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When would the media give up? He was never getting married.
She hesitated slightly as his offer sank in. There would be no breakfast in bed. Daniel held her gaze. The decision was hers—she could take it or leave it.
He knew she’d take it.
They all did.
A billionaire in a suit was an aphrodisiac to these types of women.
Like his brothers, he had inherited their father’s good looks. At six foot three with a muscular frame—which he worked hard to maintain in his gym—and a square jaw, Daniel was confident and powerful.
Some of it learned. Some of it was natural.
In the United States, and other places around the world, Daniel Dufort was frequently quoted in business and economic media, and unfortunately in less respected publications for the women he took to events. Rarely, if ever, was it the same women, and yet they insisted on discussing his marital status.
The gossip columns had a few cringeworthy nicknames for him. Try as he may, Daniel struggled to keep his sex life private. He only had a few rules.
No promises.
Nothing overnight.
No, do overs.
Okay, fine—he occasionally slept with the same woman twice, but not in the same quarter or it gave the wrong impression.
Daniel Dufort wasn’t interested in a relationship. Of any kind. He didn’t believe in true love, nor was he going to settle for something vanilla. However, he did enjoy female company, and the activities at the end of the evening, so he took dates to the events he had to attend, or to meet some social obligation.
And he wasn’t lacking in options.
But a relationship was not for him.
Settling down with abest friendand having missionary-style sex three times a week? No thanks.
As predicted, she’d walked through the door, so they head to Dufort Towers. Daniel hung his dark gray Tom Ford jacket on the hanger and turned.
Miss Johnson—fuck, he’d forgotten her name—lingered, taking in the valuable 57thAvenue view that overlooked Central Park. It was one of the best along Billionaire Row.
“Stunning,” she said, stepping up to the full-length glass.
Daniel removed his cufflinks, and they pinged as he dropped them on his custom-made oak wood desk. He rolled his shirt sleeves to his elbows and checked the time on his Piguet watch.
They had thirty-five minutes.
Daniel moved to stand beside Miss Johnson and dug his hands in his pockets. “I’m going to assume you give head.”
She turned, her mouth opening.
A good start.
Daniel leaned in and ran his finger through her hair. “Or I can bend you over my desk and fuck you. You decide.”
Her mouth closed and acceptance settled over her features. She was too proud to storm out, and he knew she was wet for him.
She reached for his fly and slid to her knees. “Both.” Her eyes lifted to his as she gripped his cock.
Daniel didn’t answer. He simply watched her tongue swirl around his swollen head and take him deeper, inch by inch.
Daniel let out a low moan. He gripped her hair and pressed in further while she moved skillfully over and around him. It wasn’t long before he was fucking her throat as she milked him dry. He groaned out his orgasm while she swallowed.
