Dance with the Billionaire
By: Charlotte Eve
Wait ... what?
Tell me he didn’t just say that?
I nervously scan the bar, crowded as usual on a Friday night. It’s not often that someone manages to catch me off guard, but right now this tray of drinks is gonna fall from my hand and come crashing to the floor around my feet if I don’t keep my shit together.
I take a deep breath, steady myself on my heels, smile sweetly, then say, “I’m sorry sir, I didn’t quite catch that.”
Pretend like it never happened. There’s no way he’ll say it again.
But he looks up at me so confidently from his seat in the booth, his dark eyes glinting, a smile playing on his full lips, his thick black hair so glossy and shining in the dim light of the bar. And then he does say it again, even slower this time, never breaking eye contact, so fucking calm and confident:
“I’ll give you a thousand dollars for your panties.”
He’s not even alone. There are three other guys in the booth with him, all dressed just as expensively in their slick tailored suits. At first I think that he must be saying it for their amusement – making me the pawn in some sick little game of his own creation, just to get a cheap laugh. But I quickly realize that the other guys are busy laughing and joking amongst themselves, not even paying attention to what he’s saying.
What the fuck?
I mean, I’ve had enough sleazeballs come onto me in this place, but this is something else. Usually, they just grab my ass, ask me what I’m doing later, that kind of thing. They all act as if, just because I’m serving them drinks, that I’m their property. But nobody has actually offered to buy me before.
And the weird thing is, just for a second, a part of me even considers it. I imagine myself stepping out of my panties and dropping them on the table, calling his bluff. I’m wearing plain black briefs that probably cost about $5 max.
That’s a $995 profit.
But then of course, I push the thought from my head. Because while I might be broke, I’m definitely not that broke.
And the way he’s looking at me, the way he’s pinning me with his eyes, the smile growing wider as he waits for my reply, it becomes totally clear to me that this entitled rich-kid asshole has never heard the word ‘no’ in his entire life.
He’s rich, he’s handsome, and he gets whatever he wants. But he’s about to learn that that doesn’t extend to me.
“I’m afraid,” I say, my voice threatening to tremble at any moment and give away my nerves, “that I’m not that kind of girl, and this isn’t that kind of bar. But if you like, I could recommend you a pretty good strip club a few blocks from here?”
He shakes his head, all the while keeping me locked with those fiercely dark eyes.
“Tell me the truth,” he says, the deep growl of his voice cutting clear as a bell through the music and chattering crowds of the bar. And suddenly, it’s as if we’re the only two people in here. “They’re getting wet, aren’t they?”
Fuck you, asshole, I think, feeling my heart beginning to pound and the anger boiling up inside me at the thought that this guy has gone through his whole life so spoiled, so full of himself.
“Well gentlemen, if that will be all,” I say in my most professional tone, setting down their whiskey cocktails and turning to leave.
But as I turn, I feel the warmth of his fingers against the bare skin of my arm, as he holds me in place and turns me back to face him.
“If you ever change your mind,” he says, taking a business card from the breast pocket of his crisp white shirt and pressing it into my hand.
I quickly glance down at it:
Dylan Campbell
Campbell Finance
I yank myself free from his grip, then strut towards the safety of the bar, my heart hammering, wishing I could have thrown his fucking drink in his face – that spoiled prick.
Even as I walk, I can feel his eyes on my ass, and I can sense that he’s still owning me somehow with his eyes. It makes me so goddamn furious, I stop in my tracks, turn back, lock eyes with him once again and then, so that everyone can see, I let his business card slip from my fingers and flutter straight to the floor.
What kind of guy actually asks a girl if he can buy her panties, I think, my whole body still trembling in anger and frustration. And then has the nerve to ask her if they’re getting wet.
But the thing that makes me angriest of all?
He was right.
They are wet.
§
“Now tell it to me straight, okay?” I say.
“Oh, I ain’t gonna lie, girl,” Natalia replies with a grin. “If you suck, imma be the first to let you know about it.”
