Dance with the Billionaire

By: Charlotte Eve


I think about my dad – there’s no way in the world he’d be able to help me. I mean, the last time I even saw him, three years ago, he was the one who asked to borrow money off me. And thinking of Dad always makes me think of Mom too, and I feel a sharp pang of sadness. She died when I was only nine years old. I was crazy about dancing, even back then. And if she knew that I’d actually been offered a place somewhere like this, I just know she’d be so proud, and she’d do anything she could to help me realize my dream.

I stuff the brochure back in the envelope, feeling my spirits sink.

You’ll just have to tell Maurice you made a mistake ...

But then I hear another voice inside me, a stronger, more decisive voice – louder than the first.

Oh no you don’t. Don’t give up now. You’ve fought to get this far. You’ll find a way to do this somehow. You’ve got to do everything you can to get the money together to get on this course.

And come to think of it, I know the perfect place to start ...





“I’ve changed my mind,” I say.

“I’ve been waiting for your call,” he replies, his voice just as deep and resonant as I remember it from last Friday night at the bar.

I’m standing in the middle of my apartment, phone pressed to my ear, heart racing, staring down at my laptop screen, open on the website for Campbell Finance – complete with a photo of him. Dylan Campbell, smiling out at the camera, his teeth Hollywood white, his hair jet black and cut a little shorter and neater than I remember it, his tailored suit showing off the broadness of his shoulders, and that same entitled I can get whatever I want glint in his eye.

“How did you know I was gonna call?” I hiss.

“They always do. I know girls like you. You might play hard to get, but deep down you want it. I could see that in your eyes. I’m right, aren’t I?”

My mind works its way back to the other night in the shower – my fingers stroking my clit as I let my head fill with him.

God damn it. He is right.

“So?” I snap, unable to give him the satisfaction of answering his question. “How do we do this?”

“All in good time,” he says, a strange playfulness entering his voice now, as if he’s really fucking enjoying this little exchange, as if he’s enjoying just how nervous and out-of-my-depth he’s making me feel. Of course he is. He knows exactly the effect he has on people. “I’ve got a few questions first,” he continues.

“Okay,” I say, swallowing back my nerves.

“First of all, what’s your name?”

Why the fuck does he need to know my name? I thought he just wanted to buy my panties for Chrissakes.

“Julia,” I find myself saying. “Julia Tate.”

“And how old are you, Julia Tate?”

“I’m twenty-one.”

This is like some fucked up job interview.

“And how did you even get past my secretary, Julia?”

“I told her I was Gigi Hadid, and you met me at a fundraiser last night.”

“Very good,” he replies. He sounds begrudgingly impressed.

There’s a pause, and I glance down at his picture again, imagining his dark eyes on me, owning me, just like they were that night in the bar.

“Come to my apartment,” he says. “Nine o’ clock tonight. The Ingram Building. If you can Google my phone number, you can easily find the address to that, too.”

I don’t even get a chance to answer before he hangs up the phone, leaving me standing there in the middle of my apartment, wondering just what the hell I’m getting myself into.



§



I pull on the tiny black Victoria’s Secret panties that I bought just a few hours ago, calculating again that I’m about to make a $985 profit for this little exchange. Then I smooth down my dress and give myself a final look over in the mirror.

This red mini-dress is so tight, it leaves little to the imagination. But that’s how I like to dress. I’ve got toned abs and a great ass from all the dancing, so my figure’s in awesome shape. Why not flaunt it? My breasts might be a little on the small side, but they’re pert and my push-up bra is doing its best to give me some cleavage.

I’ve put on more makeup than usual; smoky eye shadow and vampish red lip-liner and lipstick to match my dress. Heavy makeup’s not my usual style, but tonight I feel like I’m playing a character. Like it’s not really me who’s about to go out and sell her underwear to a stranger.

Just as I’m about to grab my purse and leave the apartment, I think: If he’s willing to pay a thousand dollars for a single pair of panties, what else might he want from you, too? Come on, Julia. Don’t be stupid ...

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