Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 80919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80919 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 405(@200wpm)___ 324(@250wpm)___ 270(@300wpm)
All for looking at my baby sister a little too long.
So that was where I was after I successfully derailed Marksen’s ill-fated match. I was enjoying the ritual while Emily, the waitress, was licking her lips and looking at me, letting me know she would be happy to take me to one of the back rooms and show me how grateful she was for the six-figure tip.
I was tempted. I’d had Emily a few times. She made the most amazing little panting noises when I took her roughly from behind. Her scent was like vanilla and coffee and her throat felt like velvet when it gripped my cock to the base. She would hungrily swallow me down, taking all of me, even though tears ran from her eyes as she struggled to suppress her gag reflex.
Emily was the perfect pet to celebrate with. She also knew that, to me at least, she would never be more than a waitress, and a quick fuck. It was okay with her. I was sure she had her eyes on a few other, older patrons who were looking for their fourth or fifth wives, someone loaded but feeble-minded and near death. That was the payday she was after, and I didn’t fit the description nor was I willing to provide.
What I could give her was a good fuck that would leave her satisfied without the aid of pharmaceuticals.
No, Emily knew exactly where we stood, and I appreciated that. Her ambition was elsewhere, as was mine. Still, a few hours of unbridled fun was always a good way to celebrate a win.
The thought quickly fled when the man of the hour himself, Marksen Dubois, marched into the club, still wearing his black tuxedo.
He loosened his bow tie as he ordered a gin. Overpriced swill, but Marksen never understood the complexities of a good drink.
Bankers and real estate investors never did.
How could they? They traded in less-tangible assets, numbers on screens, buildings they rarely, if ever, set foot in, interest rates, and dividends. How could he understand the craftsmanship and history that went into a quality drink? All he understood was the result.
That was why men like him were arrogant in their ignorance, lacking in any creativity.
Was he a worthy opponent at times? Sure. He got a few wins on me.
But not this time.
“Marksen, I didn’t expect to see you here,” I remarked with a shit-eating grin. “You know, although the dress code is formal, tuxedos are not required during the day. A simple Italian suit will suffice, provided, of course, it is properly tailored.”
He looked over his shoulder before taking a long sip of his cocktail. “Quite a stunt you just pulled, Manwarring, but I’d expect nothing less from an uncouth, classless Irish thug like yourself.”
“Stunt? That was a dramatic display of my undying love for your bride—or so the papers will say.” I blinked up at him before taking another sip of my drink and letting it warm my belly.
It was the weekend, but still early enough in the day that most of the men here were older, retired, and put out to pasture by their families.
They came here more out of habit, needing something to occupy their time since they had long since made their mark and handed the baton off to the next generation. They came here to read the paper and rehash the victories of their glory days as titans of industry, while they harassed the waitresses who tolerated them, thinking they could be the next Mrs. Whoever the IV once the current wives aged out at thirty-five.
It was pathetic, and I sincerely hoped someone put me out of my misery before I joined their wrinkled ranks.
Abandoning his crap drink at the bar, he took the seat across from me, uninvited, and poured himself a glass of my whisky. “You can’t possibly imagine I’m going to let you get away with this…stunt.”
He knocked back the whisky like it was some cheap vodka he drank on spring break back in university out of some delusional girl’s belly button, proving yet again breeding wasn’t everything.
“That drink you just wasted was a century old. At least pretend to show it the respect it deserves.” I raised an eyebrow as I moved the bottle away from him.
He casually reached for the bottle and examined the label. Then, keeping his gaze trained on me, he threw it over his shoulder into the fireplace.
The blue flames jumped and licked the top of the brick hearth.
An attendant immediately came over to lower the gas flow and get the flames under control before something caught on fire.
I leaned back as I raised my glass to my lips. “That was a nearly full bottle and worth just shy of one point five million dollars last time it was appraised.”
He raised his empty glass in a mock toast. “I’ll write you a fucking check.”