Page 39 of The Rich One

It takes me a second to go through the possible answers. There are two that I can think of off the top of my head.

“The side effects are sickness and hair loss?” My answer sounds more like a question than anything else, but I’m taken aback by her sudden change in demeanor.

“Yes, exactly. Which means, I recognize a wig when I see one.”Fuck.

My hand automatically reaches for the long red strands of my hair, feeling the heat at my cheeks. Dipping my chin, I smile shyly and tuck it behind my ear.

“I have short hair, it’s always been my preference but Tyler was afraid my hairstyle would earn me unpleasant comments in the press or with his entourage. We chose the wig together and I wear it while waiting for my own hair to grow longer.” I look back up at her and hope she’s appeased. Technically, I’m not lying. Well, except for letting my hair grow out, that’s not happening anytime soon.

Suzannah visibly relaxes, like her worries have evaporated with my admission.

“Thank goodness. I was afraid you were trying to pull one over on him.” She takes my hand and squeezes. “I’m sorry, I hope you understand.”

I squeeze right back. “I do. I promise, Tyler and I are very open and honest with each other.” Again, not a lie.

“Good.”

* * *

“Strip.” The elevator to his penthouse hasn’t even dinged shut before the order spills from between Tyler’s talented lips. “And leave the wig on.”

I don’t hesitate, my hands at the side of my cocktail dress pulling the hidden zipper down slowly enough to make him clench his teeth with impatience.

“Rose.” That one word in that tone says a million things.

Don’t play with me.

I call the shots.

I need you naked.

Of course, I follow his lead because this is his game and his fantasies are my command. That’s right… it’s in the fucking contract.

Speeding up my movements, my dress pooling at my feet in no time, I step out of the puddle and to the side. Tyler’s gaze roams my entire form from my heel-clad feet, up the length of my shins, to the tops of my thighs where my garter belt fastens to my stockings. I think he’s about to jump on me and fuck me into next year but instead, he walks over to the well-equipped bar and pours two tumblers of fine scotch. The amber liquid sloshes slightly as he brings one glass to me, his eyes never veering from the sight of my half naked body.

“You were perfect tonight.” I curtsy like he’s my king and I’m his servant. I suppose I would be if we were in the Middle Ages in Europe. I’d be his mistress or his whore. Fuck, that’s exactly what I am, but at least in this scenario I’m getting paid enough to live comfortably.

I take his offering, and we clink our glasses together before we each take a sip. Our eyes are locked over the rims and I watch, rapt, as he knocks back the contents and waits for me to hand over my glass. I’m not courageous enough to drink the whole thing in one go, so I take a sip and wince at the burn down my throat.

I don’t think I’d be a great addition to the lifestyle of the rich and famous. I imagine they all sit around counting their dollar bills, drinking from bottles of liquor that could be used as a down payment on a house, and smoking cigars from embargoed countries. I prefer sitting around a fire, drinking wine and smoking a joint.

Tom-Ay-to, tom-Ah-to.

He places the tumblers on the counter then slowly makes his way back to me—unhooking one cufflink, then the other—and stops a mere two inches to my front.

“My parents liked you.” His words are soft, almost a whisper, as he brings the back of his fingers to my neck before sliding across my collarbone and over to my shoulder. His eyes are following his own movements, like he’s in a trance as he watches his skin caress my own.

I’m not impatient or twitchy. I let him do what he needs to do. This is his show, I follow his lead, always.

“I’m glad to hear it.” Although, what I want to say is that he’s playing a dangerous game, and getting his parents to love me is only going to raise unwanted questions when we inevitably “break-up.”

And itisinevitable.

One day, he’s going to find someone who will not only get his dick harder than stone but make his heart melt like heated butter.

“Are you?” His gaze is on mine now and he’s sincere, he really wants to know.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” My question is left unanswered as he hums to himself before resuming the light perusal of his fingers over my heating flesh. I don’t push him, I don’t repeat myself. I let him contemplate whatever it is he’s stuck on. Something is clearly on his mind; maybe he’s regretting the show we put on. Maybe he’s wondering if it’s time for him to truly move on from the pain his ex-wife caused him.

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