9.
The elevator ride from the underground parking garage to the penthouse felt like ascending to the gallows.
Tyler stood rigidly beside me, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, staring straight ahead at the polished brass doors.
He was sweating, despite the cool air conditioning of the elevator car.
He smelled faintly of fear and cheap body wash.
I stood as far away from him as the space allowed, clutching my cheap pleather purse to my chest like a shield.
We were leaving the world of late rent and broken cars, and entering an atmosphere so thin and rarefied we could barely breathe.
I was wearing a simple black cocktail dress. It was the nicest thing I owned, bought on clearance for a sorority formal two years ago. It felt flimsy, inadequate armor for what I was about to do.
"Tyler," I whispered, the silence in the elevator finally becoming too heavy to bear. "Are you sure about this?"
He didn't look at me. His jaw clenched tightly. "He said he had the cash, Sloane. It's the only way."
"You have to stay in the room," I said, my voice trembling, wanting to force him to acknowledge the reality of the terms. "You have to watch him."
Tyler swallowed hard, a visible gulp of terror. "I know. Just... just get through it. It's an hour."
The doors chimed and slid open with a soft, pneumatic whoosh.
There was no hallway. The elevator opened directly into the penthouse.
The cold, overwhelming scale of the penthouse and the wealth it represented hit me instantly.
A little like running into a wall, it knocked the wind right out of me.
The living room was massive, an expanse of polished dark hardwood and stark white walls.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped around three sides of the room, offering a panoramic, dizzying view of the Los Angeles skyline, a glittering sea of diamonds stretching out to the black void of the ocean.
It was intimidatingly silent. The thick glass completely muted the roar of the city below.
"Mr. Davies?" Tyler called out, his voice cracking, sounding impossibly small in the cavernous space.
"I'm here."
Richard Davies walked out of what looked like a private study. He was wearing a tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, no tie. He looked powerful, relaxed, and entirely in his element. He held a crystal tumbler of scotch in one hand.
He didn't look at Tyler. He looked directly at me.
His eyes were exactly as I remembered from the booster party—dark, perceptive, and cold. He took in the cheap black dress, my white-knuckled grip on my purse, and the raw, undisguised terror I couldn’t hide.
"Sloane," he said smoothly. "Come in, please."
We stepped onto the hardwood. Tyler hovered near the elevator doors, clearly wanting to bolt, but terrified to move without permission.
Richard walked over to a massive, custom-built glass coffee table in the center of the living area. He set his scotch down on a coaster.
"Mr. Davies?" Tyler called out, his voice cracking, sounding impossibly small in the cavernous space. "Sir, I... I brought her. The debt..."
"The debt is handled," Richard stated smoothly, his tone businesslike. “Or it will be once we’re finished here.” He gestured to a sleek smartphone on the table. "The wire transfer is set up and ready to go. Your hoodlum friends are expecting it. In an hour, you will no longer owe them anything."
Tyler sagged against the wall, a massive, shuddering sigh of relief escaping his lips. "Oh my god. Thank you, Mr. Davies. Thank you."
"I don't do charity, Tyler," Richard said, his eyes cutting to the boy. The coldness in his voice froze Tyler's relief instantly. "Our deal is not done yet."
He gestured to a stiff, high-backed designer chair sitting in the corner of the room, near the windows, facing the center of the living area.
"Sit down, Tyler," Richard said.
Tyler hesitated. He looked at me, a brief flash of guilt warring with his overwhelming relief, then looked at the chair. The cowardice won easily. He walked over to the corner and sat down, perching on the edge of the seat, looking like a nervous schoolboy.
"You don't speak," Richard instructed, his voice a quiet, terrifying rumble. "You don't move. You just watch. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir," Tyler said.
Richard turned his full attention back to me. The transaction had officially begun.
He walked around the glass coffee table and sat down heavily on a plush, cream-colored leather sofa. He spread his legs wide, taking up space, projecting absolute authority.
"Step up to the table, Sloane," he said quietly.
I forced my legs to move. The heels of my cheap pumps clicked against the hardwood. I stopped right in front of the glass coffee table, facing him.
"Take off the dress," he told me.
My heart hammered a frantic, terrified rhythm against my ribs. I instinctively looked over my shoulder toward the corner. Tyler was sitting there, his hands clasped tightly between his knees. He looked away, staring at the floor.
"Look at me, Tyler," Richard barked, the sudden volume making both of us jump. "This is the price of your life. Watch your girl pay it."
Tyler slowly lifted his head, tears already shining in his eyes. He looked at me, an apology written all over his face, but he didn't move a muscle to stop it.
The final string attaching me to him snapped.
I turned back to Richard. I reached around to the zipper at the back of my dress. My fingers were trembling so badly I fumbled the catch twice. Finally, I pulled it down. I let the dress slide off my shoulders and fall to the hardwood floor with a soft rustle.
I was wearing simple black underwear and a matching bra. It wasn't expensive lingerie; it was practical college underwear. I felt incredibly vulnerable, exposed to the cold, appraising eyes of the billionaire and the pathetic gaze of the boy in the corner.
"The rest," Richard said, taking a sip of his scotch.
I reached behind my back, unclasped the bra, and dropped it. I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my panties, shimmied them down my legs, and stepped out of them.
I stood completely naked in the penthouse, my arms hanging awkwardly at my sides. I was shivering, the air conditioning raising goosebumps across my pale skin.
Richard seemed to study my body with the same cold, analytical focus he had used to analyze my face at his party. He looked at the curve of my waist, the heavy, natural swell of my breasts, the tight, shaved pink slit between my thighs.
"You're a beautiful girl, Sloane," Richard said softly. "It's a shame you attached yourself to such a weak little boy."
He set his scotch down on the side table. He leaned back against the leather sofa, maintaining his wide stance. He unbuttoned his suit jacket and unzipped his trousers.
He pushed the fabric down slightly, reaching inside his expensive underwear, and freed his cock.
It was thick, long, and already semi-erect.
The dark skin was smooth, the blunt head starting to swell with blood, a single drop of clear pre-cum weeping from the slit.
The sight of it—an older, powerful man exposing himself in his immaculate living room while my boyfriend watched from a corner—sent a hot, confusing jolt of pure heat straight down to my cunt.
"Come here," Richard said, pointing to the plush rug directly between his spread legs. "On your knees."
I walked around the coffee table. My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. I sank to my knees on the soft rug. I was eye-level with his crotch. He smelled like expensive wool, clean sweat, and the sharp tang of arousal.
"Look at him," Richard commanded softly.
I turned my head. Tyler was weeping silently in the chair, tears streaming down his face, his knuckles white as he gripped his own knees.
"Now," Richard said, his hand resting casually on the arm of the sofa, making no move to touch my head or guide me. "Show me what forty thousand dollars buys."
I hesitated for a fraction of a second. The air in the room felt thick enough to choke on. I could hear Tyler’s jagged, pathetic breathing from the corner.
I leaned forward.
I didn't use my hands. I brought my face close to his lap. The heat radiating off his cock warmed my cheeks. I opened my mouth, a soft gasp escaping my lips, and closed them around the thick, blunt head.
He was incredibly thick. My jaw popped slightly as I forced myself to accommodate his girth. I took him in an inch, then two, the salty, musky taste of his skin flooding my senses.
"Good girl," Richard murmured, his voice a low, approving rumble above my head. "Take it as deep as you can."
I pushed forward, swallowing the length of him.
My nose brushed against the coarse hair at the base of his shaft.
My lips were stretched tight around his thickness, creating a wet, slurping seal.
I pulled back slowly, dragging my tongue along the underside, feeling the thick vein that pulsed there, and then pushed back down.
I fell into a rhythm. It was a mechanical, detached performance at first. It was a transaction. I was paying off my boyfriend’s debt. My boyfriend no longer. I bobbed my head, keeping my eyes fixed on the cream leather of the sofa between his thighs.
"Tyler," Richard called out suddenly, his voice echoing in the quiet penthouse.
I froze, his cock still deep in my mouth.
"Look at her," Richard said. “I mean it, if you don’t watch, you’re done.”
I turned my eyes toward the corner without lifting my head. Tyler was staring at me, his face a mask of absolute horror and devastation. He was watching his girlfriend deepthroat a man twice his age to save his life.
"She has a talented mouth," Richard said to the weeping boy, his tone conversational, as if he were discussing a vintage car or a good stock pick. "Did she use it like this for you? Or does she only work this hard when there's real money on the table?"
Tyler let out a choked sob and buried his face in his hands again.