Page 15 of Dirty Filthy Billionaire: Part 1

Mia

I have never felt somany emotions at once in my entire life. I am confused. Totally embarrassed, of course. But also, really freaking mad. What the hell was all that? I mean, honestly—what was all that?

The whole cab ride home, and as I walk up to my apartment, I keep checking my phone even as I’m fuming. Weston. I can’t stop thinking about him, and not just in an angry way. Sure, he took me to that freaky club just to rattle me, and it worked. That was a pretty mean thing to do. But the whole night—even before the alley—I couldn’t help but feel this utter attraction to him. Maybe because he’s so damn hot.

How stupid am I? Weston Bridges is probably the most eligible bachelor in New York—maybe in the whole country. He’s rich, young, smart, and hotter than any movie star in the world. He’s also known as a world-class playboy. I once read that he and some supermodel flew from New York to Paris one day just to have dessert. They ate, and an hour later got back on his private jet and came back to New York. I wonder if it’s true.

“Hey,” I mutter to Brody, once I’ve unlocked our door.

“Hey,” he says, brightening when he sees me. He’s watching TV and has a big glass of water on the coffee table—the same glass from earlier but refilled—along with a bottle of aspirin. He must have already gone from buzzed to hungover to sober. How long have I been gone?

I look at my watch and see that it’s after midnight. “What are you still doing up?”

“Just wanted to make sure you got home,” he says. That’s just like Brody. I don’t have any siblings and he’s the closet person I have to that. This guy loves looking after me. It’s sweet. “So, tell me. How’d it go?”

“Let me get changed, then I’ll tell you,” I say. I have to get out of these clothes, these stupid ridiculous clothes.

I leave the tank on and change into some shorts, then go scrub my face of all makeup. I feel lighter and looser already.

I go back into the living room and Brody says, “You should have just gone out like that. You look even better without makeup.”

“Oh, please,” I say, plopping on the couch next to him.

“What happened? Where did this possible boss guy take you in his douchey limo?”

I ignore the dig and say, “It’s actually a really crazy story.”

Now that I’m sitting here on our couch, preparing to retell the night’s story, I start to shiver. It was all just so—strange and different. Intimidating and even sexy. I hardly know where to begin.

“You’re shaking,” he says. “What happened?”

I take a deep breath. “It was just…

“Just what? Start with telling me where he took you.”

“Ever heard of a place called Plaisir?”

He shakes his head no. “What is it? Some swank restaurant?”

I stutter on a laugh. “Swank, yes. Restaurant…maybe they serve food. I don’t know.” I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “It’s a private BDSM club.”

“What the actual fuck?” Brody says, his face igniting in to flames. “Are you kidding me? What did you do?”

“I had a drink,” I say.

“This guy is way out of line,” Brody says, his jaw clenching.

“The magazine that I interviewed for, Blush? He wants to take it in an edgier, sexier direction.”

“I’ll bet he does.”

“And wanted me to be in a place that would make me uncomfortable and see how I could handle it. Because I could be writing about that place, or a place like it. Or just about BDSM in general. Did you know that it stands for—”

“Mia, I know what it stands for.” He shakes his head, his eyes down on scuffed wood floors. “This guy…what a piece of shit. He thinks just because he has money and power that he can drag you to a place like that?” Brody looks at me and asks, “Did he try anything on you? Because if he did I’ll call the cops right this second.”

“Brody, no,” I say. That is something I can’t even talk about with Brody. What Weston and I did in that alley is for me and me alone. “Slow down. Of course he didn’t try anything on me. He was a perfect gentleman.” A stretch of the truth, maybe. I remember his hardness pressed against me as his finger filled me. I get shivers again just picturing it.

“You’re shivering again, Mia,” he says. “How can you be shivering when it’s at least eighty degrees in this apartment?”

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