Filthy Rich

by Julie Kriss

  In real life, I had gone to college for exactly one year, taking business courses before Emma hired me straight into Executive Ranks to be an executive assistant. I hadn’t made lifelong college friends, and I’d only had one year of partying and dating college guys. I certainly had never been an art student, spending her time studying something that was pretty much proven never to make money. I had never been a girl to follow my passion no matter what the cost.

  So tonight, I would be that girl.

  And tonight, that girl would meet a man.

  I wondered who he would be tonight. Would he be an art dealer again? It made sense, yet I didn’t think Aidan would use the same identity again. That wasn’t how the game worked. If he was John the art dealer, then he wasn’t a stranger.

  Which meant I was on the lookout for someone else. How would he dress? How would he look? Would he be rich or poor? I already felt the excitement starting between my legs, beneath my thin cotton panties. I’d considered leaving them off, but decided that Rachel the art student would never go to a gallery showing without panties.

  There was something to be said for staying in character.

  I looked at my bed, where the ticket Aidan had left me was sitting. Last chance to back out, Samantha. Sit on the couch and watch Netflix, just like he said.

  It was probably the wisest course of action, but there was no chance.

  I took the ticket, put it in my purse, and left for SoHo.

  By eleven thirty, I had been through the entire exhibit and looked at all of the art. I had eaten a couple of the appetizers and drunk two glasses of champagne. Even though this was an exclusive exhibit, I didn’t look out of place here in my Target dress. The art lovers here were all types—eccentric artists, hipster critics, queer and gender-fluid people, a woman with a long black cigarette holder, a man wearing a rainbow cloak and a cloud-of-weed smell. It was pure New York. The art was interesting, the people even more so, and I enjoyed myself.

  The problem was that Aidan wasn’t here.

  There was no way I had misunderstood—he had definitely left me that ticket on the counter in his penthouse. And he had grilled me thoroughly on Friday, trying to dig out of me whether I was coming or not. I had played it cagey, but now I started to wonder if I had done it too well. Had I convinced Aidan that I wasn’t coming?

  The thought was so disappointing it was hard to face. The game Aidan and I played had gone flawlessly so far; we had followed it perfectly without having to discuss it after that first time. It was like we were reading each other’s minds. I’d thought he’d understood on Friday that I was playing the opening round of the game by keeping him guessing. I hadn’t thought he would take it as a serious rejection.

  Maybe he wasn’t sure I’d enjoyed the first round, I thought as I put down my empty glass and wound my cardigan around my shoulders, giving up at last. It was hard to fathom, because when a woman leaves her panties on a man’s pillow, she’s giving him a pretty clear message about what she wants. Which left the option that maybe he hadn’t enjoyed himself as much as I thought he did. Maybe it was Aidan who was having second thoughts.

  But if he wasn’t enjoying the game, then why had he left me the ticket?

  My thoughts went round and round, and I was so caught up in them that the rain took me by surprise. When I stepped out of the gallery it was pouring as if the skies had opened. And damn it, I needed a cab.

  I pulled up the collar of my cardigan and stepped onto the sidewalk. Immediately my feet were soaked in their sandals, the water squishing unpleasantly beneath my feet. I darted to the curb and looked hopelessly into traffic, putting my arm up in case some cab I couldn’t see would take pity on me. Meanwhile the rain got my cardigan wet and pelted down the front of my dress.

  One cab passed me, and then another. The third added insult to injury by splashing a wave of dirty street water over the front of my dress. In the meantime I stood there getting wetter and wetter, my hair soaked to my head, my cardigan getting heavy with water.

  This night just kept getting better.

  I lowered my arm long enough to grab the hem of my cardigan and use it to mop my face. It was a useless effort, but I did my best. When I dropped the wet wool I realized it wasn’t raining on me anymore. Someone was standing over me with an umbrella.

  “You look like you need help,” a familiar voice said.

  I turned to look at him. He was wearing black pants, a dark gray dress shirt open at the throat. His sleeves were rolled to the elbow and he wore no jacket. He hadn’t shaved this morning, and his jaw was shadowed with just the perfect shade of dark stubble. His hair was mussed and damp with rain, his dark eyes fixed on me. The entire effect was so gorgeous, and he was so close, that my knees went weak.

  I took a deep breath, inhaled him. Then I remembered I was angry.

  He’d stood me up and left me to hail a cab in the rain. Who the hell did he think he was?

  “I’m fine, thank you,” I said coldly.

  He looked down pointedly at my soaked sweater and dress. My nipples were poking at the dress, and I wrapped the cardigan over them. “You don’t look fine,” he said, raising his gaze to my soaked hair. “You look like you’re having trouble getting a cab.”

  Through my anger, it took a second to catch on, but that was when I realized: this was the game.

  I was a broke art student, trying to catch a taxi in the pouring rain. He was… whoever he was. I could stay mad, or I could get back into character and play.

  It took only a second for me to think it through, a second that no onlooker would notice. But Aidan was so close, watching me so carefully, I knew he saw.

  I bit my lip and watched his gaze fix on where my teeth bit my skin. “Okay, maybe I’m having a little trouble,” I admitted. “I appreciate the umbrella. I’m getting really wet.”

  It was a classic double entendre, cheesy even. It worked. I could tell from the twitch in his jaw.

  “Where are you headed?” he asked.

  “Just to the subway,” I replied. “I’m going home to the Bronx.”

  His eyebrows rose. “You’re a Bronx girl?”

  “Not really. I just live there with my roommate because the apartment was cheap.”

  He shook his head. “Well, you’re not taking the subway there tonight. The subway is flooded with all this rain and half the lines are down.”

  That was probably a lie, though the New York Metro wasn’t exactly known to be reliable. “Oh, shit,” I said in distress, running a hand over my soaked hair. “How the hell am I supposed to get home? I can’t afford a taxi the whole way.”

  “Let me help,” he said. “My car and driver are pulling up any minute. I’ll send him to take you home.”

  I gaped at him. “You can’t do that. I mean, I can’t ask you to. You don’t even know me.”

  “My name is William.” He held his hand out. The rain pounded the umbrella, loud and insistent. Water was splashing my legs, and probably his too.

  I bit my lip again, because Rachel would think twice. Then I took his hand and shook it. “I’m Rachel,” I said. “I’m an art student.”

  “And I work in boring old banking.” He smiled and let me go, but before his hand left mine I felt it—that crazy zing, that wild pulse of attraction. I swallowed, and he watched.

  “Were you, um, were you at the show?” I asked. My skin was getting hot under his gaze, and I wondered if he could tell in the dark.

  He glanced behind us at the gallery. “Not really. That is, not as an art lover. I was here more in a landlord capacity.”

  I gaped at him again. “You own the gallery?”

  “I own the building. It’s one of my better investments.” He looked at my surprised face, then shrugged. “Real estate is a sideline of mine. It seems I have a knack for it.”

  I wondered suddenly if Tower VC actually owned the gallery behind me. It was entirely possible. If so, then Aidan was playing it close to his real self tonight. “Do you like it?” I ask
ed him. “Banking and real estate, I mean. Do you like it?”

  “It makes money, but it’s utterly cold and unfulfilling,” he replied bluntly. “But it doesn’t matter, really. I’ve never met anyone who actually likes what they do.”

  “I do.” As both Rachel and Samantha, I meant it. “I like what I do.”

  He leaned closer. I could smell his scent mixed with rain, and the mixture made my blood pound. He reached up and touched his thumb to my cheek, brushing away a drop of water that had blown there. “Then you’re fascinating, Rachel,” he said, his voice low. “At least to me.”

  We stood there, our gazes locked, and I felt the same way I had the last time, when we’d played the game. I let myself feel the pure intoxication of being close to him, of wanting him. Of knowing that he wanted me. My body throbbed, and I felt purely alive. This gorgeous man was going to have me. I wasn’t sure where or how, which made it thrilling. I just knew it was going to happen, and it was going to be amazing.

  I never wanted this game to end.

  “Here’s my car,” William said, breaking the moment. A car pulled up at the curb, and he opened the back door and helped me in, folding the umbrella as he got in himself. “We’ll go uptown first, so I can get out at my place. Then I’ll have him take you wherever you need to go. If that’s okay with you, of course.”

  I fidgeted as he closed the door. He was big and close in the car, his body brushing mine. “You really don’t have to do this,” I said again.

  “Anything to help a lady in distress,” he said.

  The car pulled into traffic, the rain pounding on the roof and the windows. Lightning flashed and thunder rolled high above, the storm showing no signs of letting up.

  My clothes were cold and wet against my skin, and I shivered. My nipples were hard beneath my dress and my thighs had goosebumps. Without thinking, I inched closer to the man next to me, seeking his body warmth. I felt his muscles tense briefly in surprise, then relax again. He didn’t resist.

  We rode in silence for a minute, and then he said, “If you don’t have cab fare, how did you afford the ticket to the exhibit?”

  “It was my roommate’s,” I said. “She got it because she knows one of the artists. But she has the flu, so she gave it to me.”

  “You’re very lucky, then,” he said softly.

  “Yes, I’m very lucky.”

  I burrowed a little closer to him, and he put a hand over mine, touching the backs of my fingers. I felt it like an electric pulse everywhere. “Your hands are cold,” he said.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “All of you is cold.”

  “A little.”

  I wondered how it would happen. Where would he take me? Did I need to be more forward? I’d been forward the last time, bold. I watched him closely for cues about how he wanted me to be.

  He kept his hand on mine, his warm fingers against my skin. “Listen,” he said. “You’re soaked and freezing. Why don’t you come and dry off in my apartment for a little while before I send you home?”

  And there it was. My cue.

  “Yes,” I said. “I’d love to.”

  Twenty-Five

  Aidan

  * * *

  She was perfect. She was always perfect, whether she was Rachel or Samantha or anyone else. Tonight she’d left off the bold eye makeup and was a beautiful waif, a pretty art student stranded in the rain. And she was going to be mine.

  I left my hand on hers for the rest of the ride, and we didn’t speak. When we got to the Upper East Side she put my hand on her knee, just under the hem of her dress, and left it there. I could feel the warm pulse of her skin against mine.

  I brought her to my penthouse—it was part of the reason I’d sent her here earlier this week. I’d wanted her to know this was where I lived, that when we did this I was bringing her to my home. She’d also know not to let on. So did I.

  I led her out of the car. My driver, Edward, had basic instructions. He didn’t ask questions, which I approved of. Since I never had women at my apartment, this wasn’t a familiar routine, but he was a professional and he played along in silence. I paid him well, and I silently promised him a bonus.

  Rachel crossed her arms over her chest while we were in the elevator, hugging herself. She looked damp and messy and completely exquisite. She also looked every bit the art student, and not like the polished professional I saw every day. As for me, tonight I was playing someone almost uncomfortably close to myself. I didn’t want to examine too closely why that was. I could have pretended to be anyone, yet I’d chosen a man who dealt in real estate and lived in my apartment. If I was going to nitpick that, I’d think that maybe I wanted this woman for myself, the game be damned. So I didn’t nitpick it.

  Rachel walked into my apartment and looked around, wide-eyed, looking convincingly like she’d never seen the place before. “This is amazing,” she said.

  “Feel free to tidy up,” I said. “There are clean towels in the bathroom. I’ll get us a drink.”

  She disappeared into the bathroom, and I heard the tap running. I knew I’d surprised her when I showed up with that umbrella, and I congratulated myself for it. She had no idea I’d been at the art show, watching out of her line of sight. I didn’t want to be seen talking to her and leaving with her when there was a chance someone could recognize me. When she looked like she was about to leave, I’d made my play. It was a gamble that might not have worked, but I’d been lucky.

  I took off my wet shoes and socks in the bedroom and changed into worn jeans and an old NYU T-shirt. I’d never been to NYU, but William had. He was a smart man who had earned his way in the world, not a former fucked-up teenager who had lucked into millions of dollars and a career. When I played a role, I always left that fucked-up teenager behind.

  Rachel was still in the bathroom, so I walked barefoot into the kitchen and poured two glasses of wine. I carried them to the main room and sat on the sofa, waiting.

  She took her time, and when she came out, I saw why. She was dried off now, her hair down. She was also naked, wearing nothing but one of my large, white towels wrapped around herself.

  She stepped into the main room, her cheeks flushing. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “There’s a heated towel rack in the bathroom. I put my clothes on it.”

  I looked at her lean legs, her perfect shoulders. “I don’t mind.” I put my glass down and leaned forward. “Come here.”

  She shifted, but she was watching me, her gaze hungry. “I realize we don’t know each other, but—”

  “Come here.”

  She stepped forward. It was a scene out of a fantasy, watching her come closer. Something that would never happen with an actual stranger in real life. For me, it could only happen with Samantha.

  But no, she wasn’t Samantha. I needed to think of her as Rachel. I had to remind myself of that.

  I held out my hand, and she took it. I tugged her gently, and she came. Thunder rolled out the window, moving away now. With a sigh, she straddled my lap and lowered herself onto it.

  She was warm, damp, perfect woman. I remembered the dip of her clavicle from last time, the intoxicating smell of her skin. She was bare under the towel, her pussy bare against my jeans. She settled further, gripping my hips with her knees.

  I reached my hand to the back of her head, pulled her down gently, and kissed her.

  I remembered this, too. Samantha—Rachel—had a soft mouth and a flavor so intense it made me ache. She opened her mouth and I licked inside, tasting her, exploring her. She squirmed against me, impatient and needy. I’d kept her in suspense. I’d made her wait, and she was more than ready.

  I slid my hand under the towel, finding her wet and slick. I stroked her once with my fingertips as she moaned in my mouth. “Is this what you want?” I asked her, breaking the kiss.

  “Yes,” she sighed.

  “Say it.”

  “I want that. I want it.”

  “Drop the towel.”


  She did, and now she was naked, every delicious and perfect curve of her on my lap, like a dessert I didn’t remotely deserve. I stroked my hands over her hips and she tugged my shirt up, moving fast and almost clumsy. I pulled it off over my head and dropped it. Then I pulled her in for another kiss.

  She nipped my lip, impatient. I stroked her breasts—I remembered those from last time, too—and her hands dug down to the buttons of my jeans, undoing them, her fingers working their way inside. The longer you make this woman wait, I told myself, the hotter she burns. I wouldn’t forget it.

  I lifted my hips and she shoved my jeans down, just enough to free my cock. She readjusted herself on my thighs and stroked it. I broke the kiss and ran my thumb over her reddened bottom lip, using every drop of my strength to maintain control. “Is that what you want?” I asked her.

  “Yes,” she breathed.

  “Say it.”

  She stroked me. “This. I want this.”

  “How much do you want it?”

  Her eyes fluttered shut, maybe in embarrassment, maybe in desire. Maybe both. “I want it very, very much.”

  I took a condom from my jeans pocket and opened it. I put my hand over hers and we both put it on me. Then I leaned forward and sucked on the skin of her neck, tasting her damp flavor, using just enough pressure to make it almost hurt. “Take what you want,” I told her.

  She put her hands on my bare shoulders and rose up on her knees, then lowered herself down on me. We both made some kind of sound, half pleasure and half pain. A week. It had been a week since I’d been inside this woman, and I hadn’t let myself feel the lack of it. I hadn’t let myself remember how hot she was, how tight, how everything went away when I was sunk inside her. I hadn’t been allowed to feel that, so I hadn’t. Not until I was inside her again.