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In front of the main entrance, a white strip of carpet leads to double doors which open, courtesy of the doorman. He kindly offers to take our coats. Wesley has his suit jacket on which he hands over without a thank you, and I take mine off, revealing my dress in full. I thank him, unsure if I need to tip him, but I’m not left with much choice as Wesley whisks me into the foyer.
“Again, you look sexy as fuck.” He kisses my neck, not caring that people lingering in the foyer are gazing at us.
“You said I dress like a nun.”
“Well, if nuns dress like this, I will be lining up at the convent begging for forgiveness.”
I slap his arm gently. “You look handsome… okay, kinda hot.”
“Kinda hot?”
“Okay, you look hot. But if I focus anymore on your hotness, I can mop the floors with my panties,” I tease, the excitement running through me.
“Damn, and here I was thinking you were going commando.”
“Maybe I am. What if I said that to throw you off? Nothing like an unsolved mystery of panties versus no panties.”
As if commando isn’t my thing. I haven’t even graduated to a thong. I’m wearing this lacy number—French cut which is as small as I can go without my ass cheeks hanging out.
He shakes his head, laughing. “Save it for later, baby. And thanks for your visual.”
With my hand in his, he leads us to the main room but not without a cheeky gesture of ‘accidentally’ brushing my hand against his crotch. He’s rock hard, testing me with a delicious smirk that only fuels the desire burning through me.
We enter the large room filled with guests. It’s such a beautiful room with high ceilings and fancy chandeliers that light up the room and create a warm ambiance. Each wall is covered in expensive-looking artwork, though put together with the lighting and silk drapes makes the room look amazing.
People are standing around, happily chatting in small circles. Almost everyone is wearing black or white, a few wearing some daring colors and stand out in the crowd. A waiter walks past carrying a tray of champagne, which brings attention to my thirst. Wesley grabs two for us, at least, I thought they were for us. Instead, he drinks both of them, one after the other.
Annoyed, I grab my own and follow on cue.
“Waiter,” Wesley yells, annoyed. “We aren’t done yet.”
The waiter, a young fellow, looks rather bored and uninterested at Wesley’s rude behavior. To avoid coming across like rich snobs, which I’m not by a long shot, I grab another and thank him kindly.
“Why don’t you just go to bed with him,” Wesley bellows, out of nowhere.
“What did you just say?”
“Never mind.”
I heard him.
Loud and clear.
Just as I’m about to bring it up again, a woman stops where the two of us are standing. She’s quite short, though wearing high gold pumps and a slimming white beaded dress. Her hair—platinum blonde—is curled nicely and pinned to the side. I say she looks mid-forties but hard to pin-point behind the obvious plastic surgery done to her cheeks and lips.
“You must be Wesley’s girlfriend, Milana.” She extends her hand, awaiting a shake in return. I don’t know who she is or whether I should acknowledge that my real name is Milana.
I thought I’d be Anita Dick for the night?
“This is my mother,” Wesley says flatly, narrowing his eyes.
“Oh!” I grab her hand immediately to shake it. “Please to meet you Mrs…”
I draw a blank, realizing I don’t know her surname.
“It’s okay, honey, I’ve change husbands more than I have underwear. It’s Mrs. Cole. But please, call me Gina.”
“Gina.” I smile politely.
