But she doesn't know me; she’s never even heard of me. When she looks up again, I see interest and desire rather than fear and lust, like other women have when they see me. Women are terrified of me but still want to taste me as if I'm some kind of monster they dream of taming.
I am a monster, obviously, but no one in this world can tame me.
Not anymore.
But this girl is different. She obviously grew up rich. It's not because of her Gucci bag or Louboutin shoes; most women dress up for this club as if they can afford stuff like that. No, it's something different. It's the way she handles things, even her torn dress. Obviously to her it's just a dress that can be replaced easily. She doesn't bother.
She’s used to things like that. She has never needed to think about where to get money. A Gucci bag is just a bag for her, like any other. Girls who can't afford such brands but still wear them are always terrified to ruin them, which gives them away.
Rich girls like her come to the club, too, but they act differently. They come with friends, make a reservation for the table, and order at least a dozen bottles of Cristal champagne as an appetizer. They look for one-night stands and book a room at our hotel in advance, usually hiring one of my manager's male models to please them during the night.
Rich women are not much different than rich men in their fantasies. They love sex, too; they want to be fucked professionally, they want to have time to talk. They like intimate massages and all that kind of inappropriate stuff that you cannot buy in a regular night club or hotel.
They all want to find love at some point, but when they realize that love can't be bought, they come to places like this one and replace it with the hottest, mind-blowing sex they can find.
And what they do like the most about places like mine is the privacy that we guarantee while they're here.
"I don't want to go home." She shakes her head, walking out of the elevator and freezing in place. "I can't, it's too soon, I haven't..."
"I don't care what you want," I bark in response without letting her finish, "You just cost me fifty thousand dollars." I open the door to my suite and stretch out a hand for her to come in.
"But why? I had only one glass of champagne...I...don't have that much money..." she mumbles. Her lower lip is trembling, and her eyes start filling with tears.
That's good; she has to be afraid of me so she won't ever come into this club again.
"That guy usually spends forty to sixty thousand dollars in this club per night," I say, calmer this time, and her eyes go round in amazement.
To be honest, I don't care about the money. I make a lot more in one night than most Hollywood producers make in a month. I just want to scare her to get her out of here as soon as possible and never come back.
Because I don't trust myself when I'm with her.
My reaction to this girl is inexplicable: wild, primal, irresistible passion, which has grown so fast and intense, like a rolling snowball during an avalanche.
And I am almost not capable of fighting it.
Almost.
I'm a grown-up man; I have to be able to restrain myself, at least when it comes to women.
What is so special about this girl? I can have any woman I want, whenever I want. I fucking own the whole club where the most beautiful women of Hollywood come every day! And those are women who know what they want. Some of them want to be dominant; others need to serve. I've tried all of those games, so I'll definitely find a woman I want for the night.
Then why the hell do I want this innocent, terrified lamb who got in here by accident?
As we walk to my room, I rush to the closet, grab the first shirt I come across, and go back to give it to her.
"The bathroom is right there." I point to the door and look away immediately.
The image of her undressing in my bathroom five feet away from me is stuck in my head.
I take a deep breath and sit on the couch in the hallway.
She wants to say something but then changes her mind and silently walks into the bathroom.
I'm glad she's not arguing with me. Her voice turns me on almost as much as her look.
I swear, the second she leaves me, I'll call Imogen, my manager and the woman who's in charge of the VIP hookers in my club and tell her that I need one—no, two—of the youngest girls we have on the menu. Their skin should be pale, their hair should be light brown and long, slightly curled, and their eyes should be big and green as leaves on the trees during summer days.
I grin at how stupid it sounds, even in my head. We have no one in the club that even remotely resembles this princess.