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“Exactly.”
“You know you’re supposed to keep your sugar baby pool separate from your donor list, right?”
“That’s rich coming from someone who once bid on her own painting just to drive up the price.”
“Strategic marketing,” I said, setting my glass down and stretching out across the bed. “Admit it—you just want someone to stroke your ego while ignoring that half your board wants to take me upstairs to their hotel room.”
“If you wore less lipstick, they might survive the encounter.”
“If I wore less lipstick,youwouldn’t last five minutes—and I’d make sure you said thank you when I left… spent and satisfied.”
I felt the heat rise in my belly, slow and familiar. I tugged the strap of my sundress off one shoulder, then the other, lowering the neckline just enough to frame what I knew he liked best. I snapped a photo—angled, suggestive, not subtle—and hit send.
He didn’t reply immediately.
Then a photo buzzed through.
Boxer briefs. Bare stomach. And, clearly, he was very interested in seeing more.
I laughed out loud. “Five seconds, Sinclair? I thought billionaires were supposed to have stamina.”
“I don’t waste time pretending when it comes to you.”
That shut me up for a half second. Then I rolled onto my back and grinned up at the ceiling.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll come. But I’m picking the wine.”
“No meetings. No calls,” he said. “Just you, me, and whatever trouble we get into.”
“I’ll bring heels,” I said. “And maybe something I’ll regret wearing by midnight.”
I hung up before he could get the last word in. He liked that. Not that I cared if he did.
I took another sip of wine and prepared to lay out what I wanted to pack. A black dress, sharp heels, and lingerie that didn’t say love, but said very clearly:You’re not sleeping tonight.
No blazer. No lecture notes. No oversized sweater that made me look too serious. This weekend wasn’t about thinking. It was about letting go, getting loud, getting tangled, and maybe—if he behaved—letting him buy me something lacy I’d never wear again.
Because that was the thing about Damian.
He wasn’t someone I was building a life with. He was someone I escaped life with; for now, that was exactly what I wanted.
CHAPTER THREE
Damian
It was Saturday evening, and the auction hadn’t started yet, but the room was already full of people pretending they weren’t watching each other.
I shifted my weight and checked my Rolex for the third time in five minutes.
She was late. Not actually late—but late enough to make me notice.
The gallery space was dressed to impress—glass walls, white orchids, uplighting designed to make everyone look twenty percent more successful. The Miami elite glided from champagne flutes to donor boards like this was church, and they were here to pray for influence. No one came here to relax. They came to be seen making power plays that looked effortless.
I was here to be seen.
Buy something high-profile. Shake a few hands. Reinforce the idea that Damian Sinclair still had the eye—and the bank account—to play in their world.
And I could’ve done it alone. Hell, I probably should’ve.