Dirty Billionaire (Page 8)

His chest rumbles with his words. “Two hundred should be sufficient. It’s fucking Christmas. Don’t be a cheap fuck, you prick.”

I bite my lip to hold back the giggle welling up inside me.

Handsy shoves two hundreds inside and flips the leather folder shut before stumbling off his stool.

He takes three steps, and Alpha says, “I sure as hell hope you haven’t forgotten to apologize to my wife for being a dick before you go.”

Handsy pauses and stiffens. “Sorry, ma’am. I apologize sincerely.”

My belly shakes with silent laughter, and Alpha squeezes me tighter.

“Something funny, sweetheart?”

I’m debating whether I should disentangle myself from his hold to face him when he takes the decision out of my hands and drops his arm. He pulls out the bar stool next to me, unbuttons his suit jacket, and sits.

I expect him to turn and start explaining what just happened, and why the hell he rescued me and then pretended to be my husband, but he just holds up two fingers.

“Bushmills 21 for the lady.”

The bartender hops to it, nodding before he grabs a tall bottle from the top shelf.

“I’ll have a double shot of Jack,” I say, correcting him.

The bartender freezes and looks from me to Alpha Dog.

My sideways glance reveals him shaking his head. “She’ll have the Bushmills. We’re expanding her palate.”

I look at him and open my mouth to object, but get distracted by his profile. The man is beautiful, from his dark hair and equally dark eyes to his black tie tucked into a matching three-button vest. My eyes drop lower to the bulge in his suit pants. I swallow and remember exactly why I’m sitting in this bar tonight.

It hits me like a splash of slush from a cab on my boots. I know exactly who he is, because he doesn’t look all that different from the cover of Forbes that Tana had at her house a couple of months ago. I still remember the headline: KARAS CRUSHES COMPETITION.

Well, he certainly crushed the competition tonight. The rush of nervousness I was already feeling builds. The Holly gives herself a man for Christmas plan is suddenly alive and well again.

But how do I do this? I’ve never propositioned a stranger in a bar, let alone a billionaire. Or is this already a foregone conclusion, and he’s just waiting for me to catch up to his agenda for the evening?

“We’re expanding my palate?” My words come out breathier than I intended.

His full lips slide into a lazy, yet predatory smile. “In this respect, and I’m hoping a few others before the night is over.”

Oh. My. God.

I sure hope I know what I’m getting myself into.

Fuck me.

That’s what her glossy siren-red lips are saying, and I don’t think she has a goddamn clue how edible she looks sitting perched on that stool. She shifts, and the rhinestones at her neck, ears, and wrist flash purple in the trademark light of the Rose Club—light that’s more accustomed to reflecting off diamonds than costume jewelry.

She drew my eye when she stepped through the door because she looked so utterly out of place. But I haven’t been able to take my eyes off her because . . . Fuck. I have no idea. I’ve had my fair share of beautiful women, but this one’s a completely different breed. Not the trained purebred type of woman who crowds this place, tittering and looking for her next meal ticket.

No. One look at her, and I know she’s untrained and innocent. She’s not the kind of woman who is going to be angling for a handout, and the absolute lack of motive behind her actions is more alluring than I would have guessed. The way she instantly played along and never shied from my touch. Hell, she leaned into me, wanting more. She’s rare, and I’m the kind of man who appreciates that quality more than most when it comes to choosing a woman.

And then there’s the fact that she’s sitting in this bar on Christmas Eve with no ring on her finger—not sure how the dumb fuck missed the lack of that little accessory. It tells me she’s as alone in this city tonight as I am.

Boredom is now the last thing on my mind. This innocent girl has managed to eradicate every trace of it.

I make my decision instantly. She’s mine tonight.

The bartender, Aric, according to his nametag, sets our whiskey down in front of us.

“Please let me know if I can get you anything else, Mr. Karas.”

I wince as he says my name. I expect her demeanor to change immediately, for greedy claws to come out and spear into me.

Instead, she eyes the lowball glass in front of her. “How much is that drink gonna cost me? Ten dollars a swallow?”

I barely hold back a groan at the word swallow, because, fuck, I’m a guy, and I’ve already been picturing my dick in her mouth.

“Not a thing, sweetheart. I wouldn’t let a woman drink alone, and I sure as hell wouldn’t let her pay for her own drinks.”

I wait for an objection, but instead she lifts the glass and sniffs its contents.

“Kinda smells like . . . candy?”

“Caramelized toffee and dark chocolate.”

Her lips press against the rim, and she tips back a swig. Fuck. Her throat works as she swallows the liquor.

I want to taste it on her lips. Hell, I just want to taste her. I lean in, not even totally conscious of my movement, but urged on by the need to sample my favorite Irish whiskey from her, rather than from the glass.

But she freezes, and so do I.

Her brown eyes widen. “Holy horseshit, that’s some good stuff.”

My chest shakes as a chuckle breaks loose. “Damn straight.”

Her mouth curves into a grin as she lifts and sips again. This time she swallows more, and my dick pulses against the zipper of my suit pants. I want her on her knees, those wide brown eyes staring up at me as I cup her jaw and thrust my cock between those lush red lips.