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“You know what? Screw this,” he declares. He slams his glass on the tabletop. “Julia, let’s go.”
It takes me a moment to realize what Jay is saying. Surprised, I look at Jay, who is standing and buttoning his jacket. He holds his hand out, motioning for me to stand.
“Jay, I invited Gus here,” I explain—although I’m confused why it needs to be said.
And yet Jay shakes his head. “Jules, I want to go. We’re not having a repeat of Cartagena.”
Gus looks over at me, lingering on my mouth before he makes eye contact. His lips twist upwards into a rare grin before he whispers in my ear—softly, but not soft enough to be inaudible to Jay—“Oh, did you tell him what we did in Cartagena?”
The question is innocuous on the outside, but the innuendo runs deep. I exhale, trying to keep my cool, but the memory of Gus sharing me with Peter does the opposite. My skin flushes gradually, and even though neither of the men on either side of me can see my micro-reaction, my silence must speak volumes.
“What happened in Cartagena?” Jay demands, glancing between Gus and me. “What the hell is this? Are you two, like, a thing?”
I don’t know how to answer. Scratch that—I know how I would answer if the question came from anyone but Jay. It’s clear: Gus and I are a thing. It doesn’t have a label, but we’re most certainly a thing.
We’re the best fucking thing.
We’re two people whose intrinsic infatuation for one another smothers every defense mechanism we’ve honed over the years. We’re two people who fuck each other well—so, so, so well. We’re two people who have captivated each other so completely that one of the world’s most notable recluses is regularly burning jet fuel in pursuit of one of the world’s most prolific socialites—and she’s wondering why he hasn’t invited her to Montana again.
Simply put, we’re two people who have taken over each other’s minds and bodies—and hearts, possibly.
“I’ll meet up with you tomorrow.” I leave it at that.
Jay knows a dismissal when he hears one. His expression falls, the way it always does. Without a word, he presses through the Saturday night crowd. I watch him go, his perfectly sculpted shoulders weaving out of the bar and into the Vienna night.
“So, I take it he’s not paying,” Gus murmurs, pulling me back from the precipice and making me laugh out loud.
We stick around for the forty-dollar cocktails and do a late dinner at Amador, a bit off the beaten path, but worthy of each of its Michelin stars. Throughout the meal, Gus listens to me gush about every course and tells me what he likes about each one. He’s a novice gourmand, but I do catch him looking up the Michelin Guide on his phone when he thinks I’m busy deciding what digestif I want.
Before we leave the restaurant, he insists on taking a picture of me in front of the barrels of wine lining the back. During the impromptu photo shoot, one of the servers spots us and offers to take a picture of the two of us together. It’s our first one ever.
Later, during the ride to the hotel, I post the picture of Gus and me. It’s a far cry from the perfect, well-lit and edited images I typically share with my followers, but by the time Gus’s driver is dropping us off in the city center, the image already has tens of thousands of likes.
“This doesn’t bother you, does it?” I show Gus the picture on my phone so he can see the likes—and the thousands of comments demanding to know if Gus and I are a couple. “I should have asked before I posted it. I know you’re private.”
He scrolls his finger on the screen to read some of the comments. “A lot of people are calling me ‘daddy.’ Is that a common thing, Julia? Because I thought it was just something you said.”
His genuine earnestness makes me melt, but I keep my cool and tug one of his lapels so he tilts close to me. “Let me be clear,” I murmur, speaking while our lips are only a fraction of an inch apart. “Nobody else gets to call you Daddy.”
“Fucking noted,” he replies before he kisses me.
***
“Yes,” I cry out. “Harder.”
Gus pounds into me, slamming me so hard against the wall with each thrust that the pictures hanging on the wainscot panels shake and threaten to fall. I don’t care—and neither does he. I beg him not to stop, and he scoffs—because of course he wouldn’t stop.
Once we got back to the hotel, the evening turned into a lusty, desperate blur. We weren’t even inside Gus’s room before we started pulling off each other’s clothes. We barely made it inside before he had his hand under my dress—which is why he’s taking me a mere two feet away from the door to his suite.
He palms my breast over my dress (because it was too much work for us to find the zipper). His thrusts get rougher and faster, and soon I’m coming around him, thanking his humongous ego for bringing us together in the first place.
He follows a minute after me, pulling out of me before releasing his cum on my face while I kneel on the floor. It lands on my chin, across my mouth, in my hair. Everywhere. I’m filthy—in every way—and obsessed.
“Fuck, you look pretty,” he murmurs. He wipes his thumb through his release, leading a path to my mouth. I welcome his finger between my lips, sucking on him and savoring him. He beams at me, looking pleased.
When he helps me up, my knees are red from falling to the floor. His eyes dart to the angry marks, and the tick in his jaw tells me he’s not happy about it. Carefully, he brings me to the bedroom and lays me in the center of the bed. He takes the time to find the tiny, hidden zipper on the side of my dress, and carefully drags it down until I’m free. Then he kisses my knees languidly, tenderly, until his kisses gradually bring him up to my pussy. He works another orgasm out of me—a soft and methodical orgasm that leaves me sated to the point of exhaustion.
We fall asleep together, bodies tangled around each other, and even our noses touching.
