By the time we reached the elevator bank, she pressed the main call button. I chuckled under my breath and pulled my room key from my pocket, pressing it against the wall to summon a private elevator. Looping a finger into the waistband of her trousers, I pulled her close as the doors chimed open.
For a fleeting second, her eyes widened in surprise, but she didn’t step back. She got in first, and I followed, letting the doors slide shut behind us.
Once inside, she pulled a compact from her purse and leaned forward slightly, checking her makeup. Her fingers were delicate and precise, tracing the curves of her lips and the edges of her eyeliner.
“So,” she said, without looking at me, “Mr. S… Is this usual for you? Picking up women in bars?”
“Depends,” I answered coolly.
“On?”
“How pretty they are.”
She tilted the compact so she could see me in the reflection, eyes narrowing just slightly, trying to measure how much of a lie that was. “You’re not being serious, are you?”
I scoffed, tired of all these damn questions.
I leaned against the mirrored wall, crossing my arms casually. “Is there a point to all these questions, or are you just trying to make conversation, ‘cause I’d rather you didn’t.”
She rolled her eyes and closed the compact. “Fine. I’ll stop asking questions.”
“Thank you,” I sighed just as the elevator chimed out in my suite. “Come in.”
ASK AND YOU SHALL RECEIVE
Desire.
You knowwhat the problem with men my age is?
Halfof them are still splitting rent with a roommate, living off their mother’s Netflix password, and sinking money into ‘side hustles’ that don’t even cover bottle service, let alone keep up with me.
And the ones who do get money?
Whew.
Arrogant as hell.
Loud in volume, smell and clothing. All designer brands, and no real substance. They think throwing a few bands around makes them kings.
Cute… but no.
Older men, though? That’s a whole different game.
Now, I’m not talking about the ones trying to play daddy and tell you when you have to come home. I already have a father. I don’t need another one.
I’m talking aboutricholder men.
Let’s be real here, my lifestyle ain’t exactly cheap. I liked the best wine, custom high-quality clothes and vacations where the beach didn’t have any bad ass kids running around screaming.
Rich men my age look at that as if I’m being high-maintenance.
But rich older men?
They saw luxury and privacy as a necessity.
What I loved most was how they moved. They didn’t have to brag or try to prove anything. They let that black card do the talking, and I loved that shit. They’ll watch you test them with a little smirk that says, ‘go on baby, see how far you can push’.
And that power? That assurance?
