Chapter 8 Gus

What the fuck am I doing?

What the actual fuck am I doing?

The car rolls to a stop at a red light, and my driver lets out a soft exhale before he glances at his phone. Leisurely bullshit. The idiocy to look at his phone while I'm in his backseat tempts me to get his ass fired. I've destroyed careers for far less. But it's the holiday season and I frankly have more important things on my mind.

Come and get me, August.

Annoyed, I read the text yet again. She must be out of her goddamn mind, taunting me after slipping away in the night like a dirty secret. Yet, here I am, chasing her.

I know better. I'm not twenty-two anymore, impulsively quitting my first job and selling my shit for a plane ticket so I can chase a woman to London. I know I shouldn't do this. I already know how this turns out.

What the hell am I doing?

Chasing her, apparently. Ignoring common sense and experience, apparently.

I open another app. My stomach surges when I see a new image on Julia's Instagram. This post wasn't there ten minutes ago, so she's updating in real-time.

She's in a dark nightclub, holding a drink and wearing a red dress—or something vaguely resembling a dress. The skimpy garment is so revealing, I immediately begin to harden right there in the backseat of the car I've hired for the night. It dips so low, I'm not even sure how it manages to keep her nice breasts from spilling out.

Maybe it doesn't.

And like she's asking for trouble—like she's inviting anyone to come for her—she tagged the name and location of the club. I have to wonder if she has a death wish, tempting some insane motherfucker to track her down…

…and then I realize I'm the insane motherfucker. She wants me to hurry up and track her down. She's playing games with me—and she's doing it right in front of her tens of millions of followers.

This is classic Julia Ridgeway. I've never met another woman so confident in her own pussy that she would risk a fifty-billion-dollar deal to make a billionaire chase her around the world.

I order the driver to change course for the club in clipped, brusque Italian. Something about my tone compels him to flip an illegal U-turn, inciting irate honks from other drivers.

Needless to say, I'll be giving this man a life-changing tip at the end of the night.

The nightclub is one of the most exclusive in Milan. It still only takes a single text message for me to get my name on the list and a personal welcome from the owner himself.

The music inside pulsates, bad and loud and unremarkable. Annoyed, I allow the owner to escort me to the VIP section. Earlier, he gave me his name and is now rambling about his other clubs and connections across Italy. He promises he can set me up with anything I want. None of it impresses me. Right now, the only thing this kid could do to impress me is leave me alone.

I came without security tonight, which leaves me feeling naked. On the rare occasion when I'm out at events, I've always got a guy on the wings. Not tonight. Once the club owner—Francis or Francisco or something—is gone, I find myself alone on the fringes of revelry. I can do whatever I want tonight.

I scan the vicinity, taking in throngs of young people in states of casual undress. This isn't my scene. The distinct notes of alcohol and cigarettes linger in the air and shameless lines of cocaine decorate tabletops and the backs of women's well-manicured hands.

So, this is the kind of shit Julia is into.

I've never felt more forty-three than I do after I order a drink and wait by the railing where Julia stood earlier tonight. The vodka of the night, whatever it is, tastes like shit, but I take two shots of it anyway. It's pure gasoline in my throat and I ignore the aftertaste while I look at the crowd below—a crowd too young for my tastes.

"I shouldn't have done this," I mutter aloud before the sight of a young woman clearly getting fucked briefly diverts my attention. She's against one of the walls lining the packed dancefloor below, visible whenever the flashing lights switch from green to white. The man in front of her holds her head back by her hair, lips pressed against her neck while he thrusts into her. Surrounding them, more couples—and some configurations greater than two—are devolving into similar states of debauchery.

Briefly, I wonder if Julia tempted me out here just to seduce another man right in front of me. The initial rage quickly fades into heat and I imagine how that would go: Julia fucking another guy, his hands pawing at her body, barely scratching itches I could soothe entirely. She'd regret it the minute she saw me enjoying the show, reveling in her disappointment over the mediocre dick inside of her.

I'd fuck her better than he could. Better than anyone could.

But the fantasy dissipates a moment later when I finally spot her.

Julia Ridgeway is hedonistic for an old money rich girl. Her type is usually buttoned up, careful not to engage in missteps that would mar centuries of a good name. Julia, on the other hand, dances like she wants to obliterate her father's legacy, like she wants to chop down her family tree and watch the branches burn to ashes. Her luscious body pulses with the music, hands dragging over her own curves and occasionally shifting that little dress to reveal more shimmering skin.

It doesn't take her long to notice me up here. When her eyes meet mine over the sea of half-naked people and throbbing lights, a triumphant smile appears on her face.

Once I see her smile, I realize my efforts were worth it. Scouring the internet for images that matched the background of the picture she sent me. Calling up the CEO of the Dorchester Collection, which owns the Hotel Principe di Savoia, so I could find out who booked the Presidential Suite tonight. Taking an impromptu trip to Milan in my plane. Drinking this shit vodka. It was all worth it to see her in the flesh, looking so damn good that I might hoist her over my shoulder and fuck her in the backseat of the car.

The look she gives me while she dances below is clear: Come and get me, August.

Such a cocky little thing.

Her eyes stay locked on mine. Her tongue pokes out through her lips to wet them, seduction practically emanating off of her. I grip the railing, trying to hold on to my power. This was my deal. My idea, my terms, my night. She keeps trying to take it from me.

Nobody takes from me—not even her.

"Fuck you, Julia," I mouth.

She can see it; it makes her smile even harder—because her brother was right: She really is a psychopath. That much is clear when she reaches out blindly and grabs the closest guy in her orbit, inviting him to dance on her.

Right in front of me.

I'm not surprised he looks thrilled, downright grateful, to have the opportunity. In fact, he looks like he can't believe his luck. With a desirous but still dumbfounded expression, he touches her without caution, his hands latching on her waist while she presses her body against his.

She's a fucking psychopath.

She doesn't know me. She doesn't know that if I wanted, I could make a single phone call and have this man killed tonight—and nobody would suspect a thing. She also doesn't know that I would never be jealous of some boy in a nightclub.

She also doesn't know that I'm unfazed by how many men she fucked before me—that I lost my mind the moment I first saw her because it was readily apparent that she had fucked her fair share of men. Practice makes perfect, after all.

And because she doesn't know all these things about me, it's abundantly clear she believes she can beat me at my own game. Her hubris—more than anything else, even above her dry-humping a stranger to taunt me—is her greatest affront.

Game on, Julia.

I force myself to take my time walking downstairs to meet her, making her wait. Still, our gazes remain locked on each other, growing hotter with each passing second.

When I'm close, the man dancing on her sees me—and sees the challenge on my face while I look him up and down, unimpressed. Briefly, he draws his head back like he's considering standing his ground. Once I'm in his vicinity, however, it's glaringly obvious I could pulverize him into a fine powder if it came to it.

Stoic, I cock my head to the side, the universal signal for get lost. The punk bitch actually does it.

Now alone amid the sway of dancing bodies, Julia takes me in. Haughty, she cants her head to the side. "Took you long enough."

I sweep in, putting my face near hers. "Don't say a fucking word," I warn, our faces nearly touching. "You'll ruin this."

Roughly, I pull her against me, making our bodies collide in a soft pileup of skin and sweat. If she's surprised, she doesn't show it. Her hands immediately press against my pectorals, feigning a desire for distance and control when it's obvious I'm ticking all the screwed-up checkboxes on her sordid list of wants.

Torn between annoyance, anger, and abject delight, I tighten my grip on her thigh, my fingers pressing into her supple skin with abandon. She can take it.

And Julia, good girl that she is, does take it. In fact, she even moves her own palm and jams it onto the back of my hand in a tacit order for me to clutch her thigh even harder.

My other hand traces her spine, exploring the soft lines of her bare back. Her dress leaves nothing to the imagination. Part of me is tempted to punish her for dressing like this for anybody but me when our contract is unfulfilled—and yet another part of me is so goddamn glad she did. Right now, I'm the only man in this club permitted to touch her. The less she wears, the more everyone else can envy me.

Envy is my fucking lifeblood.

When my hand reaches the back of her neck, the ends of her long, high ponytail tickle my skin. I clench my fist around it and give it a firm yank. Nothing to hurt her—only enough to make her inhale sharply. But the more I get to know her, the more I suspect she would be fine if it stung a little. If it stung a lot, actually.

She gasps when my tongue and lips make contact with her exposed neck, and she leans into the kiss. Teasing me. Hips grinding against me. Arms draped over my shoulders. I'm not dancing back, but my refusal somehow adds to the moment. She's mine tonight. She's here to entertain me—and I'm more than satisfied with her performance.

"Take me to your hotel," she whispers into my ear with a tinge of a moan. At the same time, she thrusts the apex of her pussy against my growing erection. That touch skyrockets my pulse and temptation swells through me—yes, yes, fucking yes.

"You'd love that, wouldn't you?" I keep my tone hard. Naturally, I don't tell her I don't have a room yet. That confession would force me to admit I went straight from the airport to a car—like a desperate man.

She smiles deviously before she gives me another thrust to the beat of the music. "Let's fulfill our obligations," she goes on, still letting that tinge of a moan coat her voice. "Show me how you fuck a fifty-billion-dollar pussy."

Such a brat. The words are hot, but they're meant to draw me in like bait on a hook. From any other pair of lips, I wouldn't take this kind of taunting—no, mindfuckery.

"Tease," I grit out, giving her ponytail another harsh tug. "You'll back out again."

Julia gives me her word by kissing me, soft lips dipping over mine to offer me a hit of her taste. She's still sweet, even with a hint of vodka on her tongue. Groaning, I lean into her.

Do I make out with carefree twenty-eight-year-olds in public? Never. A picture of the two of us could net a tipster a healthy sum if they sold it to a tabloid. But when it comes to Julia, I forget about who I am and how I usually act. I forget that I'm forty-three—a grown ass man with a reputation for reclusion and steeliness. A mystery. A terrifying bastard. One of the richest men in the fintech world.

I'd readily throw all my mystique away for this—for the moment when I finally get to call in the debt I'm owed.

I release her hair at the same moment I kiss a trail down her neck, distracting her while I shoot off a text to Francis, telling him to get me some privacy right now. It then takes less than a minute for a gigantic, stern looking guy in a black suit to shove his way over to us.

He leads us out of the packed crowd and to the far side of the club, where we find ourselves in a long hallway lit up with neon pink lights. The stretch is sickly and too trendy for its own good, bordering on porny. This is the shit I've avoided my whole life, even when I was young enough for it to be fitting. Until now. Until her.

Julia—still holding my hand—seems neither impressed nor unimpressed. In fact, she's too fixated on trying to pull me back into her grasp to kiss me.

She succeeds when we finally reach a door at the end of the hall, where the tank in the suit stops. He's rifling through a key ring when Julia tugs me against her and leans against the wall adjacent to the door. Her kiss is ravenous beyond measure, and her willingness—her desperation—to touch me while another man is standing right next to us does ridiculous shit to my heart rate.

He finally gets the door open right when Julia takes my hand and places it on her breast over her skimpy dress.

She doesn't give a fuck that he's here, and frankly, I don't either.

The tank hesitates briefly, like he's not sure what to do now. I imagine he planned on telling us about the room or bidding us goodnight, but it's patently obvious that Julia and I want to screw each other's brains out in his place of work. Smart man, he gets his bearings and gestures at the now-open door before making himself scarce.

I manage to maneuver Julia into the room, but she makes it damn near impossible. She's rubbing against me like she would be content to fuck right out in the open, and I'd be a liar if I said the idea didn't thrill me on some level.

"Shameless." I slam the door behind us, leaving us in the low glow of neon pink from a wall installation on the other side of the room.

It's a private VIP lounge. Most of the space is taken by a leather sectional and a low glass table sporting a hookah pipe. Nothing elegant. Nothing extraordinary. Surely not good enough for her, but it'll have to do.

"You love it," she replies with an eye roll before she leans against the door and looks me over. She must like what she sees because she wets her lower lip with her tongue and murmurs, "You'd take me anywhere you could get me. That's how much you want me."

She's a confident little thing—and for good reason. She looks like sin and salvation all at once, and I may not be a religious man, but she makes me feel close to god right now.

"Men have done ridiculous things to fuck me," she goes on. She languidly reaches up and fingers one of her dress's thin straps. "They buy me things. Take me places. Offer me crowns and titles. Promise to leave their wives, their girlfriends—whatever. But you're the first man to ever give away a fifty-billion-dollar company for me."

Right then, she clicks a snap on the neck of her dress and the sides suddenly pop open—leaving her bare breasts on display. They look otherworldly exquisite in the pink lights—curvy and sizable and more than my hands could hold.

"Well, come and get it, Daddy," she taunts, crooking her finger at me.

I'm on her so fast, she flinches with surprise and grabs my arms in the process. It's an involuntary reaction—the first hint I've seen to suggest she fears me. A rare glimpse of humanity from an otherworldly, goddess of a woman—or a devil, frankly. She gasps when I smother a line of kisses from her mouth, along her neck, and down to her heavenly breasts.

When I draw a pink, pebbled nipple into my mouth, her hand latches around a fistful of my hair. Pull it, baby. Pull it. I tongue the hardened peak, wetting it thoroughly and leaving her shifting before I give the other nipple the same treatment.

She melts into my touch, and I run my hand up her thigh and under her short skirt. Thin panties await me—a surprise, since Julia seems like the kind of woman who would fearlessly go commando in a skirt so short it barely exists. She practically purrs when I hook the lace to the side, giving myself access to her. My finger traces her slit, finding her wet and waiting for me.

"I almost forgot how wet you get," I murmur. It's a lie though. The slickness of her needy cunt is etched into my brain and the memory isn't going anywhere. My fingertips dance over her lips, grazing the delicate separation between them and spreading her arousal. It's the last gentle touch she'll get from me tonight. "You know you drip with it, don't you?"

"Don't exaggerate."

"You do. You get so slick for me," I continue. "I've never seen anything like it before."

I press my middle finger into her channel, indulging in symbolism. It's my own private joke. Fuck her—fuck this loathsome, disturbingly gorgeous woman who piqued my obsession. I work a soft thrust, listening for the telltale sounds of her descent into pleasure. Her lips go to mine again, swallowing my groan of approval.

"Did it make you jealous to see me with another guy?" she asks breathlessly, her hands roaming over my hair, my head, and my body like she doesn't know where to leave them. "I was about to invite his friend to join."

"Liar," I challenge. "Always lying."

"I've fucked two men before," she continues, no trepidation. "Same time. It was incredible."

I inhale with want, imagining it as vividly as the neon lights illuminating our tangled bodies. I can practically picture myself being a part of it, maybe taking her pussy while she sucks another man's cock. She's wild. She's a gift and a curse all at once.

"Does the thought make you jealous, Daddy?" she presses, continuing to toy with me, pushing my buttons repeatedly like she works in mission control.

She wants me to say yes. She wants to see me lose my cool and unleash my legendary temper on her. Sick fuck, it would probably turn her on.

I'm tired of her calling the shots. I'm tired of her making this into her fantasy. This is my fucking fantasy, and I gave up a hell of a lot to have it. From now on, we're going to do things my way.

Abruptly, I wrench my finger out of her tight channel and straighten my spine, leaving her gasping with surprise. "Come to Montana," I order, speaking softly into her ear.

I may as well have told her I enjoy hanging out with Elon Musk because the look of disgust on her gorgeous face is unparalleled. She jerks back from me and she assesses my expression for seriousness. Whatever she sees must offer confirmation because she curls her lip.

"What the fuck?" she demands.

Unfazed, I lean in again and say, "Montana. If you want me to fuck you, we're doing it in Montana."

Her expression darkens and her arousal gradually fades. "Well, it's a good thing I don't want to fuck yo—"

"Liar," I challenge yet again, interrupting the end of her sentence.

She looks shocked, and I figure it could be due to any of three reasons:

One: I doubt a man has ever interrupted her before.

Two: I doubt a man has ever given her guidelines around how to fuck him.

Three: I doubt anyone has ever told her to go to Montana.

Julia's jaw lowers slightly. "I don't—"

"Then don't," I continue, shoving my finger back into her—fuck you, fuck you, fuck you, Julia. "Nobody is forcing you to."

"We have a deal," she gasps, fighting to not enjoy my touch, but her legs squirm and press together like she's desperately seeking release.

"Break it. Now, do you want to call Davis and tell him the acquisition is off, or should I?"

Exasperated, Julia reaches between us and yanks my hand right out from between her legs.

"Jesus, August. I hope you get fucked in the face with your own ego," she snaps before she shoves me away from her entirely.

Indignantly, she refastens and straightens her dress, glaring at me with pure vitriol like I've never seen from a woman before.

I'm obsessed with it.

Just to make her angrier, I take my middle finger and insert it into my mouth, tasting her—reminding her that a moment ago, she spread her legs for me.

"Fuck you." Her tone is ice—all hints of a moan long gone.

"That's your job," I remind her airily, enjoying myself so much, I could smile. "I'll see you in Montana."

Without another word, I breeze past her and open the door to reveal the blaring sounds of the club once more.