The next morning, Mike slid behind the wheel of the matte-black Mercedes G-Class, the keys still warm from the valet at Le Ciel the night before.
The engine growled low and satisfied as he pulled away from the curb, the heavy SUV rolling through city traffic like it owned every inch of asphalt beneath its tires.
He drove with one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting on the gear shift, sleeves rolled to mid-forearm, dark shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the hard planes of his chest when he shifted. The leather seat molded to his back, the faint scent of new car and his own cedar-smoke cologne filling the cabin.
He didn't head toward the luxury districts or the private clubs. Instead, he navigated to a modest neighborhood on the east side—five-story walk-ups with peeling paint, laundry hanging from balconies like faded flags, kids kicking a ball in the street. He parked in front of a faded brick building, the kind with a buzzer that only half-worked, and cut the engine.
Lila was waiting on the stoop.
She wore a simple black sundress that hugged her curves like it was painted on—thin spaghetti straps slipping slightly off smooth, tanned shoulders, the bodice clinging to her full breasts, nipples faintly visible through the light cotton when she shifted.
The hem flirted with mid-thigh, riding up as she crossed the sidewalk in strappy heels, hips swaying naturally, long black hair loose and catching the morning sun in glossy waves. Her full lips were painted a soft red, making them look wet and inviting. When she saw the G-Wagon, her eyes widened—pupils flaring with genuine astonishment, a small gasp parting her mouth.
She stopped beside the open driver's window, leaning down so her cleavage pressed against the doorframe, breasts threatening to spill from the low neckline.
"This… is yours?" she asked, voice low, almost disbelieving, fingers trailing over the matte-black hood like she couldn't quite trust it was real.
Mike gave her that slow, lazy smile. "Get in."
Lila slid into the passenger seat—leather cool against the backs of her bare thighs—inhaling the new-car scent mixed with Mike's cedar-and-smoke cologne. She ran manicured fingers over the dashboard, then looked at him sideways, cheeks flushing.
"I thought you were rich," she said, half-teasing, half-serious. "But this… this is something else."
Mike chuckled—deep, quiet. "Today it is."
He pulled away from the curb, the G-Class gliding through traffic like a shark through water. First stop: Bond Street.
He parked illegally—didn't care—and led her inside the first boutique. The saleswoman recognized him instantly (or recognized the car); she didn't ask questions.
Mike moved through racks as he belonged there, pulling dresses without hesitation—silk slips in midnight blue that would cling to Lila's curves like water. This crimson backless number plunged low enough to bare the elegant line of her spine, a sheer black lace dress that would leave almost nothing to the imagination.
His hands were everywhere—guiding her shoulders to try on, brushing the small of her back when he zipped her up, fingers lingering on her hips as he turned her in front of the mirror. For the first time in his life, Mike didn't feel like he was acting.
The money in his account—Fin's ten million—was real. Clean. His. No more rented suits, no more borrowed watches. He felt rich. Not pretend-rich. Rich.
Lila floated through it all—high on the attention, the luxury, the way Mike looked at her like she was the only thing in the room worth seeing. He bought everything she touched—dresses, heels, a delicate gold watch that cost more than her monthly rent. Bags piled up.
She laughed—breathless, giddy—when he slipped a pair of diamond studs into her ears himself, his fingers brushing the sensitive skin behind her lobes, making her shiver.
By late afternoon, they were back at her apartment—bags covering the small living-room floor, sunlight slanting through half-drawn blinds. Lila dragged him toward the bedroom, eyes bright, cheeks flushed, sundress riding up to show the lace tops of her thigh-highs.
"Come on," she said, voice husky. "I want to thank you properly."
She pushed him onto the edge of the bed—unmade, sheets tangled from the night before—and dropped to her knees between his spread thighs. Her sundress rode up higher, exposing the smooth curve of her ass and the black lace thong bisecting it.
She looked up at him through dark lashes, full red lips parting as she worked his belt open, zipper down, freeing his cock—already thick and heavy in her hand, veins pulsing along the shaft.
She took him into her mouth slowly—tongue swirling around the swollen head, tasting the salt of pre-cum, then sliding down inch by inch until her nose brushed his abdomen.
Mike groaned low, fingers threading into her long black hair—not forcing, just guiding. Lila hummed around him, vibrations traveling straight to his balls. She bobbed—slow at first, then faster—cheeks hollowing, lips glossy with spit, one hand stroking what her mouth couldn't reach.
Pop. She pulled off with a wet sound, looked up at him, eyes glassy.
"I love you," she whispered, voice raw. "I really love you, Mike."
His expression changed—sharp, sudden. The lazy pleasure vanished. Something colder flashed behind his eyes.
He reached down, fingers closing around her throat—not hard enough to bruise, just enough to lift her chin, force her gaze to his.
"People like us don't have the luxury of love," he said—voice low, gritted, almost angry. His thumb pressed against her pulse, feeling it race. "We survive. We take. We don't feel."
Lila's eyes filled—tears brimming, not from pain, but from the sudden rejection. She had let herself hope—just for a moment—that the man who spent a fortune on her today might see her as more than a warm mouth and a willing body.
Mike released her throat, stood abruptly, cock still hard and glistening from her spit. He tucked himself away, zipped up, and turned toward the door.
Lila scrambled up, grabbing his wrist—tears spilling now, mascara streaking her flushed cheeks.
"Wait," she said, voice breaking. "Please. Don't go."
Mike paused—back to her, shoulders tense.
Then he turned slowly, eyes dark, unreadable.
"I'm going to Monaco next week," he said quietly. "Exhibition. Private. Come with me."
Lila blinked—tears clinging to her lashes. "Me?"
"You." He stepped closer, cupped her jaw with surprising gentleness, thumb brushing away a tear. "Pack light. I'll pick you up."
She stared up at him—heart hammering, hope and fear twisting together.
"Okay," she whispered.
Mike leaned down, kissed her once—slow, deep, tasting of possession—and walked out without another word.
Lila stood in the middle of her small apartment, surrounded by shopping bags that suddenly felt like chains, tears drying on her cheeks, the taste of him still on her tongue.
She had no idea what she had just agreed to.
But she knew—one aching, terrifying part of her couldn't wait to find out.
***
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