Page 9 of Filthy Rich Daddies
“No, thank you. Honestly, I’d just like some solitude for a song or two.”
“If you’re sure.” When I nod, she slips out, closing the door with a judgment-free click.
Silence—well, the slinky tunes of a dancer’s background, but close enough for government work. I exhale, shoulders slumping against the leather. Twenty feet and three walls away, Reub probably thinks I’m getting the deluxe circuit on the G-string stock exchange.
Good. He’ll leave me alone.
As much as I want to do business with the guy, it’s the product and not the company that sells me on it. I tug my phone free, thumbprint unlock, auto-open to the Just Desserts chat.
Tic posted an update:All set for tomorrow.Dean added a bullet-point grumble about having a humidifier in the hotel bedrooms. I grin—he’ll deny it, but the man nests like a tradwife influencer.
I switch to SnowLass’s profile photo—Thalassa, with that bright smile—and my grin softens into something else. She stands on a windswept rooftop in what must be autumn sun, strawberry-blonde hair whipping behind her. Defiant joy radiates off the image. Something inside my chest rearranges, like a Rubik’s cube aligning two sides at once.
The suite’s playlist cycles to a down-tempo remix of “Wicked Game.” I let the chords crawl over me and imagine the long weekend to come. If she’s nervous, I’ll tease the tension. Nerd flirting is my lane. It comes with the territory of computers. Let Dean play the stoic, Tic the orchestrator. It’s my job to make her laugh until she’s disarmed.
Funny. The more I think about the girl, the more the undeniable throb of possibilities steals my attention. I haven’t even met her yet, and I’m hard as hell, wondering what her mouth would feel like on me. I want to weave my fingers into those long, rosy curls and give them a tug from behind.
The champagne room is meant for fantasies, right?
There’s a bowl with tissues, wet wipes, condoms, and lube next to me. Fuck it. I grab the lube, unzip, close my eyes, and let my imagination run wild. Thalassa’s a virgin, but that’s not what I’m there for. I want to see her shiver with anticipation as I trail my tongue all over her body. Taste that soft skin. She would look incredible in black lace, and I would like to unwrap her like a present. Slowly. Methodically. Until she’s too warmed up to speak, and then I’ll memorize the way she shudders with need for us.
My grip goes strong at the thought. I want to hear her whimper my name as she comes with me deep inside of her. Feel her shatter on my cock. My balls pulse at the thought. I want to rock her on my hips and make her explode. And then, I want to bend her over and bind her to the bed, make her take every last inch of me up her tight little ass.
I feel the hot cum on my hand before the orgasm really hits, but when it does, I need a minute to catch my breath and clean up. Is it wrong to jerk off to the virgin you bought, but haven’t met yet? I don’t know. But somehow, it makes me feel like she’s already ours, like I’ve marked my territory.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
Door hinges rustle. The dancer peeks in. “All good?”
“Perfect. Thank you.” I stand, smoothing shirtsleeves. “Take the long route back. Earn your break.”
She winks. “Will do, handsome.”
Handsome. Funny how the adjective sounds alien—custom-tailored shirts and soft-heart disclaimers never quite camouflagethe perpetual coding-goblin circles under my eyes. But it lands warm enough, thanks to her expert tone.
Reub meets me midway through the corridor, cheeks flushed, gold-flake cocktail napkin in hand. “Everything satisfactory, Mr. Copeland?”
“Exceedingly.” I fall into step beside him. “Apologies, duty calls—I have a deployment window to hit.”
He blinks in disappointment but recovers. “Understandable. I’ll email a demo. Maybe we schedule a proof of concept next month?”
“Shoot me an email and we’ll get it on the calendar,” I echo Tic’s phrasing, a subtle string to pull later. Not a yes, not a no. The man looks hopeful, and hope is currency.
Stepping into night air, I inhale the city’s after-rain petrichor. Sparse droplets cling to streetlamps, refracting crimson taillights. Atlanta, for all its sprawl, has moments where it feels like a half-abandoned film set—the hush between takes.
The rideshare curb is vacant. I contemplate calling my driver to fetch me, but decide on solitude. I request a blacked-out EV sedan on the rideshare app—arrival time is six minutes. In the lull, I peer again at Thalassa’s profile, noting an unchecked box:Allergies?Blank. I make a mental note to ask. Hazelnut oil can kill the unprepared, but it tastes amazing to lick off someone’s skin.
Funny. I’m always prone to overpacking, but this weekend, I’ll need one of those wheeled carts for all the fun I plan to bring with me. Thalassa being a virgin means we will want to try all kinds of things with her, and that requires equipment.
A beep signals ride arrival. I slide into the cool cocoon of synthetic leather. The driver—a woman sporting silver braids and a lanyard of scent diffusers—nods a greeting, classical guitar leaking softly from hidden speakers.
Once inside, a signal flares to life on my phone. Trouble in paradise. To the office, then. Guess I wasn’t lying that much to Reub.
I change up the destination location and watch raindrop comet-trails along the window, picturing the upcoming weekend as a probability tree: Branch A, she enjoys our company, we part ways amicably, everyone enriched. Branch B, she recoils, we pivot to concierge luxury and send her home banking tuition for the next semester. Branch C—unexpected chemistry blooms into…something.
Relationship? Laughable. I don’t subscribe. But possibility shapes itself like wet clay, and I find myself curious what form it might choose.
Streetlights strobe across my reflection—pale crescent of face, thoughtful crease between brows. My mother used to smooth that line with a fingertip and say, “Brains don’t have to wear worry lines to prove they’re working.”
