FundRight do? which led me to their 10-K: the annual report of finances and strategies that all publicly traded companies file with the SEC.

And—as the queen of self-sabotage is wont to do—I pulled an all-nighter reading it.

Wearily, I force myself to sit, aware I'm going to pay for this binge-read with bags under my eyes and an excruciating headache that caffeine will just exacerbate.

"Such a mistake," I murmur while I rub both of my palms over my face.

Vacations are supposed to be for relaxing and fucking. This time around, I managed to do neither of those things. Gus Winter was loitering in my brain the entire time, practically polluting it.

Although, I'm sure mine is not the first vacation Gus Winter has ruined. FundRight's 10-K reads like a manual of corporate slaughter: how to build a company on the blood and backs of enemies. If I didn't think he was an entitled asshole, I would have been impressed by it. Reading about how he started a company from nothing and steadily grew it into a fintech empire…well, it was actually pretty fascinating.

Ugh. It's not enough for him to be ludicrously attractive; he had to be brilliant and successful too. The universe clearly plays favorites.

My mind won't stop turning, so I give up on sleep. Downstairs, I make myself a quick breakfast, grateful to be back in my kitchen. I keep it simple. French omelet. Greek yogurt and fruit. Coffee. I take my meal out to my backyard and sit at the iron table by the apple tree. Crack of dawn aside, it's an unseasonably chilly August morning in Boston, but I don't mind.

Sighing, I take a long drink of coffee and lean back in my chair while the house sparrows chirp their morning songs around me. Now that I've finished the 10-K, I scroll through a list I made of unfamiliar business terms. I have an econ degree, but we never learned about company management or investments in undergrad. For some reason, the thought of my pussy being traded for a company whose 10-K I can't fully comprehend irritates me. I start at the top and look up terms, studying for the next hour—until my doorbell rings.

Weird. It's only eight-thirty and nobody knows I'm back in Boston. I'm rarely here except for when I need a stopover on the way to my next destination.

Imagine my surprise when I find Peter on my front step.

"What are you doing here? I thought you were supposed to be in New York visiting Gray."

Looking nonchalant as usual, Peter shrugs before he holds out a Starbucks cup. "I wanted to catch you while you were in town. Thought I'd say hey and bring you some antidote for jet lag."

"My hero." I make room for him to enter.

We set up on the living room couches and I'm about to divulge every sleazy detail about Ibiza when Peter holds up both hands. "Can I be honest?"

"That's suspicious, but sure."

Peter exhales through his perfect teeth before grimacing. "Okay, don't kill me, but I lied. I was sent here."

Davis. I'd bet my inheritance on it. Peter never shows up unannounced at my house, especially before ten in the morning. My brother is playing hardball—and I should have seen it coming. Davis is sweet and fluffy by nature…but when it comes to his job, he'll fuck your shit up to get what he wants.

"You traitor," I mutter, shaking my head. "I can't believe you. You're supposed to be on my team, not doing pro-bono persuasion for my capitalist prince of a brother."

"Look," he levels with me like he knows this conversation is about to be annoying as hell, "I don't know what's going on. Davis called and said he wanted to involve you in an acquisition, but you're hesitant. He thought it might sway you if you talked to me."

Both of my eyebrows shoot up. "That's what Davis said? That he's involving me in a deal?"

Peter's careful nod tells me he's being honest, but suddenly wishes he weren't.

"So, nobody mentioned Gus Winter to you," I reason, folding my arms. "Do you know him?"

"CEO of FundRight," he answers automatically, bobbing his head in recognition. "The one and only."

Immediately, disbelief surges through me. "Okay, does everyone know this guy? How did I miss the memo?"

"Gray has a weird crush on him," Peter muses. "Gus Winter was at your father's party, right? Yeah, Gray thinks he walks on water. I assume it's a hero-worship thing, but also…" He trails off.

"What?"

"He's super hot," Peter finishes with a devilish grin that I would normally love, but the circumstances have me practically seething.

"Great," I supply mordantly, choosing to ignore Peter's comment. "You know all about Gus Winter. So, did Davis mention how Gus likes to block acquisitions until he gets to sleep with the relatives of the people leading the deal?"

For a few seconds, his face slips into a pale sallowness like I've never seen before. An entire quarter of a minute passes before his lower lip drops. "What the actual fuck?" he finally mutters.

When I finish explaining the situation, all Peter can say is, "Well, that's something you don't hear every day…or ever. Julia, this is insane."

I raise a shoulder. "Welcome to my downward spiral. I'll be taking commemorative photos shortly."

Peter lets out a long sigh that shifts into another hum as he slouches in his seat and props his feet on my coffee table. "I don't know what's more upsetting: that Gus Winter asked—sorry—demanded, or that Davis sent me here to convince you. These guys need…"

"An intervention? An exorcism?"

"I was going to say therapy, but those work too," he responds with a smirk. "Well, you know my next question."

"Do I?"

He exhales and places his cup on the coffee table before he straightens his spine and faces me. But I can sniff out coercion a mile away, and I immediately shake my head.

"There's no way I'm doing it," I preempt him. "No way in hell."

"Sure, because it would be completely out of character for you." His tone is acerbic. "Sleeping with a hot, rich guy who wants you because you're the most desirable and yet unattainable woman on the planet. That's definitely not a regular day for Julia Ridgeway."

"Your sarcasm isn't as cute as you think it is," I counter before I take a steadying drink of my coffee. "And is he really that hot?"

"He really is."

I don't acknowledge it. I go quiet instead, picturing his omnipresent look of intense focus. His inscrutable gaze that radiates hunger. My brain can't help but wonder, what is he like in bed? Is he more intense? Hungrier?

"Hey," Peter says, breaking the rare silence floating between us, "did you know that when Gray needs advice, he typically comes to me?"

I swivel my eyes up and try to decipher if Peter is being serious. His brother, Gray Davenport, is—by most definitions—perfect. I can't imagine Gray seeking counsel from his prodigal younger brother.

Seeing my skeptical expression, Peter nods. "He says I'm the frankest person he knows, and I take that label seriously. So, let's figure this out, you and me. How does that sound?"

I love Peter.

"Fine," I relent. "Go for it."

"Well, to start, I don't care about Davenport-Ridgeway. Let's get that out of the way."

I snicker. "You're in good company."

"Great, but aside from the business part of this debacle, I do care about all of us—your family and mine. If this deal falls through, the company will recover. A failed acquisition isn't going to destroy Davenport-Ridgeway…but it will destroy your brother."

"Davis."

"Yes, Davis," he confirms. "When deals fall through, careers fall through too. Our brothers can be straight-up annoying when it comes to their precious careers, but I love them. A lot. You're not willing to fall on your sword for your brother?"

"Is that an option? Because I'd much rather fall on a sword than rent out my pussy."

Peter snorts with gentle laughter. "I get it. The idea is weird. Taboo even. But if it were me and my brother were asking me to do this one thing to save his ass…then yeah, I would do it."

I know Peter would never bullshit me. He's completely serious: If Gray Davenport asked him to sacrifice his dignity and share his body for a fifty-billion-dollar fintech company, he would rise to the occasion.

"I know you've never cared about the company," he goes on. "I don't either. Corporate servitude isn't our thing. But have you ever once thought about trying out a job or a project?"

I roll my eyes. "Don't be generous. It's not like I get to sit in the boardroom and hammer out the details of the contract. I imagine I'm just expected to show up wherever Gus Winter summons me and spread my legs." I say those words and simultaneously fight the heat that flushes my cheeks when I imagine spreading myself open for a man as preternaturally attractive as Gus.

I really am a psychopath sometimes.

"So, say you want to be in the boardroom then," Peter counters, like it's that simple. "Tell Davis you have stipulations and won't even consider sleeping with Gus unless you have a seat at the table."

…Fuck, he's good.

Later, once Peter leaves, I send a text to Davis:

Fine. But I'm not going to be a poker chip that you slide across the table. I have terms, and if they're not met, I'm out.

Four months later

London passes outside the car window. There's a drippy mix of December rain and soft evening fog coating the glass, blocking my view. Maybe this shitty weather is a bad omen.

Maybe I should be scared.

As we pull up to a red light, I concentrate on the stark white lines of a crosswalk and try to focus on anything but the night ahead. For more than four months, I've anticipated this evening with mixed emotions. Tonight, I've landed somewhere between furious and horny.

Over the past four months, I've been in countless meetings with Davis and Davenport-Ridgeway's legal team, hashing out the details of the contract. Those meetings have melded into a blur of late nights, revisions, caveats, and Thai takeout my brother wearily eats at his laptop. The amount I've learned about acquisitions is like an MBA crash course—except it ends not with a degree, but with me getting dicked down by a billionaire instead.

I try to keep my breathing measured. There's a knot in my stomach that grew during the flight from Boston to London and hasn't subsided. I skipped dinner, unable to swallow anything but a shot of liquid courage. Even so, my stomach is tight like it's shoved against the bottom of my throat.

I can't believe I'm actually going through with this—and I can't believe I'm so nervous. This isn't me. Men have never fazed me, ever.

There's just something about Gus Winter.

I peel my eyes from the window and face forward. There are two men with me: a driver and a quiet, well-built man who I assume is security. While I appreciate the ride from my hotel, the security is overkill. I travel nonstop and have always considered it impractical to have a bulking guy following my every move. It's not up to me though.

Gus Winter's security detail examines me in the rearview mirror and then types on his phone. Occasionally, he touches an earpiece and mutters soft notes of confirmation. Yes, sir. Ten minutes, sir. Of course, sir.

The spectacle of this evening would upset me more if it weren't par for the course. The build up to tonight has been over the top. A clean STD test, a list of sexual greenlights and hard stops, and the most thorough waxing I've had in a year are just the beginning. I also had to sign three NDAs—as if I would ever tell anyone about this.

I open my purse and take out one of two mini airplane bottles of vodka, twist off the top, and cheers silently in the rearview mirror, making sure the security detail sees me. He can tell Sir about it, for all I care. The shot burns on the way down and I breathe out through my teeth, grateful for the distraction.

Minutes later, when we arrive at Gus's apartment building in Hyde Park, there are two more men waiting for me. One is additional security; the other is a sharply-dressed man, mid-forties, with a smile plastered on his face. The smiling one opens the door for me and shakes my hand once I'm out of the car.

"Julia, welcome to London," he says in a melodic, sing-songy voice.

"Thanks." I look up at the luxury building behind us. "You know, I didn't expect to come to an apartment."

"Mr. Winter owns the building," the man answers, gesturing in its direction.

"Of course he does," I murmur grimly. The entire evening is poised to be chock full of pageantry: the security, the cars, the staff, and now the multi-million-dollar digs. Clearly, Gus hasn't fucked many heiresses before. If he had, he would know that throwing money around doesn't impress me.

"I'm Brent," the man continues as he gestures for me to walk alongside him. "Mr. Winter's assistant."

"He couldn't greet me?" I ask, even though I'm not surprised. My father doesn't open his own front door either.

"He's waiting for you upstairs. I'm just here to…" We stop in front of an elevator.

"To make sure I'm primed and ready?" I snap. "To make sure I'm still hot? Go ahead. Tell him he's in luck: I'm still really fucking hot."

"To give you another chance to back out." Brent delivers the words cautiously, like he's terrified I'll take him up on the offer and force him to break the news to Gus.

Loosening my stiff stance, I face him. "Should I back out, Brent? What's waiting up there for me? A micropenis? A snuff film?"

"More likely, he'll make you dress up like a cat and ask you to curl up in his lap," he answers, not missing a beat.

My jaw barely has time to drop before Brent starts to laugh.

"I'm not serious," he assures me, winking like we're two regular strangers meeting at a cocktail party. "Apologies—that was uncalled for."

"Actually, I appreciated it," I admit. "I haven't been able to laugh about the situation yet."

"Glad I could lighten things up." Brent waves a keycard at the reader in the elevator. "You've met Mr. Winter before, so you know how he is," he goes on, speaking seriously now. "I get the impression you'll have no trouble holding your own, but…"

"But what?"

"Despite how this went," Brent continues, now nodding, "and despite his—let's say—brusque temperament, Mr. Winter doesn't want to do this unless you're completely comfortable. He asked me to give you my card. Of course, you can always tell him you've changed your mind. But if you do find yourself in a bathroom, wishing you could get the hell out, call me. He'll let you go, no objections, with or without my intervention."

Brent hands me his card and nods again, encouraging me to take it.

I slip it into my purse. "Thanks, but I'm not backing out. Mr. Winter needs to know that when I say I'm going to do something, I do it."

The elevator doors open at that moment, delivering me to a slick, minimalist landing. Brent doesn't stick around. He ushers me out and heads back down without another word, leaving me to watch him depart.

Shit. I thought he would at least bring me in to dissipate some of the awkwardness.

Alone, I stand in the small hallway between the elevator and the entrance to Gus Winter's penthouse and I wait. After a beat, footsteps sound behind the door and my heart begins to pound, knowing exactly what I'll find on the other side.

And there he is.

Gus leans against the edge of the door, hand resting on the doorknob. Four months have passed since the first and only time I saw him in the flesh. Once again, I'm taken aback by how handsome this man is.

So handsome. Criminally, inexplicably, mind-fuckingly handsome.

He stands tall and composed in a sinfully well-made suit that accentuates his height and his muscles. No tie—just a white button-down shirt with a couple of buttons undone at the top. In the soft lighting from his penthouse, his medium tan skin brims with warm tones that offset his icy persona. Cerulean blue eyes meet mine, assessing me the same way I'm scrutinizing him. His expression has no give whatsoever. His high cheekbones and trademark glare make him look dangerous and delicious all at once. When he tilts his head to the side in pensive appraisal, I spot a dusting of gray hair amid jet black. It works for him—hell, works is an understatement. He looks fucking magnificent.

Is it possible we've only ever spent five minutes in each other's presence? I'm inexplicably comfortable, like he's not a stranger at all.

Screw him for that.

"What kind of American immigrates to London?" It's an opener I came up with on the plane ride over, while I wondered why I was being exported to England like chattel.

"We use the term ‘expatriates,'" he answers in his low, scorching voice, still surveying me with lethal focus. He must like what he sees because he licks his lower lip, sending a jolt of a thrill through me.

"Because immigrating is beneath you?" I challenge, refusing to miss a step, refusing to let him notice that seeing him after so long has made my anticipation bubble up into reluctant desire.

He sighs with his entire chest. Apparently, my comment is so annoying, it finally distracts him from how badly he wants me. His eyes tick upwards to meet mine in a glare. "Welcome to London, Julia." He motions for me to enter.

"Believe it or not," I say as I push past him, "I've been to London before."

The door clicks shut behind me, and suddenly Gus Winter is at my back. His proximity lights me up, making my breath hitch involuntarily when his nose and his lips come close to the shell of my ear. He smells marvelous—masculine and clean from his subtle cologne. His hands go to my shoulders, inciting a wave of goosebumps that travels down my forearms.

But just when I think he's going to get right to business, I realize he's taking my coat.

Get it together, get it together, get it to-fucking-gether, Julia. You do not let men get the best of you.

Before my cheeks flush, I step away from him and venture further into his sprawling penthouse. The place is stylish, but nothing I haven't seen before. Cold, white, and sterile—how I imagined it would look before I ever stepped foot inside. Classic billionaire bullshit, likely right from the mind of an overpaid interior decorator.

But the incomparable view of Hyde Park from his full-wall window greets me, and as I stare out at the park I realize he dimmed the lights low enough for us to take in the view without leaving the room too dark. And once I'm paying attention, I notice there's soft music playing and candles flickering around us, making the place look every bit a sultry sex den. …Oh, and there are fresh flowers on every table—did he do all this? Is he…courting me? God, this is such a mindfuck.

Gus returns from hanging up my coat and stops several feet away from me, slipping seamlessly into a casual stance that radiates raw power: big hands in his pockets, heavy shoulders back, and his unflappable expression flat. For a few beats, we stare at each other in silence.

Those few beats shift into an entire minute. I'm not sure if we're engaging in a standoff, or if we truly have so little in common that we can't find anything to talk about. All I know is I won't give in—oh hell no. I'm not going to be the one to make an awkward comment to break the silence. He wanted me here, so he can entertain me.

"I'm drinking wine. Does that interest you?" he finally asks, his tone even, like we didn't just engage in a two-minute deadlock.

Damn it—he's good. I've never turned down a glass of wine. The offer is either good instincts, or this man knows me. Both possibilities annoy me for no reason.

"Fine. I'll join you," I answer coolly.

"Take a seat anywhere," he instructs before he heads down the hallway, where I catch a glimpse of an impressive glass wine room.

On the plane ride over, I wondered how tonight would go. I wondered if he would treat me like any other impulsive purchase, like a shiny new toy, and pounce on me the moment I walked in. I wondered if he would get his and leave me unsatisfied and desperate to come. If that were the case, I was ready to leave his apartment and to say fuck it to my NDA—the entire world could know what a lonely pervert Gus Winter is. But I take a seat on the couch, eyeing the flickering candles dancing around me, and I decide it feels…romantic.

I should appreciate this, I realize. I should be grateful for the expensive penthouse and the jazz playing in the background. Most women would love it. They would relish the chauffeurs and security couriering them around like a precious parcel. They would adore the gorgeous view of London from an ivory tower. The wine, the candles, the flowers—all of it is objectively lovely, I know.

It's forced though. Artifice. This isn't a date, and shows of wealth don't impress me. I can do all this on my own any day of the week. There's nothing real about this evening, and dressing the deal up with bells and whistles is embarrassing for both of us.

This is a business transaction. That's it. We need to get it over with.

Gus returns with a bottle and two glasses. I immediately recognize the label—one of my favorite red wine producers. A nice bottle is easily north of a thousand dollars.

He takes a seat on the other side of the coffee table, putting space between us. To my relief, he doesn't offer a toast or indulge in any fanfare over the thousands of dollars we're about to drink. He literally just starts drinking, barely acknowledging me. It might be the first authentic moment to transpire between us tonight.

"So, when are you going to fuck me?" I finally ask, imbuing challenge into my voice. Once the words pass over my lips, weightless anticipation surrounds me like vapor in the air.

His expression remains flat, completely unmoved. "Whenever I feel like it." There's a cockiness to his words that makes me want to pour my wine all over his pristine white couches—but lucky for Gus, I would never waste a drop.

"When will that be?"

"No clue."

It takes everything I have not to walk out right now. The audacity of this man to summon me out here and play me cold.

"So why the hell am I here?" I inquire, the tightness of frustration piling in my chest. "You wanted me. You spent months getting me. Well, here I am. Are we doing this or not?"

"You," he says slowly, pinning me with a hard gaze, "ask an awful lot of questions. If I didn't know better, I would think you're excited to fuck me, Julia."

The way he says my name should be illegal. He says it like he knows me intimately. The letters roll off his tongue like he's tasting each of them. My mood darkens by the second, and Gus seems to grow more relaxed in his seat. His posture is loose and lazy as he observes me over the rim of his drink.

"Good thing you know better," I snap before I let out a deep exhale. Drumming my fingers on the cushion next to me, I take a surveying glance around the living room. "Well, is this going to take long?" I finally pose, all passive aggressive petulance. "Because if it is, I downloaded three books for the flight over. Didn't get to finish them. I'll grab my purse."

I move like I'm about to stand when he lets out a sigh. "Can't a man drink his wine and enjoy looking at you in silence? You're beautiful, Julia," he drawls—and he has the nerve to sound bored.

More annoyingly, his minute compliment makes my stomach flutter. Contrary to popular belief, I am human. And when a man that fucking fine offers a compliment, it does wondrous things to the ego.

My eyes meet his across the room, staring straight into his pupils, tacitly informing him that he doesn't intimidate me.

"Fine, Daddy." I take an extended drink. "You can look all you want."

Gus's fa?ade finally splits. His nostrils flare when I call him Daddy—and I make a mental note. It's a weapon for my arsenal, which I'm steadily stockpiling.

"I'll be doing much more than looking tonight," he murmurs, his voice rumbling now that I've poked hard enough to awaken the bear.

"Prove it," I dare.

When he rises out of his seat, my heart races and I want to tell my stupid, slutty heart to get it together because we cannot give this man the satisfaction of knowing he does anything to us. But he strolls around the table, slowly and assuredly, like he's prowling. It's been a long time since a man approached me with so much authority. Dominance. Challenge. His posture looms and I can't do anything about my racing heart.

Whatever. Go off, heart. Do your thing.

He occupies the space next to me, making the cushion shift with his weight. The scent of his cologne surrounds me once again in a heady, masculine haze. He rests his arm along the back of the couch and places his hand on my chin. I hold my breath, anticipation now building. Languidly, he draws my face to his, bringing me in for a kiss…

…that never comes.

"Well look at that," he murmurs softly, his lips mere inches from mine, so close I can feel the warmth of his breath. The gratification drips from every syllable he utters. "You were ready and willing."

I take in the obnoxiously self-assured man in front of me—the one who just exposed me as a horny, needy liar who actually wants him to touch her no matter how much she pretends otherwise. My lips part, searching for words that won't come. With each passing second, his shit-eating grin presses into his features.

In a split-second decision, I raise my hand back to slap him—and am once again caught off guard when he catches my wrist, abruptly stilling my arm.

"Now, that's not very nice," he hisses, clutching my wrist with minimal force, but still enough to keep me in his grip.

"Well, I'm not a nice girl. Let go of me."

"Do you slap a lot of men?" He still hasn't let go.

I don't. I never do. I literally never have.

"Only when they deserve it," I reply, hoping to sound convincing.

A tick of a smirk eases onto his lips. "Do you promise to be good?" he asks, even though he knows the answer.

I pull my hand back, trying and failing to break free. "Hell no."

Gus raises an eyebrow and his small, nearly imperceptible smirk lingers. "Might be more fun that way," he murmurs before he relaxes his grip and carefully places my hand on my own thigh.

Exasperated, I rise from the couch, grab my glass of wine, and toss back the entire thing in a swift gulp. A few thousand dollars in a few seconds. When I look at Gus, he's leaning back nonchalantly, watching me with interest.

"Why so mad, Julia?" he inquires, acting innocent.

"I don't like being played with," I snap.

"Or maybe you've never been played with before," he responds, innuendo thick in his words. "Maybe every man you've ever known has been too intimidated to play with you. Well, I'll happily play with you."

Gus is like sexual radiation. The longer I remain in his proximity, the more he surrounds me, seeps into my skin, poisons me.

"Who the hell are you?" I demand, shaking my head like the motion will make everything clearer even though nothing, not a gale force wind, could free me from his all-consuming presence. "Where do you get off speaking to me like that?"

"Gus Winter," he replies, feigning an introduction. "Founder and CEO of FundRight—the company that currently has your namesake and fortune by the balls. Nice to meet you."

"Ugh, you annoy me." I snatch the bottle of wine by the neck, pour myself another glass—and down it in record time as well. "And what kind of grown man is named Gus?"

"It's short for August."

It's the first bit of personal information he has ever divulged to me—or anyone, I assume—because after hours of scouring the internet, I never once saw any mention of his real name.

Sitting down on a different sofa, I frown as deeply as the Botox in my forehead allows. "That's so much better than Gus. Why don't you go by August?"

"Because I built my career on the name Gus. I can't change it now."

"Sure you can. People may talk about it for a day, but they'll get it eventually. It's basic reinvention."

Gus finishes his own glass of wine and motions for me to push the bottle towards him. Of course, I ignore his request, so he sighs and rises to pour himself another glass. After a long, leisurely drink he says, "It's different for CEOs. People want stability from me. Consistency."

"So this is what happens when your career peaks at twenty-four. You get stuck being the person you were then, even in your forties."

"Maybe."

He's still standing, still watching me with outright fascination. With two shots of vodka and two glasses of wine in me on an empty stomach, I'm steadily finding his interest more than palatable. When he stands like that—so commanding, and muscular, and self-assured—he looks extraordinary.

Get. It. Together.

I swirl my glass and tilt back a sip before I say, "Well, I was a train wreck at twenty-four. After I graduated college, I basically fucked around the world until my father finally sent someone to bring me back to Boston. I stuck around for a couple months, but started traveling again. Fucking around again. Dad hates it, but he tolerates it." A drink. "He finally realized I"m not one you can tie down easily."

Gus's jaw tightens, and I wonder which part of my admission bothers him.

"I've fucked a lot of men, August," I go on, using his real name like a weapon, the same way he used mine like a sex toy. "Name a time zone, and I've fucked someone in it."

His shoulders tighten inwards. He turns and takes a seat on the sofa once more, but his eyes have locked onto me in a glare. Jealousy? Disgust? I can't read him, not yet. The liquor isn't helping.

He doesn't speak. He finishes the bottle by topping off his own glass and then he silently exits the living room. When he returns, he has another bottle of wine—another one of my favorites. More expensive. More delicious.

He goes through the show of opening the bottle and puts a small amount in my now-empty glass. When he places the bottle down, I pick it up and give myself another couple of inches, all while he watches.

"Julia."

"Yes."

Gus's blue eyes are so focused on me that I nearly shift in my seat, but shifting would expose a weakness—a weakness for him. And I don't do weakness. Ever.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, and says, "These men you fucked. How many made you come?"

I'm not often speechless, but his words rattle me. I can tell by looking at him that he wants an answer. This isn't about innuendo—he wants me to tell him.

"All of them," I answer, lifting my chin. "Every. Single. One."

"Don't lie," he nearly snaps in response. "I don't like liars."

I raise my brow, wanting to meet his challenge. "I don't owe you an answer."

"How many made you moan their names? How many made you beg for it?" he continues, ignoring my protest.

None. Not a single one. Ever.

"How many do you think about when you touch yourself? How many are you dying to have again?" His expression is knowing—and I hate that. This man is an abject stranger, but somehow he manages to push my buttons.

Gus rises and strides elegantly until he's standing in front of me. He raises his hand slowly and cups my chin in his big palm.

"How many do you picture when you fuck other men?" he continues, his gaze now heated to a thousand degrees.

None.

Gus shifts his hand so his thumb rubs along my lower lip. He's not entirely gentle either. He pushes on it hard, smearing my lipstick in the process.

"How many have you thought about since the night you met me?" He presses his thumb between my lips now.

I loathe myself for sucking on the tip of his thumb, for groaning when he pushes it on my tongue. I can't resist though. I can't think clearly when the pad of his thumb scrapes my teeth and then swoops down to trace the inside of my lower lip. The exploration is slight and yet invasive at the same time. My lips are open for him—and he barely had to lift a finger to make it happen.

"After we fuck," he goes on, speaking slowly without letting his focus on my mouth waver, "I'm going to be the only honest answer to any of those questions. ‘Just you,' is what you'll say to me. ‘Just you, Gus.'"

A million snarky responses yearn to pass through my lips, but I can't string any together. I'm too tipsy. I'm too off-kilter. I'm too caught up in his proximity, his voice, his taste.

My silence pays off, however, when Gus gives in. Roughly, he tugs his thumb from my mouth and clasps my jaw hard, holding me by my chin. Gripping it. Handling me.

Then finally, like he can't hold back any longer, he kisses me.