Dance with the Billionaire

By: Charlotte Eve


“One thing I learned in business?” he says calmly, appearing in the doorway to the hall, the drink still clutched in his hand, the look on his face giving nothing away. “Never accept the first offer.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I hiss, still trembling with a mixture of rage and embarrassment.

“Please,” says Dylan, “come and sit down. I might just have a better proposition for you.”

“You sure you don’t want a drink? You certainly look like you could use one.”

“Fine,” I reply, perched awkwardly on the edge of the couch, my knees pressed firmly together, totally aware that I’m no longer wearing panties beneath this tiny little dress. “Vodka. Ketel One. Same as yours.”

“Very good,” he says, patronizingly.

“I work in a fucking bar, remember?” I snap back. “I know the best vodka to drink neat. And I’m paid fifteen bucks an hour to serve it to guys like you.”

Dylan Campbell chooses to ignore this latest outburst of mine, and turns to head back to the liquor cabinet. And this time, it’s my turn to check him out. I can’t help it. There’s something frustratingly magnetic about him, as if my eyes are drawn to him almost beyond my own control. And even though I know he’s just some creep, I still find myself watching him as he fixes my drink, the way his black hair shines in the light, the glow of his lightly tanned skin, the sheer broadness of his back beneath his shirt, the crisp white cotton giving away the sculpted form of his body beneath.

What the hell are you doing, Julia? Why are you checking this guy out?!

I force my eyes away from him, to the dazzling New York skyline, shown off by the huge floor-to-ceiling windows that run all across one wall of his apartment. I’ve never seen the city from this high up before and wow – it’s beautiful. I’m blown away, one hundred percent. After all, I’ve never quite got the spare bucks to take a trip to the top of the Empire State building. But now I don’t need to. This is just as good.

“Here you go,” he says, standing so close to me now that I can feel the tiny space between us buzzing with

as he places the chilled cut glass tumbler in my hands.

“Thanks,” I mumble, lifting the glass to my lips, glad for the sharp jab to the senses that the neat vodka gives me.

“So?” I say, watching as he takes the velvet armchair facing me, reclining comfortably, spreading his legs wide apart, black eyes burning. “This better offer? What is it?”

“The deal,” he says, “is this.” He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, never taking his eyes from mine for a second. “You will come and stay with me for a week. During that time, you will be mine, to do with as I please. And in return, I’ll pay you a hundred thousand dollars.”

Is this guy fucking serious?!

“Woah, woah, woah Richard Gere,” I blurt out. “What do you think this is? Pretty Woman?”

But I’m the only one laughing. I think he is fucking serious.

“If that’s where you get your ideas about rich guys from,” he says with a sarcastic shake of his head, “then you’ve got even more to learn than I thought. This is no fairy-tale romance, and I am certainly no Richard Gere. You intrigue me, and I want to see more of what you can do. But you need to understand, this isn’t going to be some kind of sanitized Hollywood bullshit, either. We are not going to ‘make love’, Julia Tate. We are going to fuck.”

As he says the word, I feel a chill run down my spine, and I press my knees even tighter together. My heart’s booming as I lift the glass to my lips and drain it, feeling the clear liquid burn my throat. And despite myself, I can feel another sweet ache, too, right there between my legs.

“I’ll need to think about it,” I say, steadily as I can.

“I’ll give you the weekend,” he replies, standing and taking my glass. “If you decide to do this, I’ll see you at my office on Monday, 3pm. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some business to attend to.”

I stumble out onto the street. What just happened in his apartment feels so unreal I wonder if maybe I imagined it. But as I begin to walk towards the nearest subway station, I remember all over again that I’m not wearing any panties.

No. That definitely just happened.

I can still hear his words echoing around my head: We are not going to ‘make love’, Julia Tate. We are going to fuck.

And I have to admit to myself that something about it turned me on. Maybe it’s his confidence. The very thing that gets me so mad, that makes me want to throw my fucking drink in his face? Well, maybe, just maybe, it gets me hot, too.

Top Books