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Dom made me an omelette so good this morning that I’m thinking of giving him a raise. He’s also going to be making several dishes for my freezer to keep me alive during the week.
“Don’t forget my guest will hopefully resurface soon,” I tell him. “Make sure she eats, please.”
“Yes, sir.” Dom is around fifty-five, divorced with kids who don’t appreciate him. I feel sorry for the old bastard. He’s fucking good at what he does and worked in many fine dining restaurants over the years and private cheffed for celebrities. I pay him a king’s ransom because I like the guy. He just needs to get laid. “Any preferences for this week? I thought I might make cottage pie and that champagne chicken with shallots and mushrooms that you like.”
“Is that the one with the creamy sauce?”
“The very one.”
“Sounds fabulous, thank you, Dom. Maybe something for dessert? I don’t know how long my guest will be here.
“I saw a plastic container in the fridge. Crème brûlée from Cruz?” He smirks. His cockney accent is a far cry from the aristocratic society around here. Dom grew up in a poor area of the East End, but he made something of himself with hard work. I respect that. Regardless of what Charlize thinks about me being a snob, I’m far from it. I’ll give anyone a go who has the enthusiasm and the talent.
I also forgot about the two desserts Charlize insisted on. She ate one of the sweets on the way home, before I bent her over my knee.
“My… friend has a sweet tooth.”
“Noted. I’ll whip up some of your favourite ice cream, maybe a bread and butter pudding.”
“You’re making me hungry talking about all this food.” I laugh. “I’ll see you next week.”
“Have a great day, sir.” No matter how many times I’ve told him to call me Alistair, he refuses. Dom is old school and I like that about him.
It makes me feel good that I can give him a position where he’s valued and appreciated. That means a lot to me when I find employees who are loyal. He only cooks occasionally — aside from me — for outside catering and private dinners. I love hearing stories of which celebrities were cool and who were arseholes.
I head out to the garage and fire up my Porsche. I also have a Range Rover which I reserve for when I head out to the country. Unfortunately living in a built-up area like South Kensington, it only leaves room for two cars. I do have six more at my country manor; sometimes I’ll bring the Lamborghini back and let the Porsche have a break.
I’ve always loved fast cars.
For some reason the image of me driving Charlize down to Elstone flashes through my mind. Where the hell did that come from?
Like my apartment, I never take women there. My home is private. Being that I’m in the spotlight a fair bit, I try to keep a low profile. The magazines and newspapers are always speculating about my private life — especially lately since there’s been no woman on my arm in as many months.
I don’t give a shit what they think; I never have. But I also hope that nobody puts two and two together or finds out who Charlize really is. It could come with some really bad press — not that I care about any of that, but the board might. As well as my parents. Though my main concern is for Charlize. She still has a life to lead and she doesn’t need to be overshadowed by a scandal that could send her all the way back to Seattle.
The thought unnerves me.I never feel nervous about anything, but I feel a flutter in my stomach that I’m not used to, followed by a pounding in my chest.
I should send her packing. I mean, I’d look after her financially — a promise is a promise. But this whole sugar baby thing? Fuck me.
As much as Charlize tells me she hasn’t done this before, it has my mind wandering while I navigate the early morning traffic into the city. If I don’t go along with this, will she find another sugar daddy to satisfy her? Is that what she really wants, or is it just with me? Even if she is punishing me for her shitty upbringing, I’ll take it. She’s the one wearing the battle scars, not me.
I picture what she’s doing right this very minute. If she’s up yet, annoying Dom. Or maybe looking at the rail of clothes Veronica picked out. I trust Veronica; she’s been picking out my suits and ties for years. If I need anything, she’s who I call.
I might even shoot her a message and tell her Charlize will be needing a whole new wardrobe; then again, my princess will probably prefer to go shopping on her own.
I have a spare credit card in my safe at work. I plan on giving it to Charlize when she arrives later, that way she can buy whatever she needs for herself without it having to be awkward. If she’s going to be accompanying me in public, she has to dress a certain way. The baggy sweats and hooded jumpers she wears won’t cut the mustard in my world. I’m all for that shit at home, but I have a reputation to uphold, and that umbrella falls over her head now, too.
Again, the idea of her spending my money makes my dick hard. I fucking want her to do it. I want her to shock the ever-living fuck out of me. Spoil herself. Nothing would give me greater joy than to see her with pretty things all around her. Money might not buy happiness, but it will buy a good time. That I can guarantee.
I run a hand over my face, eager to get to work so I can call my lawyer pronto.
I’ll be needing him to draw up a contract for Charlize before she arrives. The reason I get shit done so quickly is because I pay people like Oliver Wilcox a small fortune to do what I need him to do at the drop of a hat. Including an NDA. I’ve only ever had the girls at Élégance sign one — that's part of company policy so the girls don’t talk — but I need to cover all bases. Charlize won’t be happy but it’ll protect both of us. Oliver knows what I get up to and he won’t bat an eyelid, not that I’m going to tell him she’s my sugar baby. She’ll be in the contract as my new personal assistant.
I only hope I haven’t dug a hole for myself I can’t get out of. Emotionally, I’m heavily invested in all things Charlize Prescott. And that isn’t like me. Physically, I’m on a one way road to blue balls.
If she only knew the things I really wanted to do to her — she’d run a country mile.
I smile at the thought.
