Chapter 67
Gen
Anton insisting I’m his girlfriend is one thing.
Anton insisting I accompany him as his date to the Serpentine Gallery’s summer party is quite another.
This annual shindig is one of the highlights of the British social calendar.
It’s full of fashion, art and finance types with a healthy sprinkling of celebrities and the necessary journalists and photographers you’d expect.
It doesn’t surprise me to hear that Anton gets an invitation each year—the time I’ve spent at his house over the past couple of weeks tells me this guy likes his art and spends big.
He got into an impassioned discussion with Belle at Zach’s barbecue on this very topic. She works at Liebermann’s, the high-end gallery in Mayfair, and it turns out Anton knows her boss pretty well. He’s also a patron of the Serpentine Gallery. Has been for years, apparently.
And so, I find myself on his arm celebrating the gallery’s current installation—there’s a new one every summer. I’ve dressed for the occasion in a pale pink one-shouldered gown, with my hair in loose curls.
Just the way he likes it.
I would have expected Anton to get plenty of attention at an event like this, but the sheer quantity of females who fawn over him, and their persistence, is pretty jaw-dropping. It’s like I’m not here.
I know he’s a bit of a social media hottie. I know from my TikTok stalking before he joined Alchemy that there’s an abundance of Anton Wolff edits and that he has his own hashtag.
#Bigbadwolff, if you’re wondering.
I don’t blame any of his fans. He’s the world’s most gorgeous man, especially tonight in a custom tuxedo.
There is no denying he’s the full package.
Not only is he a physical specimen to die for, with his height, and broad shoulders, and gorgeous looks, and athletic physique, but his bank balance will always be attractive to some people.
As will his intelligence and business acumen.
Above all, though, the women who flock to say hi and introduce themselves and ask for selfies, whether they’re fans or groupies or gold-diggers, are attracted to the same thing I am.
That Big fucking Dick Energy.
He exudes raw masculinity. Power. Entitlement—in the hottest possible way. Sexuality. Dominance. It’s as much the essence of who Anton Wolff is as his brown eyes, and it’s magnetic.
He keeps me close. Introduces me to everyone as my girlfriend, Genevieve. And only lets go of my hand when I have to play photographer to him and his groupies.
Their interruptions range from the polite—I’m so sorry to bother you, Mr Wolff, but could I—to the obnoxious—Anton! Hi! We met at Silverstone, remember? Mwah!
Yes. That’s the sound of an unwanted air kiss.
An astonishingly beautiful, Mediterranean-looking woman sashays over and proceeds to completely zone me out.
‘Anton,’ she says, swatting him playfully on the arm. ‘You promised me drinks weeks ago when I bumped into you at Nobu! Where have you been hiding?’
What happened to the sisterhood? I wonder idly. It’s clear we’re together. He has his fucking arm around me. But I suppose when it comes to men as gorgeous and as eligible as Mr Wolff here, there is no sisterhood. Because the prize is too dazzling.
The stakes are too high.
Anton smiles thinly in my peripheral vision. ‘Hi, Raffaela. No can do, I’m afraid. I’ve been spending every free second I have with my girlfriend, Genevieve.’
He squeezes me more tightly, and I swear the woman shoots me a death stare before bidding Anton the hastiest farewell in history and flouncing off.
Not that I can blame her, or any of his other hangers-on. Because I’m smitten too. Tonight I’m a swooning fangirl. I’m everything I swore I wouldn’t be when I first laid eyes on him. When he knocked the air right out of my lungs with the sheer power of his presence.
Gazing at him is one of my favourite things. Drinking him in. Letting my eyes wander over his gorgeous face. His huge body encased in tailored perfection. Seeing if I can make him smile, or laugh, so those dimples play peekaboo just for me.
Everyone wants a piece of him tonight. But I’m the one who gets to go home with him, and undress him, and let him fuck me senseless. And I simply don’t know how I got so lucky.
It fucking terrifies me.
This is why I held out for so long with Anton. Not because I wasn’t desperate for him—like everyone else in London, it seems—but because I knew how terrifying it would be to allow myself this level of intimacy without him potentially hurting me.
It’s like standing on a precipice in a fucking gale as the treacherous sea rages far below me.
Exhilarating and petrifying in equal measure.
Even more petrifying is what I want to say to him. How easy it would be to whisper three little words that encompass the depth of my feelings for him.
Because this man is everything. He’s already my whole world.
I stretch my neck and put my mouth to his ear during a lull in the lines of women flocking to him. But I don’t say those words, because a girl has to have some means of self-preservation. Instead, I whisper something else I know will be music to his ears.
‘I wish I was sucking you off right now,’ I tell him, slipping a hand under the lapel of his jacket and enjoying the hard heat of his stomach muscles as they contract under my palm at my words. At his sharp intake of breath.
I pause to smile demurely at someone who waves at us—but more likely Anton—as she passes. ‘I wish I could get your beautiful cock out right here and worship it. I wish you could shove me to my knees and fist all my hair up and fuck my mouth till I choked on your dick.’
‘Jesus Christ, sweetheart,’ he grits out. He turns his head so our lips are touching and slides his hand under my hair, getting a firm hold on my neck. ‘You little fucking beauty. I’d pull your hair so hard and fuck that mouth till you were begging for mercy.’
‘I know you would,’ I whimper. It’s not the warmest night, but my entire body is flooding with heat.
A pulse pounds between my legs as I imagine it.
Anton looks a million dollars right now, but I’m the only one who gets to enjoy the animal concealed beneath all this finery and charm and civilised conversation, and I want him desperately.
I want to unleash my beast.
‘I want this eye makeup all smeared,’ he tells me. ‘Lipstick all over my cock. I want you taking every inch of me, and doing everything I say, and then I’ll fuck you so hard you won’t know your own name.’
I claw at his stomach through his starched shirt. ‘Do it,’ I tell him. ‘You can do whatever you want to me. You know you can. You know I trust you.’
He pulls back slightly and his hungry gaze flicks up from my mouth to my eyes.
Those words are his kryptonite.
God knows, the poor man waited long enough to hear them, so now I tell him as often as I can. I green-light him and his peculiar, amazing, beautiful appetites whenever I get the chance.
He licks his lips, and I think he’s going to say something utterly filthy, but then he drags his thumb over my jaw. ‘To have earned your trust, sweetheart, is all I could ever ask for,’ he says. ‘I’m serious.’ His brown eyes are warm and dark and filled with emotion.
We stand there in the fading sunlight, surrounded by a throng of people, by the heady chords of soft jazz, as our faces tell each other things our voices aren’t ready for yet.
I want to burrow inside his jacket and wrap both arms around his waist and press my face to his chest for the rest of the evening.
Then he shifts. Stiffens. ‘Fuck.’ He mutters it under his breath.
‘What?’ I ask against his lips.
‘It’s those Rapture dicks,’ he says.