Page 11 of Filthy Business
It made me wonder just how long it had been since he last fucked the whorehound from hell. Not that I cared. I was more than willing to do anything—and more—to ruin them.
“Thank you, sir,” I said softly.“Between student debt and the cost of living in London… this is truly extravagant.”
My voice oozed gratitude, laced with a touch of helpless, girl-next-door despair.
It wasn’t even a lie.
Not really.
I had a lucrative side hustle, after all.
His eyes snapped up to mine. For a brief second, something flashed across his face—a glint of interest. Or temptation. Or maybe something darker.
“Yes, I can imagine,” he murmured.“Please—order anything you desire this evening.”
He gently patted my hand.
“Thank you, sir,” I whispered, all soft lashes and my best Orphan Annie impression.
???
The prices were appalling. I gaped at the menu.
I thought I could handle this, but I frowned. The gaudy gold chairs should’ve been a giveaway.
“Is something wrong?” he asked, eyes barely lifting as he studied the wine list like a snob who knew his grapes by region and harvest year.
The wine alone would be hundreds—if not thousands—of pounds.
“These prices—” I paused, but I couldn’t stop myself.“I’m sorry, but they’re criminal. The owner should be arrested for this kind of markup on food.”
He stared at me like I’d just spoken in tongues.
And then he laughed.
Low. Husky.
It caught me off guard—until I found myself smiling along.
The warmth didn’t last long. His smile faded, and something softened in his expression.
“I’d forgotten what guilelessness looked like… until I met you.”
I almost winced.
Poor Daddy.
He really had no idea.
I was just one more person lining up to fuck him—with an agenda.
“Let me order for you. Is there anything you don’t like?”
“Frogs and snails.”
His lips quivered.
“It’s not a French restaurant, sweetheart,” he said, trying not to smile.
