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“Your sarcasm isn’t as cute as you think it is,” I counter before I take a steadying drink of my coffee. “And is he really that hot?”
“He really is.”
I don’t acknowledge it. I go quiet instead, picturing his omnipresent look of intense focus. His inscrutable gaze that radiates hunger. My brain can’t help but wonder, what is he like in bed? Is he more intense? Hungrier?
“Hey,” Peter says, breaking the rare silence floating between us, “did you know that when Gray needs advice, he typically comes to me?”
I swivel my eyes up and try to decipher if Peter is being serious. His brother, Gray Davenport, is—by most definitions—perfect. I can’t imagine Gray seeking counsel from his prodigal younger brother.
Seeing my skeptical expression, Peter nods. “He says I’m the frankest person he knows, and I take that label seriously. So, let’s figure this out, you and me. How does that sound?”
I love Peter.
“Fine,” I relent. “Go for it.”
“Well, to start, I don’t care about Davenport-Ridgeway. Let’s get that out of the way.”
I snicker. “You’re in good company.”
“Great, but aside from the business part of this debacle, I do care about all of us—your family and mine. If this deal falls through, the company will recover. A failed acquisition isn’t going to destroy Davenport-Ridgeway…but it will destroy your brother.”
“Davis.”
“Yes, Davis,” he confirms. “When deals fall through, careers fall through too. Our brothers can be straight-up annoying when it comes to their precious careers, but I love them. A lot. You’re not willing to fall on your sword for your brother?”
“Is that an option? Because I’d much rather fall on a sword than rent out my pussy.”
Peter snorts with gentle laughter. “I get it. The idea is weird. Taboo even. But if it were me and my brother were asking me to do this one thing to save his ass…then yeah, I would do it.”
I know Peter would never bullshit me. He’s completely serious: If Gray Davenport asked him to sacrifice his dignity and share his body for a fifty-billion-dollar fintech company, he would rise to the occasion.
“I know you’ve never cared about the company,” he goes on. “I don’t either. Corporate servitude isn’t our thing. But have you ever once thought about trying out a job or a project?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be generous. It’s not like I get to sit in the boardroom and hammer out the details of the contract. I imagine I’m just expected to show up wherever Gus Winter summons me and spread my legs.” I say those words and simultaneously fight the heat that flushes my cheeks when I imagine spreading myself open for a man as preternaturally attractive as Gus.
I really am a psychopath sometimes.
“So, say you want to be in the boardroom then,” Peter counters, like it’s that simple. “Tell Davis you have stipulations and won’t even consider sleeping with Gus unless you have a seat at the table.”
…Fuck, he’s good.
Later, once Peter leaves, I send a text to Davis:
Fine. But I’m not going to be a poker chip that you slide across the table. I have terms, and if they’re not met, I’m out.
***
Four months later
London passes outside the car window. There’s a drippy mix of December rain and soft evening fog coating the glass, blocking my view. Maybe this shitty weather is a bad omen.
Maybe I should be scared.
As we pull up to a red light, I concentrate on the stark white lines of a crosswalk and try to focus on anything but the night ahead. For more than four months, I’ve anticipated this evening with mixed emotions. Tonight, I’ve landed somewhere between furious and horny.
Over the past four months, I’ve been in countless meetings with Davis and Davenport-Ridgeway’s legal team, hashing out the details of the contract. Those meetings have melded into a blur of late nights, revisions, caveats, and Thai takeout my brother wearily eats at his laptop. The amount I’ve learned about acquisitions is like an MBA crash course—except it ends not with a degree, but with me getting dicked down by a billionaire instead.
I try to keep my breathing measured. There’s a knot in my stomach that grew during the flight from Boston to London and hasn’t subsided. I skipped dinner, unable to swallow anything but a shot of liquid courage. Even so, my stomach is tight like it’s shoved against the bottom of my throat.
