The Billionaire's Game

I woke up the next morning feeling deliciously sore between my thighs, my body heavy and exhausted with the vivid, dirty memories of the pool. The phantom sensation of his thick, hard cock stretching me out and claiming me so completely still lingered deep in my muscles. I let out a soft groan and stretched out across the expansive, luxurious mattress, my hand blindly searching for the warm, solid mass of the man who had ruined me so thoroughly. Instead, my fingers met nothing but crisp, high-thread-count cotton.

The other side of the bed was completely empty, and when I pressed my palm flat against the sheets, they were cold.

I sat up quickly, clutching the thick white duvet to my bare chest. Gideon, my wildly expensive, incredibly talented gigolo, had vanished into thin air. I scanned the nightstand, half-expecting to see a scribbled note, a business card, or even just a careless goodbye scrawled on hotel stationery. There was absolutely nothing.

A sharp spike of genuine annoyance flared deep in my chest, instantly followed by a ridiculous, completely unjustified sting of disappointment. What did I honestly expect? That the man I hired to literally fuck the heartbreak and betrayal out of me would stick around to cuddle in the morning light? He was a professional. A breathtakingly gorgeous, highly skilled sex worker who had delivered exactly the service I paid for.

But still. A little 'you were amazing, baby, let's do it again' wouldn't have killed him, right?

Was I seriously lying here considering saving up months of my meager salary just to afford another night with him? The thought bloomed in my mind like a pathetic, desperate weed. I angrily swatted the thought away, forcefully kicking the tangled covers off my legs and forcing myself out of bed. "Pull yourself together, Tessa," I muttered under my breath, my bare feet hitting the plush carpet. "He does this for a living."

Wrapping a fluffy white hotel robe around my deliciously bruised body, I wandered out into the living area of the penthouse. I stopped dead in my tracks.

Spread out on the massive glass dining table was a lavish, royal-tier breakfast spread. Silver cloches, crystal juice pitchers, and delicate porcelain cups holding steaming, aromatic coffee. I found a small, cynical consolation in the sheer extravagance he had ordered before making his silent, sneaky exit. My stomach gave a loud rumble. If I was going to be abandoned like a used toy, I might as well eat like a queen. I sat down and devoured golden, buttery pastries, perfectly poached eggs, and exotic fruits that probably cost more than my entire weekly grocery budget.

After eating my fill, I dragged myself into the massive bathroom and indulged in the five-star shower he'd left behind for me to use. The water pressure alone was a religious experience. I stood under the cascading streams of scalding water for a long time, letting the multiple jets massage my tired, sore muscles, washing away the sticky reminders of his explosive release and the lingering scent of his spicy cologne.

After enjoying the unbridled luxury of the penthouse for an entire hour, reality finally came crashing back down. I couldn't exactly show up to my job at a high-end bridal boutique wearing the scandalous, wrinkled party dress from last night. My phone was dead, my pride was slightly bruised, but my bills were still very much due.

I left the hotel and stopped at a nearby, affordable shop down the street, buying a fresh, cheap pair of jeans and a simple, comfortable blouse. They were a massive downgrade from the silk and lace of the night before, but they would have to do.

I dragged myself to work, pushing open the heavy glass doors of the bridal boutique. My mind was still completely tangled in the messy sheets of the penthouse, endlessly replaying the harsh, demanding thrusts that had pushed me over the edge. I was completely unprepared for the impossible sight waiting for me inside the shop.

My handbag slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, hitting the polished floor with a dull thud.

Standing right there in the middle of the boutique, looking polished, devastatingly handsome, and utterly shameless in a sharply tailored, dark charcoal suit, was Gideon. He looked like money. Real, old money. Not a gigolo who charged by the hour.

"What are you doing here?" I blurted out, my voice pitching up in sheer, unadulterated panic. I frantically checked over my shoulder to see who was watching.

He turned toward me, sliding his hands smoothly into his trouser pockets, flashing a lazy, predatory grin that made my pulse jump. "Missed you, babe."

"Don't call me that," I hissed, my face flushing hot as I glanced around the pristine showroom, terrified someone would overhear. Before I could launch into tearing him apart for leaving me alone in the hotel like a cheap, discarded delivery order, the back room door swung open.

My boss, Mrs. Higgins, abruptly appeared. She was practically vibrating with nervous excitement, her hands clasped tightly together in front of her chest, her eyes wide. She loudly announced to the entire floor, her voice echoing off the crystal chandeliers, that our incredibly important, VIP client, Mr. Vandermere, had specifically insisted that I personally help him buy a wedding dress.

I stared dead into Gideon's amused, sparkling gray-blue eyes, my jaw practically hitting the floor. Vandermere? Important VIP client?

I realized in a horrifying flash that he was entirely screwing with me. He was extending his fake, high-society role into my actual, painfully boring real life. And there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.

Forced into compliance by my boss's glaring, expectant presence—she looked like she might physically tackle me if I offended this supposed billionaire—I plastered on a fake smile.

What followed was pure, unadulterated torture. I spent twenty agonizing minutes dragging heavy silk, layers of stiff tulle, and beaded bodices out of the racks. My arms ached from the weight of the massive gowns. I presented option after option, laying them out carefully on the velvet viewing couches, highlighting the delicate lace appliqués and the intricate corsetry.

And he rejected every single one.

He did it casually, arrogantly, dismissing a ten-thousand-dollar gown with a negligent flick of his wrist, just to watch me squirm and carry the heavy fabrics back and forth across the showroom.

"And this one?" I asked through gritted teeth, holding up a sleek, mermaid-style gown. I was wearing a forced, sickeningly sweet mask of professionalism while mentally stabbing his perfectly sculpted chest with the plastic hanger in my hand.

He stepped close, entirely ignoring the physical boundaries of a normal client-employee interaction. He took the delicate fabric from my hands, holding the dress flush against my body. His dark eyes roamed slowly, heavily down my figure, visually undressing me right there in the middle of the boutique. The air between us crackled with an intense, highly inappropriate sexual tension.

"I'm trying to decide here…" he declared loudly enough for my boss's eager ears. Then, he suddenly leaned in, his mouth brushing just millimeters from my ear. He dropped his voice to a wicked, raspy whisper meant only for me. "Whether you look prettier when you're mad… or when you're coming."

My face burned scarlet. The explicit memory of his hard thrusts plunging deep inside me flashed instantly through my mind. My core tightened involuntarily.

I took a sharp, frantic step back, nearly tripping over the hem of the gown.

"Gideon," I whispered furiously. "Do you actually want a dress, or did you just come here to completely ruin my life?"

He tilted his head thoughtfully, tapping his strong chin with one long finger as if genuinely weighing the options. "Both."

I glared at him, my fingernails digging deeply into my palms. Pushing my fraying patience right off a cliff, he arrogantly demanded to see my absolute favorite piece in the entire store. He refused to look at anything else.

Reluctantly, I turned my back on him and marched over to the locked glass display case at the very back of the boutique. My hands were shaking slightly as I unlocked it and pulled out an iconic, ridiculously expensive Atelier Valois gown. It was a masterpiece of flawless, shimmering silk, draped with such precision that it looked like liquid moonlight. I hauled it over to him, bracing myself for another sarcastic provocation or immediate rejection.

I held it up by the padded silk hanger.

He didn't make a snide comment. He looked at the flawless, shimmering silk, his demeanor suddenly shifting. He lifted his eyes to look at me with striking, heavy intensity.

"I'll take this one."

I blinked, my arms dropping slightly under the weight of the gown. "Excuse me?"

"I'll take this dress."

My stomach twisted with sudden, deep suspicion. A gigolo—even a high-end, luxury one—could not afford an Atelier Valois gown. The math wasn't mathing. Even if he saved every penny from every lonely woman he serviced, this dress was astronomical.

"For what?" I demanded, the confusion making me forget my customer service voice completely.

He arched a dark, perfectly shaped brow, smiling playfully as if it were the dumbest question he had ever heard in his entire life.

"For my fiancée." He stated it casually, loud and clear. He tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Or do you think people buy wedding dresses just to go for a stroll in the park?"

My brain entirely melted. The words hit me like a runaway freight train, knocking the wind right out of my lungs.

"You're engaged?!"

Oh, shit. My blood ran ice cold.

I'd slept with a taken man? The realization crashed violently over me. A massive knot formed thick in my throat, choking off my air as crushing guilt clawed viciously through my chest. I felt physically sick, my stomach churning with pure horror. I had just eagerly fucked another woman's future husband, and now I was standing here, holding her wedding dress.