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She frowns. “Oh, you’re not? Did you lose some shares in the Nasdaq lately, old boy?”
I wish she’d stop calling me that.
If she were mine, she’d already have half a dozen strikes against her pretty little ass for those kind of comments.
Now I’m fucking picturing her ass…
“I’m a billionaire,” I say casually. Her lips part as she stares at me, so I continue. “So if you think ordering fucking lobster thermidor is going to send me broke, think again, Princess. If you’d like another, just let me know. It looks like you could do with fattening up a little bit.”
The minute the words are out I regret them.
That's what I called her last night.
My fucking Princess.
Except she’s not that and she never will be.
Even if I do want to teach her a lesson, I can’t. Not with her.
“I’ll order two of the crème brûlée since it’s thirty-five big ones per serve, if that’ll make you happy.”
“It will, actually.”
She zeros in on me. “Does me spending your money turn you on?”
I grind my teeth. “How many times have I told you to not talk to me like that?”
She rolls her eyes, earning her another strike in my book. “I’ve lost count. Then again, I’ve told you umpteen times that I don’t take orders from you, or anyone, and yet here you are, still thinking you have some power over me.”
“I don’t think that, as it happens. I only want what’s best for you. That’s what I’ve always wanted.”
“So we shouldn’t have sex?”
I sputter my bourbon all over myself. Grabbing my napkin, I wipe my chin and shoot her a glare. “I swear to fucking God, Charlize.”
She smiles like this amuses her. “Stop being an old fuddy duddy. It’s so boring, Alistair. Frankly, I think you could put me to better use other than clicking around on eBay while I pretend to work in your office.”
I shake my head. “Is that what you think my staff do all day?”
“Check their computers. I’ll guarantee they have solitaire on there. Or Pornhub. I don’t know what’s worse.” She takes another bite of her seafood and groans when she chews.
She just can’t stop talking about sex. It makes me wonder if she really is the little nymphomaniac she’s making herself out to be.
I can barely watch her. I’ve never been so hard in my pants in my entire life.
Would it be so bad if I fucked her?
I mean, I didn’t know her as a child. I saw her six fucking times, one of those times was at her mother’s funeral. I should be fucking ashamed of myself.
But a dark part of me — if I’m being honest — feels no shame at all.
I want Charlize Prescott. I just wish she wasn’t my goddamn ex-stepdaughter.
“What are you thinking right now?” Her eyes are dancing with amusement as I look up.
Of course now I have to lie because I can’t tell her what’s really on my mind. Any encouragement and she’ll be under the table, zipping my pants down.
“How I should get you home soon.”
