Page 8 of Dirty Filthy Billionaire: Part 2

“I’m here to take you out,” I say, as if we’d planned this all along.

“Excuse me? How do you even know where I live?”

“Funny thing about owning a company,” I say. “Access to files and records and such. Wasn’t hard. So. Is that what you’re wearing? Not that I mind—you look exceptional but I wonder if the maître d might have a problem with sleepwear in the dining room.”

“Maître d? What are you talking about?”

“At the restaurant,” I say. “Of course, we’ll have the private dining room so it’s not like many people will see you. We still have to walk across the restaurant and I guarantee all eyes will be on you. Mine certainly will be.”

“Would you stop it already,” she says, and I can tell she’s softening up to my shtick.

“Can I come in?” I ask.

She considers me for a moment before relenting. “Sure. Come on. But no judgment on my place.”

“I think I got a sense of it walking up the stairs. Seems like you have a neighbor who has an affinity for overcooked vegetables?”

She swings the door open. “Ugh, that woman. She’s really skinny and wears plastic flip-flops. Her feet are always black. It’s disgusting.”

“Charming,” I say, as I step inside her tiny apartment. She shuts the door and squeezes past me, and it takes all I have not to take her by the waist, undo that tie that’s keeping her clothed, and ravish her body.

She walks across the room and turns to look at me, as if she’s trying to keep a safe distance from me. Which is fine, because it gives me a great view of her entire body, even if it is mostly covered up.

“Seriously, what are you doing here?” she asks.

“I want to take you out,” I say. “I know you had a rough morning once you left the office. I thought a little fun and good meal would perk you up.”

“Yeah, that’s just what I need,” she says. “Considering I have to start again tomorrow looking for a job.”

“Let’s not worry about that now,” I say. “Come on. I want to take you out for a good meal. Don’t turn me down. Besides, I already saw the stale muffin on the counter. That’s not your dinner, is it?”

She sighs, looking so cute as she crosses her arms over her beautiful chest. “Fine. I’ll go to dinner with you. But only because I’m hungry and don't feel like making anything.”

“Good,” I say.

“Just give me a second to get dressed.”

“Too bad,” I say.

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