Page 11 of Curvy Girl for the Billionaire

The clink of fine china and the murmur of elite conversation blend into a symphony of high society, but I hear none of it. Not with Charlie by my side.

She's a vision in crimson silk that hugs her curves like a sinner's promise, dark hair cascading over bare shoulders. As she glides beside me, every eye shifts, drawn by her confidence.

The raw fucking sexiness of her that has me ready to cream my pants right here and now.

I can't help but swell with pride, knowing she's here with me.

But as gazes linger too long, appreciation turning lecherous, my blood simmers. They see her exterior, not all of her the way I do. They don't deserve even a glance, yet they feast.

My hands ball into fists.

"Alex?" Charlie's voice cuts through the haze of my jealousy, sharp, professional. "Shall we mingle?"

"Of course," I say, placing a hand possessively at the small of her back, asserting silently to everyone here.

She's with me.

As we circulate, every man's nod is courteous but calculating, their eyes betraying the greediness of their intentions.

I lean in closer to Charlie, marking my territory with a touch that brooks no argument. She stiffens under my hand, and I know I've overstepped.

"Alex, you're holding onto me pretty tight there," she says, a teasing lilt to her words, but her green eyes are serious. "Relax, this isn't a real date."

"Isn't it?" I challenge, voice low, the words for her alone. "If this were real, I wouldn't let anyone else look at you. You'd be mine, completely."

Her breath catches, and for a moment, there's a flicker of something more than our charade. But then she masks it with a practiced smile and steps away, reclaiming her independence.

"Then it's a good thing this is just for show," she replies, but the tremor in her voice betrays the tension between us—a tension that feels anything but fake.

Charlie's retreat isn't just a step back physically. It feels like a chasm opening between us, filled with all the unspoken words and simmering tension.

I force myself to loosen my grip, but my mind is racing, my instincts screaming to pull her back, to claim her as mine in every way that matters. Hell, I want to fuck her right here and now in front of everyone just so everyone will know she’s mine. At the same time, I can’t bear the thought of anyone else seeing her body.

It’s mine alone.

The evening drags on, each minute stretching longer than the last as I watch her navigate the room with me by her side.

Her laughter rings out, light and carefree, a stark contrast to the tumult brewing inside me.

She's a vision, effortlessly charming everyone she speaks to, her curvy figure wrapped in a dress that clings just right, accentuating every line and curve that drives me to distraction. The fabric whispers against her skin with every move she makes, and it’s doing a number on my frayed self-control.

Every laugh she shares, every hand she shakes—it feels like a tiny betrayal, though I know it’s irrational. My jaw clenches each time another man leans in to whisper something meant to be charming, hoping to capture a sliver of her attention. Their eyes travel across her form with hungry admiration, and it fuels a fire within me that burns all the more fiercely each time I catch their covetous glances.

I want to roar, to unleash the primal urge simmering just beneath my civilized veneer, to tell them she is off limits. But instead, I channel this furious energy into a practiced smile as I draw her closer once more, my arm slipping around her waist with proprietary ease.

"Enjoying yourself?" I murmur into her ear, my lips barely brushing the delicate shell.

She tilts her head slightly, acknowledging my proximity with a shiver that she tries to mask as indifference. "I am here to support your business interests, Alex," she replies firmly, yet there's a warmth there that wasn't present before—a warmth that belies her controlled exterior.

The evening wears on, each tick of the clock a loud echo in my simmering mind. Every conversation feels like another test of my restraint, every polite smile a challenge to my claim over her.

It’s an exquisite sort of torture, seeing her so alive in the elements of this glittering throng, knowing she’s untouchable and yet undeniably mine for the night. The contradiction fuels a dangerous thrill down my spine.

As the night draws to a close, and we prepare to leave, I feel a sense of urgency pulsating within me.

“Let me take you home,” I demand.

“That’s okay—” She starts to protest, but I grab her hand. I’m having none of that.

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