The Prescott Heiress

Albert Beaumont — ‘Albie’

I move through the fucking ballroom like a goddamn ghost, invisible and watching, gliding past all these glittering assholes pretending they’re the gods of the fucking universe. High society at its finest—or should I say, its fakest. Trust fund brats preening in their overpriced tuxedos, gold-digging vultures poured into dresses they can barely breathe in, and big-shot dickheads who reek of old money and cheap cologne. Everywhere I look, it’s the same shit: fake smiles, backhanded compliments, and conversations so shallow you could drown in the bullshit.

When I was younger, I thought this world was magic. I still remember my first gala, standing under these same stupid chandeliers, wide-eyed and awestruck. Everything sparkled, and everyone mattered—or at least they pretended they did. I followed my father like some eager little puppy, watching him carve through the crowd with that sharp fucking grin of his. He wasn’t just working the room; he was dismantling it piece by piece, every handshake a goddamn power play, every word a weapon.

And me? I thought I was part of it. I thought I was important. I thought the approving nods from his business partners, the way women tilted their heads when they talked to me, meant something. Fuck, I was so naive. I didn’t see the strings. I didn’t realize I was just another piece on my father’s chessboard, groomed and polished to be played when it suited him.

Now? Now I see it for what it is: a fucking circus. The glamour is paper-thin, the kind of cheap shit that peels away if you look too closely. Another goddamn fundraiser for some politician who’s up to their neck in scandals. The same tired conversations about market shares and vacation homes. The same hollow laughter over jokes that aren’t funny. It’s exhausting.

The worst part? I can still play the game. I hate it, but it’s second nature now, like breathing. I could charm the shit out of this room if I wanted to—say the right things, flash the right smile, make them all believe I give a damn. But I don’t. Not anymore. The thrill’s long fucking gone, replaced by this heavy, gnawing feeling in my gut. Maybe it’s disgust. Maybe it’s the realization that all of this—the power, the money, the influence—is just a giant machine that chews people up and spits them out as something unrecognizable.

And yet, here I fucking am. Why? Because I don’t have a choice. I’m the head of the goddamn Beaumont family now. That means it’s my job to show up, to smile, to shake hands with people I wouldn’t piss on if they were on fire. Write checks for causes I don’t believe in. Pretend like I give a flying fuck about maintaining the legacy.

The legacy. Jesus Christ, what a load of shit. It’s not a legacy—it’s a prison sentence. My father passed it down to me like it was some great honor, but all it’s done is weigh me down like a fucking anchor. I don’t get to be a person anymore; I’m just a goddamn mascot for the Beaumont empire. And the expectations? They’re never-ending. It’s not enough to just run the family business and keep the vultures at bay. Oh no, I’ve got to marry too.

That’s right. The crown prince of Beaumont needs a fucking princess. But not just any princess. No, she’s got to be the right kind of woman. Old money, impeccable manners, a family name that can hold its own in the gossip columns. The kind of wife who can stand next to me at these godforsaken events and look like she was carved out of fucking marble—perfect, pristine, and completely soulless.

Love? Passion? That shit doesn’t factor into the equation. This isn’t about romance; it’s about business. A merger in white lace and pearls. A deal that consolidates power and wealth, because that’s what matters. Not whether I like her, or whether she likes me. Fuck, that’d be asking too much.

“Albert, when are you going to settle down?” Every goddamn event, it’s the same question, whispered behind fake smiles or lobbed at me like a grenade. As if I’m not already chained to this fucking family, as if I haven’t sacrificed every ounce of my freedom to carry the Beaumont name.

But here’s the kicker: I’ve thought about it. About what it would be like to come home to someone who gives a shit about me. Not my bank account, not my last name—me. The idea of a wife, someone real, someone who sees through all this goddamn glitter and still wants to stick around… Fuck, it’s tempting.

But that’s not the kind of wife I’m supposed to have. No, I’m expected to pick some robotic socialite who’s been trained from birth to smile at the right times and talk about the right causes. A walking press release. A mannequin with perfect posture and a designer wardrobe. Fuck that. Fuck her. I don’t need another goddamn liar in my life.

So here I am, sipping champagne that tastes like regret, plastering on a smile I don’t mean, and shaking hands with men I wouldn’t trust to clean my gutters. Because that’s what the head of the Beaumont family does. We show up. We endure. We fucking smile.

Even as the weight of it all grinds us into the dirt.

Can’t there be something in between? Someone real? Someone who doesn’t care about what I’m worth but actually gives a damn about who I am?

Can’t there be something in between? Someone real? Someone who doesn’t give a fuck about what I’m worth but actually gives a damn about who I am? Is that too much to ask? Someone who looks at me and sees past the fucking name, past the pile of money and the ridiculous legacy. Someone who actually cares whether I’m happy, whether I’m tired, whether I’ve eaten more than two goddamn meals in a day. Christ, I don’t need some perfect princess or a goddamn charity case—I just want someone who’s real.

Not that I’m anyone’s goddamn fantasy. I know what I look like. I catch the sideways glances when I walk into a room, the quick assessments as people size me up. Hell, I size myself up every time I catch my reflection in a mirror, and let me tell you, the verdict isn’t exactly glowing.

I’m built like a linebacker—which, surprise, is what I fucking played in college. Not that I needed to; I wasn’t on a scholarship or anything. The Beaumonts don’t do scholarships. I did it because I liked the feeling of hitting something. Because out on that field, for a few hours, I wasn’t just another rich asshole with a trust fund. I was part of something. I mattered because of what I could do, not because of what I owned. But college was a long goddamn time ago, and the linebacker build I used to be proud of has shifted into something else. Sturdy? Sure. Solid? Fuck yeah. But let’s not sugarcoat it—I’ve got a gut now, and it’s a little more pronounced than it used to be. Years of sitting on the Beaumont legacy throne will do that to you. Too many late-night scotches, too many expensive dinners, too much goddamn stress.

I’m not tall, dark, and handsome. I’m not some sculpted Adonis who makes women swoon when I walk into a room. No, I’m short, pasty white, and built like I could bench press a piano but get winded climbing a flight of stairs. My face? It’s as average as they come. Brown hair, graying at the temples. A jawline that might’ve been sharp once but is softening now. Nothing about me screams “dreamboat,” unless your dreamboat is a tugboat.

But I know what my most attractive trait is. It’s not my face, it’s not my charm—though I can turn it on when I need to. It’s not my laugh or my smile or the way I hold a conversation. It’s my fucking name. That’s it. That’s all anyone sees. Albert Beaumont. The goddamn name alone is worth more than most people will see in ten lifetimes. And that’s what makes me desirable. Not me. Not the man underneath the name. It’s the power, the money, the connections, the sheer fucking weight of the Beaumont empire.

It’s exhausting. Knowing that every look, every smile, every whispered conversation has nothing to do with who I am and everything to do with what I represent. Knowing that when people say my name, they’re not thinking about me—they’re thinking about what I can do for them. Knowing that every woman who’s ever flirted with me has done the mental math, calculating my net worth before she’s even decided if she likes my face.

And yeah, maybe I could’ve been the kind of guy who didn’t give a shit about that. Maybe I could’ve leaned into it, become one of those smug assholes who throws money around like confetti and treats women like accessories. But fuck that. That’s not who I am. That’s not who I ever wanted to be. I want someone who looks at me—me—and doesn’t see dollar signs. Someone who doesn’t give a shit about my name, who doesn’t care what kind of car I drive or what my fucking family crest looks like.

But in this world, that’s a fucking pipe dream. The women in my orbit aren’t real. They’re polished, pre-packaged, and perfectly rehearsed, ready to slip into the role of the perfect Beaumont wife like they’ve been auditioning for it their whole goddamn lives. They’ll smile for the cameras, squeeze out a couple of heirs to secure their spot at the family table, and then spend the rest of their days shopping, sipping overpriced cocktails, and pretending their charity work is anything but a way to show off in front of their equally shallow friends.

And me? I’d be stuck with a woman who doesn’t know the first fucking thing about me. Someone who wouldn’t bother to ask, wouldn’t give a shit about my sleepless nights or the way my jaw locks when I’m about to lose my temper. Someone who’d see me as nothing more than a ticket to a life of luxury. I’d spend my days watching her parade around in couture and my nights wishing I had the balls to walk away.

Fuck that.

So yeah, I’d rather be alone than end up with someone who’s counting zeros instead of heartbeats. Someone who doesn’t see me, doesn’t want to see me, beyond what I can give them. I want more. Hell, maybe that makes me a goddamn idiot. Maybe it makes me naive, even after years of living in this cutthroat, soulless world. But if holding onto that sliver of hope costs me my sanity, so be it. Better to lose my mind than lose the last shred of fucking dignity I have left.

Because I’ve seen what happens when you marry for the wrong reasons. I’ve watched people in this world waste away under the weight of their own choices, trapped in gilded cages of their own making. I’ve seen the quiet misery, the sharp bitterness in their eyes when they think no one’s looking. And I’ve seen how quickly the cracks form when there’s no love, no passion, no real fucking connection. No amount of money, no amount of power, is worth that kind of slow death.

I need a drink. I shove my way through the crowd, dodging handshakes and the kinds of forced conversations that make my teeth grind. I sidestep at least two gold-diggers who don’t seem to understand that a pointed glance and a polite nod aren’t fucking invitations. I just want a goddamn moment of peace, a stiff drink, and maybe a second to breathe without feeling like the walls are closing in.

I reach the bar, about to order a whiskey neat—something strong enough to dull the edges of this night—when I see her.

And fuck me, she’s beautiful.

Not in the generic, cookie-cutter way all the other women in this room are beautiful. Not in the “I spent three hours with a glam squad to make it look like I woke up like this” kind of way. No, she’s the kind of beautiful that knocks the wind out of you before you even realize it’s hit you. Copper hair that gleams under the low lights, cascading over one shoulder like a goddamn waterfall. A blue dress that clings to her in all the right places, the back open just enough to make a man forget how to fucking breathe. It’s the kind of dress that screams “look at me,” that practically demands attention. It’s bold, daring, and maybe a little dangerous.

And yeah, at first glance, she looks like every other fucking gold-digger in this room. The kind of woman who’s here to find herself a rich husband, to latch onto someone like me and bleed them dry with a smile on her face.

But then I see her eyes.

Grey. Stormy. Guarded.

There’s something in them that stops me dead in my tracks. Something that doesn’t belong in a room like this. It’s not the usual hungry, calculating look I’ve grown used to, the one that says, How much is he worth, and how fast can I get my claws into him? No, her eyes have something else in them—something real. A kind of depth, a flicker of defiance, like she’s daring anyone to underestimate her. Like she’s in on some cosmic joke the rest of us are too stupid to understand.

And that makes me pause.

Because I’ve seen every kind of woman this world has to offer. I know how they move, how they talk, how they fucking hunt. But this one? She doesn’t move like the rest of them. She doesn’t have that predatory edge, that veneer of practiced perfection. She’s poised, yeah, but there’s a sharpness to her, a subtle tension in the way she carries herself, like she’s ready to bolt if someone gets too close.

I lean against the bar, trying to ignore the way my pulse has picked up.

“Whiskey neat,” I tell the bartender, my voice gruffer than I intended.

I don’t look at her, not directly, but I can feel her presence next to me, like a fucking storm cloud rolling in. It’s magnetic, and it pisses me off because I don’t want to feel this way. Not here. Not now. Not about someone who’s probably just another goddamn actress in this never-ending performance.

But those eyes.

Those fucking eyes are going to be a problem.

I don’t know her. Never seen her at events like this, and trust me, I’ve seen my fair share of these goddamn gatherings. Which tells me one of two things: she’s either new to the game or she’s trying her hand at climbing a different fucking ladder tonight. Maybe she thinks she can move up a few rungs.

And honestly? She looks lost. Completely out of her depth. It’s written all over her—like she’s trying to blend in, but the edges don’t quite match. She’s standing there, clutching her drink like it’s a lifeline, her eyes darting around the room like she’s trying to figure out what the hell she’s doing here. She’s not talking to anyone, not even bothering to pretend to laugh at some rich asshole’s lame jokes.

That’s the thing about gold-diggers—they know how to play the fucking part. They’re practically born knowing the script: the easy smile, the soft laugh, the subtle head tilt that screams, I’m interested, but only if your bank account has a comma in it. But this one? She’s not playing the game. And that—fuck me—that catches my attention.

I tilt my head, studying her from the corner of my eye. On the surface, she could pass for one of them—the hair, the dress, the way she carries herself. It’s all there. But there’s something else underneath it. Something raw, unpolished. She’s shifting on her feet, her posture stiff, her movements awkward, like she’s waiting for someone to call her out and tell her she doesn’t belong. It’s almost endearing, in a way that pisses me off, because what the fuck is someone like her doing here if she’s so obviously out of place?

What the hell are you doing here? The question burns in the back of my mind. She’s clearly not one of us, not really. Which makes her either very brave or very fucking stupid.

And yeah, maybe she’s just another one of them, someone who’s new to the game and hasn’t figured out the rules yet. But I’ve been doing this long enough to know better. The way she holds herself, the way she looks around, it’s not calculated. It’s not rehearsed. If she’s a gold-digger, she’s a terrible one. And for some goddamn reason, I can’t stop looking at her.

I decide to make a move. Why not? I can handle a gold-digger. Hell, I’ve been handling them my entire fucking life. If she’s naive enough to think she can slide her way into the Beaumont world without knowing how to play the game, that’s her problem, not mine. Maybe I’ll toy with her a bit, keep her guessing. Hell, maybe I’ll take her back to my place for a night, scratch the itch, and then send her packing before she even realizes what the fuck happened.

Because that’s what I do. That’s how I keep things clean. No strings, no drama, no bullshit. Just a quick fuck, and then I’m out.

It’s not usually my M.O. I don’t make a habit of using people like that—well, not often, anyway. But tonight? Fuck it. She’s beautiful enough to justify the risk. That kind of beauty that sticks with you long after the night’s over. The kind that burns its way into your memory, no matter how much you drink to forget.

Still, I know better. Women like her—the ones who seem too good to be true—they’re always trouble. Beautiful trouble with curves that could ruin a man if he’s not careful. And maybe I’m bored enough tonight to let myself get a little ruined.

I approach her slowly, not rushing, because there’s no need to scare her off just yet. If she’s out of her depth, the last thing I want to do is tip her over the edge before I’ve had my fun. As I get closer, I notice the little things that confirm what I already suspected: she’s not comfortable. She’s not pretending to be at ease like the rest of the vultures circling this room. She’s stiff, uncertain, and every bit as lost as I first thought.

Good. That makes her a challenge.

I lean against the bar, ordering a drink without looking at her directly. No need to come on too strong. I expect her to ignore me, because that’s how it usually goes until I drop the fucking name. Until they realize who I am, I’m just another guy in a suit. But then her eyes flick to me, and fuck if I don’t feel it like a goddamn jolt straight to my chest.

She doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t even give me the polite, practiced glance I’ve come to expect. No, she just… looks at me. Hard. Like she’s trying to strip me bare with her gaze alone, and for some reason, it’s working.

Those eyes. Grey, stormy, sharp as broken glass. They’re fucking dangerous. There’s something in them I can’t place, something that doesn’t fit with the copper hair and the dress that’s designed to turn heads.

For the first time in a long time, I feel exposed. Like she’s peeling back all the layers I’ve spent my life perfecting, looking past the suits and the name and the money to something I didn’t even know was still there.

I take a sip of my whiskey, trying to play it cool, but it’s no use. Her stare is fucking with me, and I can’t shake it. I don’t like it, not one bit. I’m supposed to be the one in control, the one pulling the strings. But her gaze? It feels like a goddamn power move, and I can’t tell if she even knows she’s doing it.

Still, I don’t back down. I step closer, casual but deliberate, and her eyes stay locked on me. She’s not intimidated, not trying to flutter her lashes or look coy. She’s just watching, assessing, like she’s trying to decide if I’m worth her time or if I’m just another asshole in a suit.

It’s maddening. And yet, here I am, leaning in, ready to throw the first line.

“Here for Jameson Frett?” I ask, keeping my tone light, like I actually give a fuck about the fundraiser or the sleazy politician it’s for. I don’t. I just want an excuse to talk to her, to figure her out.

Because for the first time in a long time, someone’s got me curious. And that? That’s dangerous.

“Something like that,” she responds, and oh God, her voice is butter. It slides over me like velvet, warm and smooth, low and effortless. The kind of voice that makes you want to lean in just to hear more.

Yeah. Something like that. Something like getting a shot at a rich, stupid asshole who’s got more money than sense, who’ll smile and hand over cash like it’s candy. A guy like me. I’ve seen it a thousand times before—women like her don’t give a damn about anything except the bottom line.

I can feel it in her gaze. She’s sizing me up, playing a game, and I’m probably just another rich bastard she thinks she can use for a quick ride to the top.

Fuck. I’m not even sure if I hate it or find it pathetic. But I’m not stupid enough to get caught up in that kind of thing anymore. I’ve seen it all before—these women, they don’t want me. They want the life I can offer. The status, the power, the cash.

And yet, here I am. Engaged in this shitty little dance like a goddamn fool. So much for not playing the game.

“What’s your name?” I ask, fully expecting the usual—an elaborate story about how exciting her life is, the places she’s been, the people she knows. The kind of bullshit that gets her in with guys like me.

“Angie,” she says, and there’s no hesitation.

“Just Angie?” I ask, raising an eyebrow, my tone sharp. She shrugs, taking another sip of her drink like she doesn’t care either way.

“Just Angie. You?” she asks, as if she’s trying to make this whole thing sound casual.

“Then I’m just Albert. Albie, like my friends call it,” I say, waiting for the flicker of recognition in her eyes. The moment she realizes who I am—because that’s usually how this shit goes.

But she doesn’t react. No surprise there. She probably doesn’t connect the Albert with Beaumont, after all there’s a bunch of Alberts in the high social circle, she probably doesn’t care which one is it, she got one and now she’ll try to milk it like any good gold-digger

Her eyes stay steady on mine, unblinking, unflinching, like she couldn’t give less of a shit who I am. Bullshit. I know the type. She’s probably playing coy, holding back that spark of recognition until it’s more convenient for her—until she can whip it out like a fucking ace up her sleeve. That’s how it always works, isn’t it? You give them enough rope, and they hang you with it.

“Just Albie,” she repeats, like she’s rolling it around in her mouth to see how it tastes. Her lips quirk into the barest hint of a smirk, and I’ll be damned if it doesn’t hit me like a sucker punch to the gut. The kind of smirk that makes you wonder if she knows something you don’t. The kind that makes you want her to know something you don’t.

“Just Angie,” I echo, leaning back in my chair, trying like hell to look relaxed. The leather creaks under me, and the glass of bourbon in my hand feels too heavy, like it’s tethering me to the earth when all I want to do is float. Float the fuck away from this. From her. From the way her voice keeps curling around my brain like smoke.

“Just Angie,” she repeats, toying with the straw in her drink, her fingers delicate but deliberate. Everything about her is deliberate. The way her hair falls in waves over her shoulders, the way her blouse dips just low enough to keep my attention. She’s a fucking masterpiece of manipulation. And here I am, sitting front row, like a goddamn idiot.

“So, what do you do, Angie?” I ask, because I can’t stop myself. Because even though I know where this is going—where it always goes—I can’t seem to walk the fuck away.

She shrugs, her expression unreadable, and takes another sip of her drink. “This and that,” she says, her tone so casual it could’ve been air.

Oh, fuck you, lady. “This and that” is code for I’ll tell you what you want to hear if you flash enough cash. I know this game too well to fall for it. At least, that’s what I tell myself.

“Vague,” I say, my voice dripping with mockery. “Let me guess: You’re an influencer. Or an artist. Or, wait—wait—you’re a fucking entrepreneur, right? Some kind of self-made, world-changing visionary who’s just waiting for the next big break?”

She smiles at that, a small, lazy curve of her lips that shouldn’t be as devastating as it is. “I’m not that interesting,” she says, her tone flat but somehow cutting.

Jesus Christ, I hate her. I hate how she doesn’t even flinch, how she doesn’t give me the satisfaction of being ruffled. I hate how she makes me feel like I’m the one performing here, like I’m the one auditioning for her attention.

“Well, don’t sell yourself short,” I say, swirling the bourbon in my glass. “You seem like the ambitious type. Got that whole ‘mysterious woman with a plan’ thing going on.”

She leans forward, just enough to make me notice the line of her collarbone, the subtle curve of her neck. Fuck. “And you seem like the kind of guy who thinks he’s got it all figured out,” she says, her voice still that same buttered velvet, sliding under my skin like a razor wrapped in silk.

I laugh, sharp and bitter. “Oh, I do. Trust me, sweetheart, I’ve seen this movie before. I know exactly how it ends.”

She tilts her head, considering me like I’m some kind of puzzle she’s trying to solve. Or maybe like she already knows the answer and is just waiting for me to catch up. “Do you?” she asks, her voice soft but laced with something sharp. A challenge.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. That’s the problem with women like her—they don’t need to try hard to fuck you up. They just have to exist, to sit there and look like that and talk like that, and suddenly, you’re unraveling faster than you can catch yourself.

“I do,” I say, my voice harder now, more controlled. I drain the rest of my bourbon in one swallow, the burn grounding me, if only for a second. “But hey, don’t let me ruin the suspense. Let’s see where this little dance takes us.”

She smiles again, slow and deliberate, like she’s savoring every second of this. “Let’s,” she says, and for a moment, I can’t tell if she’s mocking me or agreeing with me. Maybe both. Probably both.

And just like that, I’m back in the fucking game.

The bartender drops another drink in front of me, unasked for but welcome, and I let it sit there for a moment. The amber liquid catches the dim light, a warm glow against the cold weight settling in my chest. What the fuck am I doing?

She’s not even trying to sell me a story, which somehow makes it worse. If she were spinning some bullshit about struggling through art school or how she’s just “between things” right now, I could tune it out. Laugh at it later. But she’s giving me nothing, and that blank slate is worse than any sob story. It’s like she’s daring me to fill in the gaps, to project all my shit onto her.

“Okay,” I say, leaning forward, my elbows on the table. I watch her eyes track the movement, and for a split second, I think I see something flicker there. Interest? Calculations? Fuck if I know. “So you don’t want to talk about what you do. Fine. Let’s talk about what you want.”

Her eyebrows lift, just slightly. “What I want?” she repeats, like the words are foreign to her. Her lips twitch, like she’s holding back a laugh, and God, I hate how that smile makes me feel like I’m the one out of my depth.

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging like it’s no big deal. Like this conversation isn’t clawing at me from the inside. “Everybody wants something. Especially when they’re sitting at a bar, drinking alone, and talking to strangers. So, Angie, what’s your angle?”

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she picks up her drink and swirls it in her hand, the ice clinking softly against the glass. Her nails are painted dark red—no chips, no imperfections. Another deliberate detail. Another piece of the puzzle I don’t really want to solve but can’t seem to stop staring at.

Finally, she looks at me, her gaze steady and unflinching. “What makes you think I have an angle?” she asks, her voice light but her eyes sharp.

Oh, come the fuck on. I laugh, leaning back in my chair and dragging a hand through my hair. “Because everybody has an angle. Especially here.”

“Oh I know that Albie.” she murmurs close to me, her scent doing reckless things in my mind. “But what if I don’t want to play the angle? What if I just want to lose the last name? Just tonight?”

Her words hang in the air between us, heavy and electric. “Lose the last name,” she said, like it’s the simplest fucking thing in the world. Like shedding the weight of privilege and expectations is as easy as slipping out of a pair of heels at the end of the night. Bullshit. No one just walks away from the game, not here. Not in a place like this.

But goddamn if the way she says it doesn’t send a thrill right down my spine. It’s a lie—of course, it’s a lie—but it’s a good one. The kind of lie you want to believe, even when you know better.

“Lose the last name, huh?” I murmur, leaning forward just enough that the air between us tightens. Her scent, something warm and faintly sweet, wraps around me like a noose, making it hard to think straight. She’s close, too close, and every alarm bell in my head is going off, screaming at me to back the fuck up. But I don’t.

“Just tonight,” she repeats, her voice softer now, almost a whisper. Her lips are curved in a way that’s not quite a smile, and her eyes… Jesus, her eyes are dangerous. They’re steady and sharp, like she’s sizing me up for something I haven’t even noticed I’m about to lose.

Fuck me.

“Alright,” I say, my voice low, playing along because what the hell else am I supposed to do? “Let’s pretend we’re just Angie and Albie. No angles, no bullshit. Just two people stuck in the same room, trying to make it through another night of…” I gesture vaguely around the room, my hand brushing against my glass. “...this fucking parade.”

Her snort catches me off guard. It’s not delicate or polite—no, it’s raw and a little too loud for this place, and for some reason, it feels honest in a way nothing else here does.

“God, no,” she says, shaking her head like I just asked her if she enjoys getting hit by a bus. Her hair catches the light as it shifts, tumbling over her shoulder like a goddamn shampoo commercial. “I hate these kinds of events. The fake smiles, the ass-kissing, the constant noise. I swear, it’s like people don’t know how to shut up unless they’re trying to suck the life out of you.”

Her words are harsh, almost too sharp, but the way she says them? It’s like she’s letting me in on a secret, like she’s peeling back a layer of her armor just enough for me to see the cracks underneath.

“And yet,” I say, tilting my head and letting a smirk curl onto my lips, “here you are.”

She doesn’t flinch. If anything, her expression hardens just a fraction, like she’s been expecting that jab. “Well, I’m not here for the company,” she says, lifting her glass and taking a slow sip.

“Oh, I can tell,” I shoot back, watching her over the rim of my own glass. “You look like you’d rather be anywhere else.”

Her lips quirk again, but this time there’s something different in her smile—something wilder, darker. Fuck. It’s like staring down a loaded gun.

“I’d rather be in good company,” she says, her voice dropping just enough to make my blood pressure spike.

There it is. The line. The bait. And like a fucking idiot, I bite.

“In good company,” I echo, swirling the bourbon in my glass, my eyes locked on hers. “So, what? You’re saying I might actually qualify?”

Her laugh is soft, almost teasing, and it crawls under my skin like static electricity. “I don’t know yet,” she says, cocking her head like she’s inspecting me. “What do you think, Albie? You think you’ve got what it takes?”

Jesus Christ. The way she says my name is a goddamn weapon, slicing through my defenses like they’re made of paper. I lean forward, closing the gap between us, and lower my voice just enough to match hers.

“I think you like playing games,” I say, my words deliberate, each one landing with the weight of a challenge. “And I think you’re used to winning.”

Her smile widens, slow and predatory, and for a split second, I swear the whole room fades out around us. “Maybe I am,” she says, her tone light but her eyes burning. “But here’s the thing, Albie—I don’t play games I can’t win.”

Fuck me.

The worst part? She’s not lying. I can see it in the way she holds herself, in the way her gaze doesn’t waver even for a second. She’s got that kind of confidence you don’t learn—you’re born with it, or you claw it out of the world with bloody hands.

But there’s something else in her eyes, something that makes me pause. It’s not just confidence. It’s hunger. And I’ve seen that kind of hunger before.

“I’ll give you credit,” I say, draining the last of my bourbon and setting the glass down with a satisfying thunk. “You’re good. Really fucking good. But I’m not the kind of guy who’s looking to get chewed up and spit out.”

Her eyes flick to my empty glass, then back to me, and she raises an eyebrow, like she’s daring me to walk away. “Maybe you’re not,” she says, her voice as smooth as the bourbon still burning in my throat. “But maybe you are. How about we find out?”

And just like that, I know I’m fucked.

Not in the usual way, either. This isn’t the kind of fucked where I know the playbook—where the gold-digger flashes her best fake smile, bats her lashes like a goddamn Disney princess, and acts like she’s been waiting her whole life to find a man like me. No, this is worse. This is unfamiliar territory, the kind of dangerous that feels like walking barefoot across broken glass just to see if you bleed.

She’s not like the others. No flirtatious giggles, no sugary compliments, no coy act to convince me I’m God’s gift to the goddamn Earth. She’s raw. She’s fucking real. And that? That makes me want to push her. Hard. To see where her breaking point is—or if she even has one.

And maybe that’s why I lean in, just a little, my voice dropping to something low and deliberate, sharp enough to cut. “I got a room upstairs,” I say, every word soaked in challenge.

I’m watching her like a hawk now, scanning for the usual tells. The flicker of greed in her eyes, the calculating smile, the subtle shift in her posture that says she’s already planning the next move. But nothing happens. Her cheeks flush, just barely—this faint, fucking delicious hint of pink that spreads over her skin like the first sign of a crack in the ice.

“It’ll be quieter than here,” I add, keeping my tone steady, like I’m stating a fact. Not asking. Not begging. Just throwing it out there to see what she does with it.

And she doesn’t do a goddamn thing. She just stands there, her eyes locked on mine, unwavering and unreadable. It’s maddening, the way she doesn’t react. No coquettish laugh, no smirk, no playful little “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t” bullshit. She just looks. Like she’s dissecting me from the inside out, deciding whether I’m worth the trouble or just another rich prick playing games.

And here’s the fucked-up part: I almost want her to say yes. I almost want to see how far she’ll take this, how deep she’ll go, how much she’ll let me unravel before she decides to pull the rug out from under me.

But at the same time, I’m not sure I’m ready for her answer.

“You barely know me,” she says finally, her voice soft, almost too soft for the weight of the moment. It’s not a question—it’s a statement, a warning, like she’s daring me to back the fuck off before things spiral out of control.

I let my eyes rake over her, slow and deliberate, lingering just a second too long in places I shouldn’t. I want her to feel it, to know I’m not playing. Fuck subtlety.

“I like what I know so far,” I reply, my tone cool, controlled, every word dripping with the kind of confidence I don’t entirely feel.

And there it is. That crack I’ve been waiting for. She blushes, fucking furiously, her lips parting in this sharp, involuntary gasp like I’ve just yanked the rug out from under her. It’s the first real reaction I’ve gotten out of her all night, and for a second—just a second—I feel like I’ve won.

But then she recovers, faster than I expected, her mask sliding back into place like it never slipped. Her eyes narrow just slightly, like she’s pissed at herself for letting me see that moment of vulnerability. Like she’s pissed at me for noticing.

“You’re playing with fire, Albie,” she says, her voice steady, but there’s a razor’s edge to it now, sharp enough to cut. Wrapped in silk, yeah, but dangerous as hell.

Perfect.

“Then let’s burn, Angie,” I murmur, my voice low, deliberate, fucking daring her to see this through. It’s a line, a taunt, and maybe the closest thing to honesty I’ve offered all night.

But here’s the thing—she’s just another gold-digger. That’s what I keep telling myself, anyway. An interesting one, sure, but it’s all the same bullshit. A game to win. A mystery to unravel. Another wild card in a deck full of predictable moves. Nothing a good, hard fuck in a hotel room won’t fix—strip away the shine, leave her in the pile with all the others. Back in my world, where everything’s clean, polished, and about as satisfying as drinking watered-down bourbon.

If she thinks she’s being clever with this “no names” routine, that’s on her. I’ve played this game a hundred times before, and I always come out on top. This? This isn’t going to be any different.

At least, that’s the lie I’m telling myself.

Because the truth is, she’s got me by the throat, and she doesn’t even fucking know it. The way she’s standing there, holding her ground, not falling all over herself to get a piece of the Beaumont name—it’s fucking intoxicating. Dangerous. The kind of dangerous that’s got me teetering on the edge, leaning in just to see how far I can fall before I hit the ground.

“Let’s burn, Albie,” she says back, her voice soft, almost shy, like she doesn’t realize what the fuck she’s doing to me.

And just like that, I’m gone.

Fucking gone.

I don’t even think about it. The second her words leave her lips, something inside me snaps, like a thread pulled too tight. Suddenly, nothing else fucking matters—this party, this charade, this whole goddamn gilded world I’ve built around myself. I reach out and grab her hand. Small. Warm. Real. Too fucking real. It’s the kind of touch that makes the rest of my world feel like a goddamn snow globe—perfect and untouchable, but hollow as hell.

Before I can stop myself, I’m pulling her with me, weaving through the crowd like a man on a mission. The fake-ass smiles, the champagne-fueled laughter, the clink of glasses—it all blurs into static. Background noise. Forgettable. Because all I can think about is her. Her hand in mine, her heels clicking against the polished floor as she keeps pace, the way she doesn’t ask where we’re going.

Fuck it. She’s the one thing here that feels real, and I’ll be damned if I let it slip away.

The elevator doors slide shut with a soft hum, sealing us off from the rest of the world. The air shifts, electric, heavy, charged with all the shit we haven’t said but don’t need to. I glance at her, and she’s looking back, her chest rising and falling like she’s just run a fucking marathon. And maybe she has—maybe we both have, sprinting away from whatever the hell this night was supposed to be.

I don’t even wait. The moment the doors close, I’m on her. My hands find her waist, pulling her against me, and I crash my lips into hers like it’s the only way to breathe. Goddamn. She tastes like bourbon and something darker, something reckless, something I know is going to fucking destroy me.

Her arms shoot up, wrapping around my neck, pulling me closer like she’s been waiting for this, and fuck if that doesn’t send me spiraling. I shove her back against the wall of the elevator, pinning her there, my body pressing into hers like I can’t get close enough. The cold metal behind her only makes her warmth that much more unbearable, and for a second, I swear I lose my grip on reality.

Her nails scrape against the back of my neck, sharp enough to sting, and it sends a bolt of heat straight down my spine. I groan against her mouth, my hands sliding lower, gripping her hips, pulling her tighter against me.

“Albie,” she gasps, breaking the kiss for just a second, her voice breathless, shaky, wrecked. And Jesus, the way she says my name—like it’s not just a name, like it’s a fucking promise—makes my knees damn near buckle.

“Don’t say it,” I growl, my lips brushing against hers as I speak. “Don’t make this complicated.”

Her laugh is quiet, almost a whisper, but there’s nothing soft about it. It’s sharp, biting, like she knows exactly what the fuck she’s doing to me. “What if I want it complicated?” she murmurs, her lips curving into a smirk that I can feel against my own.

Christ. She’s going to ruin me.

The elevator dings, the doors sliding open to reveal the hallway to my room, but I don’t move. Not yet. I’m too busy memorizing the way her lips feel against mine, the way her hands are fisting my shirt like she doesn’t want to let go.

Finally, I pull back, just enough to look at her, and fuck me, she’s gorgeous. Her hair’s a little mussed, her lips red and swollen, her eyes darker than they were five minutes ago. She looks like chaos, and I want to dive headfirst into it.

“Let’s go,” I say, my voice rough, and without waiting for a reply, I grab her hand again and lead her down the hallway.

I don’t know where this is going. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing. All I know is that I’m in too deep, and there’s no way I’m coming out of this unscathed.

And the worst part?

I don’t even care.

We barely make it through the door before her hands are in my hair, her mouth on mine, and Jesus fucking Christ, it’s like she’s trying to consume me whole. I kick the door shut behind us without looking, fumbling for the lock because the last thing I need is some asshole from the party walking in and ruining this.

Her lips are everywhere—my mouth, my jaw, the side of my neck—and when she nips at my earlobe, this sharp little bite, I lose it. A low, guttural sound escapes me before I can stop it, and I feel her smile against my skin like she knows exactly how far she’s pushing me.

“You think you’re in control here, don’t you?” I growl, grabbing her by the hips and spinning her around, shoving her back against the wall. My hands pin her in place, my body pressing into hers, and fuck me, the way she fits against me is almost too good.

Her breath hitches, but she doesn’t back down. Her nails dig into my shoulders, sharp and relentless, and she pulls me closer, like she’s trying to rip me apart piece by piece. “What if I am?” she whispers, her voice low, breathy, and fuck, she’s mocking me.

I laugh, harsh and bitter, dragging my mouth down the curve of her neck, leaving a trail of open-mouthed kisses that make her squirm. “Sweetheart,” I murmur against her skin, my voice rough and thick with heat, “you’ve got no fucking idea who you’re dealing with.”

Her laugh is soft, dangerous, and it lights me up from the inside out. “Then show me,” she says, her words brushing against my ear, and just like that, I’m done for.

I lift her up, her legs wrapping around my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and start carrying her toward the bed. She’s biting at my bottom lip, tugging just hard enough to make my head spin, and my hands are everywhere—her thighs, her back, the curve of her ass. I want all of her.

Her fingers tighten in my hair, yanking just enough to sting, and it’s like she knows exactly how to push my buttons. When I toss her onto the bed, she’s pulling me down with her, her legs tangling with mine, her lips brushing against my jaw as she lets out this breathless little laugh that makes my blood fucking boil.

“You always this bossy?” she teases, her voice shaky, breathless, like she’s trying so hard to hold onto that tough-as-nails act but slipping just enough to let me see what’s underneath.

“Only when I know what I want,” I growl, my hands already sliding down her sides, dragging over the smooth curve of her hips as I grip the hem of her dress and start tugging it up.

The fabric slides higher, revealing creamy thighs that look so soft they could fucking kill me, wide hips made to wreck a man’s focus, and an ass that’s nothing short of sinful. Round, firm, big and just begging for my hands, my teeth, my fucking everything.

I keep pushing the dress up, inch by inch, my breath coming harder as more of her is exposed, and holy fuck, it’s like she was carved out of every man’s darkest fantasies. Her flat stomach flexes under my touch, and before I can finish peeling the damn dress off, she lifts her arms, helping me rip it up and over her head like she can’t get out of it fast enough.

And then—Jesus Christ. Two perfect fucking tits bounce free, round and full with nipples so pink they look like they’ve been blushing for me this whole time, just waiting for my mouth, my tongue, my teeth.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter, my voice rough, practically guttural, as I drink her in. She’s sprawled out on the bed now, her hair a wild mess around her head, her chest heaving, and her body wrapped in nothing but a pair of silky black panties that look so delicate I could tear them off with one hand.

And I just might.

Fuck me. For a second, I just stare, taking her in, the way her body sprawls out across the bed, her skin flushed, her eyes dark and half-lidded as she watches me. There’s no shame in the way she’s laid out for me, no hesitation, and it’s enough to knock the air right out of my lungs.

I grip her thighs, spreading them just a little wider, and drag my hands over her curves, my palms kneading the soft flesh of her hips and ass. The heat of her body seeps into my skin, and I can feel the tension coiled in her muscles, the way she’s trembling just slightly beneath my touch.

Her breath catches when I lean down, dragging my mouth along the curve of her neck, tasting her skin. She’s warm and sweet, with a hint of salt, and every inch of her feels like fire under my lips. I keep going, lower and lower, leaving a trail of heat down her collarbone, her chest, until I’m closing my mouth over one of those perfect nipples.

She arches beneath me, her hands clutching at my shoulders, her nails scraping across my back hard enough to sting. The sound she makes—this sharp, breathless moan—shoots straight through me, and I grip her harder, pulling her hips against mine like I need to feel every part of her right fucking now.

The bed creaks louder now, protesting under the weight of our movement, under the fevered way her body wraps around mine like a vice. Her legs tighten at my waist, locking me in place, and fuck if that isn’t exactly where I want to be. My hands slide lower, greedy and rough, gripping her ass with enough force to make her gasp, pulling her closer like I’m trying to fuse us together.

Every part of her is fire. My mouth drags down her body, tasting her skin, leaving a trail of heat over her curves—her chest, her ribs, the soft dip of her stomach. She’s a fucking masterpiece, and she knows it. The way she trembles under my touch, the way her breath stutters every time I move lower—it’s like she’s daring me to lose my mind over her.

And goddamn it, I already have.

Her skin is creamy, perfect, flawless in a way that doesn’t seem fair. Soft in all the right places, her curves feel like they were sculpted to ruin men like me. Every kiss, every bite, every scrape of my teeth pulls another sound from her lips, these soft, breathless moans that only drive me harder, make me greedier.

The fire between us isn’t just consuming—it’s obliterating. It’s tearing me apart and putting me back together all at once, and I can’t fucking stop. My hands find the delicate strip of silk clinging to her hips—her last barrier, the only thing standing between us—and I don’t hesitate. My fingers hook into it, dragging the panties down her thighs, tossing them aside like they were nothing.

And then I see it.

Jesus fucking Christ.

A soft, perfectly trimmed patch of red hair, the same fiery copper as her head, sitting above the smoothest, most perfect pussy I’ve ever laid eyes on. Fuck me. She’s a natural redhead. A fantasy come to life, spread out on my bed like some fucking dream I’ve had since I was too young to know better.

Pink. Flushed. Perfect.

Her creamy skin catches the dim light, glowing like she’s been painted in heat, her thighs spreading just enough to make my mouth water. She’s slick, glistening, and it’s so fucking obscene I can barely think straight.

“Goddamn,” I mutter under my breath, my voice rough, guttural, like it’s been scraped raw. My hands slide up her thighs, spreading her wider, and holy fuck, she’s perfect. I don’t even bother trying to rein it in. My mouth is on her before I can think twice, tasting her, devouring her, drowning in the sweetness of her.

She cries out, her hands flying to my hair, tugging hard, but it only spurs me on. She’s addictive. Every sound she makes, every tremor in her thighs, every arch of her back—it’s like gasoline on the fire already raging inside me.

And there’s no fucking going back now.

“Albie…” she moans, her grey eyes locked on me, propped on her elbows so she can see me. “Fuck, you’re eating me so good. Do you like it?”

Oh fuck me, she’s a dirty talker kind of girl.

The moment her words hit me, it’s like a shot of adrenaline straight to my goddamn soul. Do I like it? Fuck, she has no idea. My tongue works over her like she’s the last thing I’ll ever taste, and maybe that’s true because nothing—nothing—could ever compare to this. She’s pure sin stretched out beneath me, trembling and fucking dripping, her voice a cocktail of breathless moans and filthy words that make me want to ruin her entirely.

“Do I fucking like it?” I growl against her, my voice muffled as I speak into her slick heat, my lips dragging over her in a way that makes her whole goddamn body shudder. I don’t give her a chance to answer because it’s not a question—it’s a fact. I’m obsessed. Addicted. She’s a fucking drug, and I’m already overdosing.

Her thighs clamp against the sides of my face, trembling like she’s holding on for dear life, and I just dig in harder, groaning against her skin like a feral fucking animal. My hands grip her hips, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks because I want her to feel this for days. Weeks. Hell, forever.

Her voice cracks when she cries out again, head tipping back, her red hair a wild halo against my pillows, her tits heaving as her body arches. She’s fucking divine, every inch of her—every curve, every moan, every goddamn breath she takes—is driving me deeper into some primal, fucked-up part of myself I didn’t even know existed.

“Albie,” she gasps, and fuck, the sound of my name coming out of her mouth like that does things to me I can’t even put into words. Her fingers twist in my hair, yanking hard enough to sting, but I don’t care. I fucking love it. I want her to tear me apart if that’s what gets her off.

“Yeah, baby?” I rasp, dragging my tongue over her slick, swollen clit before sucking it into my mouth just to watch her lose her fucking mind. She cries out, back bowing, hips bucking into my face, and I grab her harder, holding her down. “Tell me. Say it again. Fucking tell me how much you love this.”

Her breath hitches, and she’s panting now, her thighs shaking, her chest flushed a delicious shade of pink that spreads to her neck and cheeks. Her grey eyes lock on mine again, and they’re wild, desperate, like she’s on the edge of falling apart.

“I love it,” she chokes out, her voice breaking on a whimper, and Jesus fucking Christ, I think I might come just from hearing her say it. “I love it so much. Please—fuck—don’t stop.”

Her begging does something to me, something primal and fucked-up that makes me double down, dragging my teeth lightly over her clit just to watch her fall apart. And she does. Fucking spectacularly. Her body goes tight, every muscle locking up, and then she’s coming, a scream ripping from her throat that’s so goddamn raw it almost makes me proud.

“Good girl,” I growl against her, not letting up, not giving her a chance to come down as I fuck her through it with my mouth. She’s sobbing now, her hands clawing at my shoulders, my hair, anything she can grab, and I eat it up—literally and figuratively. Every sound, every movement, every second of her unraveling is fuel to the fucking fire burning inside me.

“Albie,” she whimpers again, barely able to form the word, her body still twitching as aftershocks ripple through her. And fuck me if it doesn’t just make me want more. I pull back, licking my lips, tasting her on me as I look up at her flushed, dazed face.

“Do I like it?” I repeat, my voice dripping with amusement and raw hunger as I crawl up her body, letting her feel the full weight of me pressing her down. My lips brush against her ear, and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face. “Baby, I’m fucking starving. And you’re not even close to ready for what I want to do next.”

“Yeah?” she breathes, her legs still spread wide, her face a gorgeous, fucked-out mess. Her red hair spills around her like a goddamn wildfire, and her lips—swollen, parted, begging—curl into the faintest smirk. That smirk is dangerous. It’s a fucking weapon, and it’s aimed straight at what little self-control I have left.

“You’re gonna let me see your cock, baby?” she teases, her voice a mix of breathless and sinful, and fuck me, I’m done.

My hands are already on my belt, fumbling like a fucking maniac. “You want to see my cock?” I rasp, yanking the leather strap free with a sharp snap and throwing it to the floor without a second thought. My zipper follows, the sound loud in the heated silence of the room. “You’re gonna do a hell of a lot more than just fucking see it.”

Her eyes drop immediately, locking onto the growing bulge straining against my boxers, and her tongue darts out to wet her bottom lip. Goddamn, she looks like she wants to eat me alive. The thought alone makes my cock twitch, and when her gaze flicks back up to mine, there’s a glint of something wicked in those stormy grey eyes. She fucking knows what she’s doing to me.

“Show me,” she whispers, her voice husky and full of challenge, and fuck me sideways, I don’t even hesitate. I shove my pants down, kicking them off with zero finesse, and let my boxers follow.

Her sharp inhale is like gasoline on the inferno raging inside me. Her eyes go wide, lips parting as she takes me in, and the fucking silence stretches so long I almost lose my goddamn mind.

“Jesus Christ,” she finally breathes, her voice barely above a whisper, her cheeks flushing even redder as her gaze stays locked on my cock. “You’re fucking huge, Albie. Like… fuck.”

My lips curl into a smug, feral grin as I step closer to the bed, letting her get a good, up-close look. “You think you can handle it, baby?” I taunt, my voice low, rough, dripping with cocky amusement. “Because once I’m inside you, I’m not stopping until I’ve ruined every other cock for you. You’ll fucking belong to me.”

Her legs twitch, spreading even wider in invitation, and the way her chest rises and falls—fast and uneven—tells me she’s just as wrecked as I am. “Try me,” she dares, her voice trembling with both defiance and lust, and that fucking wicked smirk is back, taunting me. Daring me. Fucking undoing me.

“You’re playing with fire,” I growl, crawling onto the bed, looming over her as I grab her wrists and pin them above her head. My cock brushes against her stomach, smearing precome on her skin, and her sharp intake of breath sends a shiver straight down my spine. “You sure you want to do this, Red? Because once I’m in, I’m not fucking letting go.”

Her breath hitches, her thighs clenching tighter around my hips, her entire body arching up into me like she’s desperate to feel every inch of me against her. “I’ve wanted this since the moment I saw you,” she whispers, her voice trembling, a perfect blend of hunger and defiance. Her grey eyes lock on mine, blazing like molten fucking steel, daring me to give her everything I’ve got. “Now stop fucking talking and show me what that cock can do.”

That’s it. That’s the goddamn trigger.

A growl rips from my chest, low and guttural, as I reach down, my cock throbbing against her slick, soaked heat. The temptation to just push in—raw and reckless—is fucking overwhelming, but I’m not a goddamn idiot. No matter how perfect she looks sprawled out beneath me, flushed and dripping and fucking desperate, I know better. Girls like her don’t just fall into your lap without a price. Gorgeous redhead with a mouth like sin and a body made for worship? Yeah, it’d be stupid as hell not to play this smart.

I reach over to the bedside drawer, grabbing a condom, tearing the wrapper open with my teeth while keeping my gaze locked on her. She lets out a needy little whimper, her hips rolling up into me as her thighs tremble, but I just smirk, cocky as hell. Her frustration is fucking delicious.

“You’re such a fucking tease,” she hisses, her hands gripping my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin.

I roll the condom on with practiced ease, the rubber stretching tight over my cock, and glance down at her. “Patience, baby,” I murmur, my voice low and rough, every word dripping with amusement. “If you want me to ruin you, we’re doing this my way.”

Her grey eyes narrow, her lips curling into a sly, dangerous grin that makes my blood fucking boil. “Your way, huh?” she teases, her voice practically purring as her nails rake down my chest, leaving faint red lines. “You think you’re in charge here?”

I press the head of my cock against her entrance, just barely pushing in, and her entire body jolts, a sharp gasp escaping her lips. “That’s cute,” I growl, my voice dripping with cocky arrogance as I grind against her, letting her feel the size of me, slicking myself with her wetness. “You can pretend all you want, but we both know who’s calling the shots.”

Her breath comes in short, frantic gasps, her thighs trembling as she writhes beneath me, her body begging for more even as her lips twist into a smirk. “Quit fucking around,” she snaps, her voice sharp, needy, her nails biting into my skin. “You’re driving me fucking crazy, Albie. Just fuck me already.”

“Not until you beg for it,” I snarl, my grip on her hips tightening as I hold her in place, teasing her with slow, deliberate movements that make her whimper and squirm. “If you want this cock, you’re gonna have to earn it, Red.”

Her head falls back against the pillows, a frustrated growl escaping her lips as she arches up into me. “You’re such a fucking asshole,” she mutters, her voice shaky, but there’s no missing the heat in her gaze when she looks back up at me.

“And you fucking love it,” I taunt, pushing in just enough to stretch her before pulling back, grinning when she moans in frustration. “Now say it. Beg me to fuck you. Beg me to make you mine.”

She stares up at me, her grey eyes wild, desperate, her lips trembling as she sucks in a shaky breath. “Please,” she finally whispers, her voice cracking as her nails rake down my back, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. “Please, Albie. Fuck me. I need you. I need your cock. Please.”

“Good girl,” I growl, and without another second of hesitation, I slam into her, burying myself to the hilt in one brutal thrust.

Her scream tears through the room, raw and guttural, her entire body locking up as her pussy clenches around me like a vice. “Holy fucking shit,” I hiss, my head dropping to her shoulder as I grind deep inside her, savoring the way she stretches to take me. “You’re so goddamn tight, Red. So fucking perfect. You feel like heaven.”

“Fuck,” she sobs, her voice shaking, her legs wrapping around my waist to pull me impossibly deeper. “You’re so big, Albie. You’re fucking huge. I can feel you—oh god, I can feel you everywhere.”

“Yeah?” I rasp, pulling back just enough to slam into her again, harder this time, making her cry out. “You like that, baby? You like the way I fill you up? You like being stretched open by this cock?”

“Yes,” she screams, her nails digging into my back as her hips buck up to meet mine. “Yes, fuck, I love it. Don’t stop. Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

I pick up the pace, driving into her like a man possessed, the sound of her moans and the wet slap of skin on skin fueling the fire burning in my chest. Her body is perfect beneath me, soft and warm and trembling, and the way her pussy grips me—tight and wet and fucking perfect—makes me feel like I’m losing my goddamn mind.

“You’re mine,” I growl, my voice low and rough as I bury myself to the hilt, grinding deep inside her. “This pussy is mine. Say it, Red. Say you fucking belong to me.”

“I’m yours,” she gasps, her voice breaking as her head falls back against the pillows, her red hair a wild, tangled mess. “I’m yours, Albie. I fucking belong to you.”

“Good girl,” I snarl, slamming into her harder, faster, as her moans grow louder, more desperate. “Now come for me. Come all over my cock like the filthy little slut you are.”

And when she does—her scream echoing through the room, her body convulsing around me, her nails digging into my shoulders like she’s trying to anchor herself to reality—I know I’ve fucking won.

Her pussy clenches around my cock so tight it’s almost fucking unbearable, her wetness dripping down onto my thighs as I keep pounding into her, relentless, brutal, driven by the raw, animalistic need to wring every last drop of pleasure out of her. She’s wrecked—completely fucking ruined—and the way she’s moaning, sobbing my name between gasps of air, tells me she doesn’t give a single fuck that I’m not the prettiest bastard in the room.

My gut moves a little with every thrust, a sharp reminder of all the late-night beers and shit food that make up my not-so-glamorous life, but does she care? Hell fucking no. She’s too far gone, too busy gasping and moaning and trembling beneath me, her legs locked around my waist like she doesn’t want me to stop.

But that’s her deal, right? She doesn’t care who’s fucking her, as long as it feels good and she thinks she’ll get something out of it. I see it all so fucking clearly now. She’s not here because she’s into me—not really. She’s here because she thinks I’m a payday. A ticket to something bigger. And when morning comes, when the haze of orgasms and sweat has cleared, she’ll lie there, looking smug as fuck, thinking she’s scored goddamn gold.

The thought makes me slam into her even harder, my fingers digging into her hips so rough I know she’ll bruise. “Take it,” I snarl through gritted teeth, the words spilling out before I can stop them. “Take every fucking inch. You wanted this, didn’t you? Now you’re getting it.”

Her head tips back, a guttural moan ripping from her throat as her nails scrape down my back. “Fuck, yes,” she cries, her voice hoarse and raw. “Don’t stop, Albie. Don’t you fucking dare stop.”

Her words are a fucking ego trip, a hit of pure adrenaline that makes me feel like a goddamn king. But even as I give her exactly what she’s begging for—pounding into her so hard the bedframe rattles against the wall—I can’t shut off the voice in the back of my head. She doesn’t care about you. That’s the fucking truth, isn’t it? She doesn’t care about the man inside her, the one who’s sweating and grunting and giving her the best fuck of her life. All she cares about is what she can take.

The realization doesn’t make me stop. Hell, if anything, it makes me go harder. If she’s here to take something, I’m gonna make her fucking earn it.

“You like that, Red?” I growl, my voice low and rough as I lean down, my breath hot against her ear. “You like being fucked like this? You like being used?”

Her moans grow louder, her hips bucking up to meet mine as she gasps, “Yes, Albie, fuck—yes. Use me. Fucking use me.”

Jesus Christ, she’s into it. Of course she is. Girls like her—they want it dirty. They want it rough. They want to feel like they’re being destroyed, like they’re losing themselves in it. And maybe that’s all this is—a goddamn transaction where I get her body and she gets… whatever the fuck she’s after.

But fuck it. If that’s the game, I’m playing to win.

I grab her thighs, pushing them back, folding her in half as I drive into her harder, deeper, making her scream. “You’re mine right now,” I snarl, my voice a feral growl as I watch her fall apart beneath me. “You get that? This pussy is mine. You don’t get to keep it, but for now, you’re gonna fucking give me everything.”

“Yes!” she screams, her body shaking as another orgasm rips through her, her pussy clenching around me so tight it’s like she’s trying to pull me deeper. Her head tips back, her red hair wild and messy against my sheets, her grey eyes fluttering shut as she rides the wave of it.

And for a second—a single fucking second—I almost believe it. I almost believe that moan, that scream, that trembling body beneath me is real. That she’s here for me. But then the thought creeps back in, cold and sharp: She doesn’t want you. She wants what you can give her.

It doesn’t stop me. It doesn’t fucking matter. If she wants to use me, I’ll use her right back. That’s the deal we’ve made, whether she realizes it or not. She gets her gold, and I get her fucking soul.