Chapter 32 Fitz
FITZ
“For the record,” Winnie says when her dad opens the door and I see her standing there, “I am not trying to one-up your gift. I was going to go to your office and give you these pastries.”
“Free desserts—”
“Don't!” Winnie holds the box away.
“Fine, free dessert.” I lean in and kiss her.
“No, I mean—”
I kiss her again.
“Fidget will want some.”
Fidget drools at her feet.
“Fidget's supposed to be on a diet.”
Was that roast beef sandwich part of the diet plan? I silently communicate to the dog.
She looks away.
I run my fingers along the neckline of the black dress. “I knew you'd look good in that, Creampuff. Whoa!” I squint as a bright flash goes off.
“Smile, you kids!” Her dad adjusts the camera lens. “Winnie, this is like a do-over for prom. April, get her a corsage!” He snaps more photos.
“Sorry.” Winnie sighs. “We have quite the audience.”
“Let me fix you a drink, Fitz!” Her dad beams at me.
“Goddamn, Mark, the man has a plan. Why you always trying to cockblock people?” Frances waves her arms at her son. “Let them go on their date.”
I drape the fur cape around Winnie's shoulders, letting my fingers trail along her neck.
Her family watches like we're going off for a month-long honeymoon.
“God, they're exhausting,” Winnie complains when the front door closes behind us.
“I think your family is cute, Creampuff.” I open the car door for her.
I pull out into the street, the headlights brightly illuminating the house across from hers where I watched her fuck herself with that toy.
There's a sick thrill I'm getting from being the perfect gentleman, all while she has no idea that she's sitting next to the man who fucked her senseless then came all over her like she was a dirty little cum slut.
Except for whoever was there last night.
A scowl darkens my face.
It's enough to calm the hard-on I’m getting.
She's looking in the rearview mirror.
“Looking for someone?”
“N—no, just making sure my parents aren't following us.” She turns around.
“Are they worried?” I take her hand, bringing it to my mouth to kiss it.
The traffic light turns green.
“They can't be concerned about me, can they?”
“No, they love you. They want you to be their son-in-law,” she admits.
“That so?” I run my fingers up the creamy skin of her thigh. “Well, we are at that age where I guess we need to come clean about our hopes for a relationship.”
“Look at us pretending to be responsible adults,” Winnie huffs. “Anyways, you probably just want to sleep around, have fun.”
“Maybe about as much as you want to be in hustle culture a hundred hours a week.”
“Look, we barely know each other. We've kissed a few times—” she begins.
And yet I know you more than you think.
“We can't be talking about marriage. That's crazy.”
“You can't flag the unrealistic aspect. It kills the magic of the romance, Creampuff.” I park in front of my tallest, more impressive tower. It has hotels, coworking space, and luxury condos.
After tossing the keys of my sports car to the valet, I escort her into the elevator that whisks us up to the bar at the top of the roof. “I closed it down—just the two of us.”
“I'd give you a lecture about conspicuous displays of consumption, but if you hadn't, I'm sure my entire family would be booking a table to gawk at us.”
The table is set for us. Candles flicker in the wind.
“So”—I pour her wine after helping her into her seat—“how's the wedding planning coming?”
“Ugh, Loony Laura.” She drains her wineglass.
“That bad, huh.” I squint. “Also, wasn't she your coworker?”
“Not exactly, though West Coast private equity is such a small world. We would sometimes trade tips, and we were in the same women-in-finance networking groups. I could go on and on, but it's just petty corporate drama.”
“Petty? From someone named Loony Laura, I'd expect something juicy.”
“I guess I shouldn't call her Loony Laura. That's not very professional,” she backtracks.
“So she's not loony?”
The waiters bring the first course.
“Oh, she's loony tunes, all right. I haven't even told you her worst stories.”
“You don't have to. I have some of my own,” I tell her dryly.
She drops the sesame cracker with beef tartare and egg yolk. “What? You have a Loony Laura story?”
I smirk, leaning forward. “Oh yeah.”
“Um, spill.”
“Okay, so it was a couple years ago, and I run into her at this networking mixer, right?” I pour her more wine.
“Why were you at a networking mixer?”
“Jeez, you must have been a holy terror as a PE analyst.”
“Sorry, sorry. You're at a networking mixer.” She spoons more of the beef tartare on a cracker.
“I was there to try to make nice with a guy's wife. He had family land he inherited. He's a certified moron who I wanted to manipulate into selling to me. Yadda yadda.”
“As one does.”
“Please, like you haven't done some shit during your time in finance.”
“I'll never tell.” She nudges me lightly with her foot.
I grab it briefly, caress her ankle.
“So anyways—” I pile caviar on a blini and add sour cream. I hold my hand out. She accepts the bite. “So I give the wife my spiel, then Laura pops up, practically in my armpit, and she's like, ‘She is only talking to you because she wants to sleep with you.’”
“Oh my gosh, of course she did.”
“I was like, oh, she seems interesting, mildly pretty, didn't think much of it.”
Winnie snorts.
“Little did I know—”
“Little did he know,” she echoes.
“So three days later, I have a late night. The football team GM wanted more money.”
“They always need money.”
“Always.” I smirk at her. “And I go into my office, need to write some emails, and there's Loony Laura.”
“No!” Winnie gasps. “In your office?”
“Yep. In some very revealing lingerie. It's like a parody of an eighties softcore-porn movie or something.”
Winnie snickers.
“She literally meows like a cat and stalks me around the room. I'm trying to tell her that I'm not interested, trying not to escalate it, right? Because this chick has to be crazy. She's coming onto me hard.”
“Oh lord, I feel like I need to apologize,” Winnie says into her glass.
“Then she starts doing a striptease on my desk.”
“She got naked in your office?” Winnie chokes on the wine.
“Yeah, just threw it all out there. It was at that point that I realized that I like real tits, not fake tits. And I need a woman with an ass.”
“Please, you had to have seen something you liked.”
I shake my head. “I just wanted to make her some pasta with Xanax.” I tap the spoon of caviar on the back of my hand this time.
Hold it out.
I don't say anything. I want to see how far I can push her.
Not breaking eye contact with me, she leans in and delicately licks it off.
The feel of her tongue flicking across the back of my hand goes straight to my dick.
“I have to say, and it might be the wine and all this caviar you're force-feeding me, but all I ever wanted in a relationship is someone to shit-talk with,” Winnie admits with a sincere smile.
“That and dirty, filthy sex in an alleyway.”
“What?” She squints at me. “What did you say?” Her cheeks flush. Her eyes are dilated.
I know she's thinking about it, thinking about her legs spread, helpless below me as I fucked her pussy over and over. “Hmm? I said that's a hell of a way to flirt with me.”
“Oh.”
“What did you think I said?” I pretend to be mildly confused.
“Oh, um, nothing, just—probably should eat a little bit more.”
I hum.
The pasta course is here.
“You have to try this mushroom ravioli.”
She lets me feed her the delicate pasta. “Divine.”
“If you like that, you must bend over for any strange fuck.”
“What?” She drops her fork. It clatters to the china, spattering sauce on the front of her dress. “What was that?”
“I said—” I stand up, shaking out my napkin with a snap. “If you like that, you have to try the next course. It's duck.”
“Must be really windy out here.” She sounds a little panicked.
I pat at the droplets on her skin. “I'll have them bring the food downstairs. You look cold.” I wrap the fur cloak around her and usher her inside. “Leave the wine. I have more downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” she murmurs but doesn't fight me when I take her away. It's only a floor down, but it might as well be another world.
My penthouse is warm. There's a fire.
“Do you want the rest of your dinner, or”—I unwrap the bow on the box of pastries I had delivered to my penthouse—“dessert?”
“The pastries are supposed to be a thank-you present,” she protests.
I select one.
“Thanks for rescuing me last night.” Winnie twists her hands.
“Of course. Though I have to admit—”
“Admit what?” There's a slight tremor in her voice.
“It was purely selfish.” I finish off the pastry. “I don't know if you know this about me”—I dust off my hands—“but I don't like it when other men touch what's mine.” I run my fingers through the soft hair at the back of her neck under the shaggy bob.
“Who was he?” I ask.
“I—I don't know,” she admits.
“Don't know?” I breathe in the scent of her, let my lips linger on her back where her shoulder blades meet. “Or don't want to tell?”
“Please, like I want some strange man in my bedroom.”
“I bet you want it a lot,” I whisper.
“What?” The word is too loud in the quiet. She whirls around.
“I asked, did you call the cops?”
Winnie presses a hand to her head.
I kiss her till she's dizzy then deposit her on the couch.
“Carolina wants me to call the police,” she says over her shoulder, watching me make her a drink. “I guess I really should.”
Yeah, I don't need them poking around. I didn't cover my tracks that well. Also, fuck the cops. They keep giving me parking tickets.
I hand her the drink.
“Don't bother,” I tell her, flippant. She frowns.
I reach out, smooth her brow, cup her face, stroke her hair. “They won't take you seriously. I'm putting my security team on it.”
“A security team?”
“You're dating a billionaire, Creampuff. Comes with the deluxe package.”