Page 66 of Gilt

“You know Levi Rowe.”

“Yes.”

“Do you introduce all your girlfriends to him?” I ask.

“Not if I can help it.”

“Ooh, want to make some wine with those sour grapes? Are you threatened by your friend’s brutish masculinity?”

Jameson groans before he laughs. “Are you attracted to my friend’s brutish masculinity?”

“Not particularly. Why settle for a movie star when you can have a billionaire?”

“That’s my little gold digger,” Jameson pauses before a closed door. “I don’t introduce my girlfriends to Levi.”

“Somebody likes to play with your toys?” I ask, but when he turns to stare at me, the light mood vanishes. In the darkness of the corridor, his eyes are shadowy gray and my stomach clenches as they bore into me.

“I don’t do girlfriends.”

“I thought I was your girlfriend,” I breathe.

“You are,” he says pointedly.

“Wait.” I struggle through the hormones muddling my brain to piece together what he’s telling me. “Am I your first girlfriend?”

“I think there was one in fifth grade, Kyla or Kaylee.”

“You haven’t had a girlfriend since fifth grade?”

“I find girls usually want me for one thing.”

“And you’re happy to give it to them.”

“Money, Duchess,” he corrects my assumption. “They want me for money. I want them for sex.”

“Let me guess which one of you gets what you want.”

He backs me against the door. “Do you know what kind of depraved things people are willing to do if they think there’s a pot of gold at the end of the…”

“Blowjob?” I offer dryly. My guess is that Jameson could get most girls in any number of compromising positions even if he were dirt poor. He grins wolfishly, and I wonder if I’m leading myself to the slaughter. “So your friend went to Stanford as a publicity stunt, and you went for…”

“An education,” he says.

There’s a double meaning to that.

“I haven’t even taken AP Biology,” I whisper. Jameson leans forward, bracing his hands on the door and effectively caging me. I don’t want to be just one more sacrificial lamb, but I don’t want him to stop either.

“You should know what you’re getting into,” he says gruffly.

“I’m not as innocent as I look,” I protest, but a flutter of panic surges in my chest. Now I’m the one overselling it. Being willing is different than being experienced.

“Don’t lie, Duchess.” He bends forward and presses his lips to the hollow of my throat.

“I’m not wearing white to my wedding,” I remind him.

His laughter tickles across my bare skin. “What? Because some kid sweated on you for thirty seconds?”

“It was more like a minute.”