Page 10 of Dirty Filthy Billionaire: Part 2

Weston orders a bottle of wine and escargots for appetizers, which I have never had. They are buttery delicious and have a similar taste to clams but are somehow far superior.

Once we’re both about halfway through our first glass of wine, I’m feeling more relaxed—with Weston, and in this crazy fancy restaurant. He seems to know I’m feeling better, too, because he says, “You look good. You’ve looked good every time I’ve seen you, but you look more relaxed than you did when you opened your apartment door earlier.”

“I can’t believe you showed up at my place,” I say. “You want the last one?” I use my tiny little fork to point to the last escargot. He shakes his head no, and I gladly spear it. “And yeah, I was feeling terrible all day long. That Jen—”

Weston leans forward and places his hand on my wrist. “No. I don’t want to talk about her, or anyone at work. We can talk about work, but no one in the office. Okay?”

I nod slowly. “Sure.”

“I just,” he shakes his head. “I don’t want you to be upset. That’s all.”

“Okay,” I say. “I’m not upset.”

“Good,” he says. “I’m glad you’re feeling more relaxed. And I’m glad you like the escargots. These are the best you’ll find outside of Paris. Have you been?”

“To Paris?” I shake my head. “No.”

“I’ll take you,” he says, as easily as if he’s saying he’ll get me a clean fork. Like it’s nothing, no big deal. But he’s probably taken lots of girls to Paris.

Weston had insisted on ordering our meals—he said he knows what’s best, and what the chef is particularly adept at cooking. It felt a bit strange to have him order for me but I went with it, and he was totally right. The lamb was perfection—as was everything else about the dinner.

When I stand and excuse myself to the ladies’ room, Weston takes my wrist and nods for me to lean down close to him.

His hand slides over my backside, and his fingers run along the edge of my panties. “Leave them,” he says. “Throw them away.”

In the bathroom, I debate this. For about three seconds. Then I lower them all the way past my shoes and stuff them in the trash.

As I walk back to our table, I feel exposed, like everyone knows—but in a way that’s got me turned on and feeling a little naughty.

“Ready?” he says when I get back to the table. “I need to make a phone call upstairs first.”

“Doesn’t your cell phone work?” I ask as I follow him to a corner of the restaurant and up a flight of near-hidden stairs. It’s a narrow passage, and the boards creak as we go.

“The general manager is a friend,” he says. “He came by the table when you were gone.” Weston stops on the stairs and turns to look down at me. “Did you do as I asked?”

“Yes,” I say, thinking of my panties tossed away in the bathroom. I really couldn’t afford to ditch a pair like that, but with the way Weston’s looking at me, I’d gladly ditch my entire dress if he asked.

“Good,” he says, then continues up the stairs.

He opens an office door. It’s neatly decorated with hardcover cookbooks and chef’s books, and the art on the walls is of food—one of asparagus, another a loaf of bread. There’s an arched window that looks across the buildings and rooftops.

Weston turns on a lamp on the desk. Over his shoulder he says, “Shut the door.” I do as he says, my body tingling with anticipation of what might happen. The rumble of noise below us from the packed restaurant reminds me that there are many people around us, but the creaky staircase reminds me that we’ll surely hear if someone comes upstairs.

Weston leans back on the edge of the desk.

“Lift your skirt,” he says, “and show me your pussy.”

For a moment I can’t move—it’s so crass and demanding. But sexy. I can’t believe myself as my fingers reach for the bottom of my skirt and slowly begin to lift it up. Finally, like a Parisian showgirl, I pull up my skirt to give Weston a full view of…myself.

His eyes stay locked on me, on what I’m showing him. He crosses his ankles, and if I took a picture of him right now people would think he was just listening in on a business meeting, especially when he crosses his arms.

“Now touch yourself,” he says.

Showing was one thing; doing is another. I hesitate and get this shy grin on my face.

“Why haven’t you ever touched yourself?”

I shrug a shoulder, too embarrassed to answer.

“You don’t ever make yourself come?” he asks. When I say nothing, he slowly shakes his head and says, “Oh, Mia. You have so much to learn.” He takes slow steps toward me. “I want to watch you pleasure yourself. I want to watch you finger your wet pussy. I want to watch you make yourself come. But not right now.” He leans his body against mine, pressing me against the door, the steel of his need pressing into me. “Right now I just need a little piece of you, because you are making me crazy. Did you know that?” His face is close to mine; he brushes his lips across my cheek. He puts his hand beneath my skirt on my upper thigh. He lets it rest there as if he’s not going anywhere. “Do I do anything to you?”

I nod my head, trying not to show just how eager I feel because I do—I feel so eager because he does everything to me.

“Let’s see about that,” he says. His hand pushes between my thighs, and when his fingers slip between my folds, we both let out a sigh. “Look at you,” he says. “You’re soaked.”

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