Page 8 of The Rich One

But then the moment is gone. His vulnerability disappears. His eyes darken and his jaw sets.

Billionaire Tyler is back and I can’t help but feel the relief.

“We should go inside.” His gaze scans the surrounding area, to the sides and below us, before he takes my hand and leads me into the room. “I don’t want anyone to see you like this.” He throws a grin over his shoulder that can only be described as sardonic. “Wouldn’t want anyone accusing me of cheating on my girlfriend.”

We both chuckle, and it doesn’t escape me that this moment right here is the very definition of cynical.

This is my life.

Trying not to get my fake boyfriend in trouble for fake dating a real prostitute.

Prostitute. I used to cringe at the word, but now I just put on my armor and remind myself of why I’m doing this. Why I can’t stop. Not now.

Tyler walks into the lush bathroom and just as he closes the door, I quickly take my phone out and reread the text message I’d misunderstood earlier.

— We need to talk… Rose.

Fuck.

By the time I hear the flush of the toilet and the water from the sink, I slip my phone back into my clutch and—heart beating a staggering staccato—slide between the crisp sheets of the hotel bed.

This isn’t a cheap motel on the side of the highway. The sheets are clearly Egyptian cotton, if the softness is any indication, with most likely a thread count around six hundred. I’dalmostbet my weekend’s salary on it. I’m not disappointed, that’s for sure.

“Do you mind if I keep the side light on? I’m going to work a little.” I stretch across his hard chest to check the time on his watch.

“It’s almost one in the morning. Don’t you need to sleep?” Cocking a brow at me, he lightly shakes his head like my question is ridiculous, but then I remember…

“You’re a light sleeper in all the ways, aren’t you?” It’s a rhetorical question. My chest aches for this man as the loneliness he must feel becomes so damn clear. He’s gorgeous—more so than any man has the right to be—with a body that makes all the ladies drop their panties just so they can cream on his cock. Yet, when I look at him, it’s his dry sense of humor and genuine kindness toward those he deems worthy that earns my respect. Hell, the cynical part in me half expects his money alone to keep him warm with a willing body in his bed.

But that’s just it, isn’t it? He’s lonely because his money has made him cautious. He’s lonely because his money attracts the vultures when he’s looking for his penguin.

Well, that and his incredibly stupid ex-wife. What a fucking idiot.

“You deserve better than this. Than me.” I slink back to my side of the bed. I’m not putting myself down, I know my worth and it’s not defined by my choice in profession, but he deserves more than just a fake anything. He deserves real. All the fucking time.

In a move so quick I barely have time to get my bearings, I’m pushed into the mattress by a very hard, very angry Tyler, whose next words bring a smile to my lips.

“I never pegged you for the self-pitying kind.” I’m almost offended, but I get it.

“No, I—” I don’t get the chance to explain. A hot, demanding mouth is on mine—lips searching and tongue dominating—and without a thought, I let him take control. It’s what he needs. Tyler needs to be in control of his life, of sex, of every fucking thing. Handing it over is my job, literally in the contract that we signed. Also in the contract is the expressed “back off” clause. Any verbal or non-verbal expression of disinterest is to be taken seriously on the spot.

I spread my legs to allow the space for his body to fit. With one of his hands braced at the side of my head, the other pushes his boxers off with the ease and finesse of a cat, his lips never parting with mine.

Usually, I have to put my acting skills to work. I have to give them the feeling they’re the best lover on this side of the Atlantic. Usually, I have to take my mind to the place that is my pleasure, my fantasy.

Kai.

He has always been my safe space, my could have been. The dream I don’t dare voice.

Tyler pushes my legs further apart, his fingers easily sliding into my cunt. My wetness is a welcome discovery if his growl means anything. My clients love it when I’m wet, it gives them the impression that I’m loving what they’re doing. That despite my hefty paycheck at the end of the night or the weekend, my body wants them. It’s an elaborate lie, all part of my job.

It’s called lube, boys.

Except, I wasn’t expecting tonight. I’d lubed up before we had sex earlier but not for now and yet here I am, wet as fuck, and it does something to him. Tyler is one of the rare clients who knows I prepare. We’ve talked about it, laughed about the fact that I shouldn’t have to need that with him.

But I insist. I’d hate for my mind to wander and have my pussy dry up like a well in the California deserts.

Not the case right now.

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