Filthy Rich, Wild with Lust

Chapter 35

I’m going on a date with Henley, not a booty-call-over-the-fence-in-the-middle-of-the-night kind of hookup. A real, bona fide date.

To the opera, no less.

I just hope it goes well. It has to.

“You look hot,” Rebecca says from her place at my kitchen counter.

“He’s toast,” Chloe chimes in.

I look between my two friends. “I can’t believe you two are hanging out without me.”

Chloe has come over to stay with Barry for the night, and with John away, Rebecca is home alone. They are having pizza and cocktails on my front porch, without me.

“As if you won’t be having more fun,” Rebecca scoffs into her wineglass.

“I still think Henley’s a weirdo,” Chloe replies.

“I don’t think it, I know it,” I agree.

“I mean, who forgets a condom and then completely freaks out and leaves in the middle of it and then doesn’t speak to you all week and then asks you to the opera on a date?”

“A weirdo,” Rebecca and I say together.

“She’s unpacking baggage,” Rebecca chimes in. “Aren’t you?”

“A truckload of it.” I grab my boobs and boost them up into my bra. “Do I look okay?”

“You look great.”

“Okay, I’m going to get going.” We decided that I would meet him at the hotel. Carol doesn’t miss a beat around here, and it’s going to be awkward if anyone knows about us.

Although I kind of get the feeling that Blake and Antony already know. They seem to be really chatty lately, but that could be my guilty conscience talking.

I’m hopeless at keeping secrets.

“Have a great night.”

“Good luck.” Rebecca hugs me.

“Kick him to the curb if he’s a dick.”

I puff air into my cheeks. “It’s Henley. We already know he’s going to be a dick.”

“True.”

With one last wave I make my way out to the car and text Henley.

On my way.

A reply bounces straight back in.

Meet me in the bar downstairs.

Nerves dance in my stomach. Meeting a hot, mysterious guy in the bar of a hotel: it’s all so exotic. Like a spy movie or something, hopefully one that ends well.

I take one last look into the rearview mirror at my face.

I’m nervous.

And I know it’s stupid and that I shouldn’t be because this isn’t my first rodeo, especially not with Henley. But that’s the thing: every time with him feels like the first time, and maybe that’s why I’m so jittery... I know in my heart that this is something special, or at least it could be.

Nobody has ever made me feel the way that he does.

I need to remind Henley James of the chemistry we share.

Blow his f*****g mind.

I get out of my car and make my way into the hotel. It’s super fancy, with doormen in black suits standing around. The floors are a beautiful green marble, and huge oversize chandeliers are hanging from the ornate ceilings. I spot the restaurant and bar and make my way in, and instantly I feel more at ease. It’s nicer in here, with a much more relaxed ambience. Timber-and-metal tables and chairs, and candles in small copper vases are on all the tables. The bar is a dark timber with old-fashioned stools lined up. Big copper light fittings hang low over it.

I smile as I look around. This is cool.

My eyes roam around the room, and then I see him, sitting in the corner booth.

He gives me a slow sexy smile, and excitement runs through me. All week I’ve thought of nothing else but him, and to be here now...

Play it cool.

I smile and, trying to be as casual as I can, make my way over to the table. “Hi.” I pull out the chair.

“Hello.” He taps the couch beside him. “Sit here.”

My stomach flips, and I walk around the table and slide in beside him.

“Hi.” He takes my face into his hands and kisses me softly. “You’re late,” he purrs.

And you’re perfect.

“Good things are worth the wait?” I pull out of his grip, trying my best to play hard to get.

He fills two wineglasses from a bottle that is sitting in ice on the table and passes one to me.

“Champagne.” I smile. “What are we celebrating?”

“Well”—he taps his glass on mine and takes a sip—“we’re here.” He raises his eyebrow playfully.

“You mean, we made it through our first meltdown?” I smirk.

He breaks into a breathtakingly beautiful smile. “Did we, though?”

His smile does things to me. I get flutters all the way to my toes. “We did.”

He leans in and kisses me again. His lips linger over mine, and I begin to lose sight of the mission.

What is it about this man?

He kisses me again and again, and my eyes close against my will.

Focus.

“Henley.” I smile shyly as I break out of his grip. “We are in a crowded restaurant.”

“I don’t give a f**k where we are. I want to kiss you.”

“And you will.” I take his hand in mine and hold it against my other hand, resting on his thick quad muscle. “Later.” I smile.

He exhales heavily. “I haven’t seen you all week.”

He missed me.

“I know,” I reply as if I don’t care.

“What have you been doing all week?” he asks as he sips his champagne.

Missing you.

“Working, painting.”

“Did Mason help you?”

“No.”

“What about the other f*****g i***t?”

I giggle. “You mean my interior designer, the one you’re jealous of, Joel?”

“I am not jealous of Joel,” he fires back. “He’s...” He pauses as if trying to choose his words carefully.

I cut in. “Touching your things.”

He smirks at my analogy. “Yes.”

“So I’m your thing now?”

His dark eyes drop to my lips. “Yes.”

The air crackles between us as we stare at each other.

You are most definitely my thing.

He grabs my face and kisses me again, his tongue swiping through my open lips, and I feel it between my legs.

I remember where we are and pull out of his kiss. “Why is it that whenever we are together, we act like horny teenagers?”

“Because you make me f*****g horny, that’s why.”

I smile and pick up my champagne glass. “Can we...” I pause.

“Can we what?”

“Can we just have a normal date where we aren’t trying to f**k each other at the table?”

“But I do want to f**k you on the table?”

I giggle. “You know what I mean.”

“You want a normal date?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” He smirks and sips his champagne. “Date me.”

The thing about champagne is this: you are supposed to drink one or two glasses to celebrate an event.

Not drink three bottles until you are both laughing uncontrollably at the table.

The conversation never runs dry with us. We laugh and chat as if we are old friends.

And although we are completely different, we are on the same wavelength. We have the same sense of humor.

I’m not imagining it; this is way more than s*x.

“Okay.” Henley smirks. “Ten things.”

“What?”

“Tell me ten things about you that I don’t know.”

“Hmm.” I narrow my eyes as I try and think. “Umm.” I twist my lips. “One... I love sex.”

“I know that already. That doesn’t count.” He sips his champagne and smiles like a loon.

He likes this game.

I giggle. “Right.” I think for a bit. “Two... I wanted to be a ballerina when I was a child.”

“Why aren’t you?” He frowns.

“Because I have two left feet and dance like a baboon.”

“I did notice that.”

I laugh out loud, and he does too.

“Three... I hate cilantro with a passion. I’m even in the I Hate Cilantro f*******: group.”

He frowns as he listens. “There’s a f*******: page for that?”

“Uh-huh.” I giggle, and he does too. Why is everything we say to each other hilarious?

“Go on, seven more things,” he says.

“Four... I’ve never had a lesbian fantasy.”

“Oh... not a fan of that one.” He screws up his face in disappointment. “Please lie to me and tell me you have.”

“Okay, I take that back.” I laugh again. “Five... every night I dream of having a threesome with a guy and another girl.”

“Better.” He raises his champagne glass toward me.

I smile goofily.

He’s so fun.

I try to think of something else he doesn’t know about me. “Six... never watched Game of Thrones.”

He nods as he listens.

“Seven... I wish my dog wasn’t called Barry.”

“Don’t we f*****g all?”

We both burst out laughing again.

“Eight... I’m a great swimmer.”

“Are you lying?” He refills my champagne glass.

“Totally.”

“You’re good at other things.” He shrugs. “Can’t be greedy.”

“I know, right.” I giggle, and he taps his glass against mine for our fiftieth cheers of the night.

“Come on,” he coaches me, “I need more information.”

“Umm.” I look up to the ceiling as I try to think of something else to tell him. “Nine... I didn’t like it when you left the other night.”

He falls serious. “Why not?”

“You can’t ask questions unless my answers count.”

“Last question. Why didn’t you like it when I left?”

“Because I liked having you inside of me.”

His eyes darken and drop to my lips. He leans back and adjusts himself in his jeans.

He liked that answer.

“Your turn,” I say.

“No, no, this was my quiz.”