Six months? Six months of spying on my private life? I feel like the wind’s been knocked out of me.
And to make matters worse, it’s Becca Windsor. It’s not difficult to remember who she is. I inhale sharply and close my eyes.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Becca Windsor is a problem for many reasons, not the least of which is that she’s the daughter of Alastair Windsor, the wealthiest man in Europe. Becca is a gorgeous socialite who’s never had to work a day in her life. But she’s not stupid, not by any stretch of the imagination. She is cunning, rich, and probably insane.
That didn’t stop me from fucking her brains out over the course of a demented weekend of debauchery that I regret more and more each day that passes.
I should’ve known it would be her. Even during the encounters with Becca, of which there were many in a short period of time, I had a gut feeling that something was way off. I didn’t listen to myself, and that’s a rarity. I took a risk and now I’m paying the price.
I open my eyes. “We were together the entire weekend.”
Max folds his hands. “The devices started operating that Monday. It’s almost certain she planted them sometime during the weekend, perhaps while you were in the shower. They were recording ever since. Many hours of footage. It’s a major breech, obviously.”
“What do we do next?” I ask. I’ve never dealt with anything quite like this before.
“We make contact with the suspect, try to ascertain the threat level posed. There might be a way to de-escalate the situation and eliminate the incriminating evidence. The key is to understand her motives. Is she looking for money, retribution, something else?”
I sigh. “It’s not money, Max. She’s richer than God.”
He smirks. “I’m aware. But people always want more.”
I shake my head. “No. She’s crazy. She thought she was falling in love with me. Or maybe she just wanted me to be in love with her. She was becoming obsessive, almost instantly. I saw that and got out of the relationship. But not soon enough, I guess.”
“Crazy is bad. That’s sort of worst case scenario as far as I’m concerned.” Max looks me in the eye. “A crazy person with motivation, intelligence and financial means can make your life extremely difficult, Mister Nash.”
“I’m aware.”
“The risk is that she releases the footage of these various women to the public. It will harm them and it will make you look culpable. It will be assumed that you took the videos without your partners’ knowledge, that you are the one responsible for the leaks. It won’t matter if you can prove otherwise, because by the time you get that information to the public, the damage will be done. Your reputation will be tarnished.”
“This could ruin me, Max.”
“If we’re not careful. The first step is to get in contact with the suspect.”
“Should I do it?” I ask him.
“Definitely not,” he replies. “She wants you. We have to use that to our advantage, hold you in reserve to draw her out.”
“As bait.”
“Sort of. I prefer to call it leverage,” Max says, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.
“Fuck,” I mutter.
This is worse than I could’ve imagined. And I have a feeling it’s only just getting started.
My driver picks me up at the office a couple hours later. We’re going to Teterboro Airport where the plane is due to arrive.
The plane carrying one Haisley Parker, of GirlFundMe, from her obscure little corner of the world, to me. As we drive, it occurs to me how strange it is to have literally purchased this woman. She is now my property, in a manner of speaking.
I scan over her pictures on my cell phone, re-watch her video again and again. Is it possible that she won’t come off as hot in person as she does here? It doesn’t seem as though she used any special filters, angles, or other trickery to change her appearance.
In fact, as far as I can tell, she hardly wears makeup.
Such a change from most of the women I deal with in Manhattan and the world of high society.
They are always tricked out in the finest clothes, and out of their clothes they are tricked out with the best boobs, the tightest asses and toned legs from hours at the gym with trainers, nutritionists, and even plastic surgeons.
They wear makeup, reapply it constantly, even after sex.
They don’t ever want to be seen in their natural state, it would seem. And that’s always been just fine with me. I only want them for sex, and most of them are quite good at it, seeing it as just another skill picked up on their way to locking down the perfect guy.
But until now, I never realized that maybe natural is sexy in a different way.
Or maybe it’s just hot on this girl.
Haisley.
I mutter her name again and again, and soon we are at the airport. The driver gets out and heads to collect the girl and her bags and escort her to me.
I feel a slight shiver of nerves, something I almost never get. I haven’t been nervous, let alone scared, for a very long time.
Those emotions were bled out of me a long time ago. I don’t think about that time in my life, the time where everything I cared about was taken from me. Or maybe I let it go. Whatever it was, I’ve stopped allowing my mind to even think about who I was back then.
I had to if I was going to survive.
It was either die or move on. I suppose I chose to move on, not that I am proud of that fact. I just know that somehow, I continued to live, in a manner of speaking.
But I stopped feeling.
I only feel anything nowadays, when I fuck. When I come.
Which is why it feels so utterly foreign to me now, when I sense those little butterflies raging around my stomach. I suppose it must just be due to the fact that I don’t want this hundred-thousand-dollar girl to end up being a dud.
That would be awkward, inconvenient and extremely disappointing.
And then I see her coming towards me, my driver wheeling her two suitcases (both extremely old and battered), across the pavement.
She’s every bit as hot as she looked in her pictures and video, even more so in the flesh. She’s wearing a short skirt, a light jacket, and her hair is up in a bun. Her legs are not as tight and toned as the models and socialites I typically fuck, but they are somehow sexier for their smooth, pale silkiness.
She looks like untouched silk, her eyes wide and frightened, those thick natural lips parted ever so slightly.
Her curves are audacious without any effort.
She has no idea how sexy she is, I decide. But then again, she must. She put her price so high because she knows it.
What other reason could there be?
A girl like this has the goods and knows it. Don’t get it twisted, I tell myself. Don’t ever trust a girl who sells herself to the highest bidder.
My driver puts her bags in the trunk and then opens the door to allow her inside. She peers into the interior as if a giant snake is going to attack her.
And when she sees me, her eyes go even wider and her mouth gapes. “It’s you.”
“Who else would it be?” I remark.
“I…I…”
Her stuttering and nervousness is rather adorable, I decide. “Get in,” I tell her.
She immediately does as I command, and my cock is now raging harder than ever. I need to fuck her right away. As soon as we get back to my place. I will ravage her body, suck her luscious tits, eat her sopping wet pussy, and then fuck her like he’s never been fucked before.