CHAPTER 12

Matt just shakes his head, finally letting a smirk break through the initial shock. He gestures toward Troy’s still-exposed, twitching length. "Do me a favor and put that monster back in your pants, Troy."

Troy laughs, tucking himself back in and zipping up with a sharp metallic slide. "What's the matter, Kingston? Still think your cock is bigger than mine? You look a little intimidated."

Matt snorts, leaning back. "I’ve seen the way these shawties look when I walk into a room. I don't need a ruler to know who’s got the ladies screaming louder and longer.”

They trade crude, competitive dick-measuring jabs that only two men with too much money and ego can sustain.

“You’re all talk, Kingston. You think because you’ve got that brooding, 'CEO of the year' look that these women are actually satisfied? They’re just starstruck. I’m the one who puts in the overtime. I’m the one they’re still texting at 3:00 AM when their boyfriends are asleep."

Matt laughs dryly. "Overtime? Is that what you call it when you have to pay a girl to stay in the room for more than twenty minutes? My phone is on 'Do Not Disturb' because if I let it vibrate every time a woman 'yearned' for a round two, the battery would melt. I don’t just drill them, Troy. I break them. I make them forget their own goddamn names.”

"Bullshit," Troy fires back. "I’ve got ladies screaming my name from Kensington to Chelsea. I’m the goddamn earthquake."

"Earthquake? Please," Matt snorts. "You really think that little show with the pink-haired ‘girl’ gives you the edge, Troy? Please. I’ve got the rhythm that had girls wailing so loud the neighbors thought someone was getting murdered. I’m talking about that soul-shattering, toe-curling, release that leaves 'em shaking for three days.”

"Alright, you arrogant prick. You want to settle this? Let’s put some skin in the game. No more talking shit over expensive wine."

"Name it." 

"The next girl we both find appealing, we'll have a'who-can-make-her-scream-louder' showdown. We track the decibels, the scratches on the back, and the number of times she begs for her life," Troy proposes. "Winner takes the Southbank development commission. And bragging rights for the rest of the decade.”

"You’re on," Matt says, with a confident smile. "But don't come crying to me when she realizes your 'cock' is just a placeholder for the real thing. I’m going to make her scream your name just so you can hear what real defeat sounds like."

"In your dreams, Kingston," Troy smirks. 

"Prepare to lose some money, Troy. I’m feeling particularly 'dominating' today."

Troy pushes himself off the couch and wanders over to a sleek, backlit bar in the corner of the office. Matt joins him, leaning against the cold marble as Troy pulls out a bottle of deep, crimson wine and uncorks it. 

"Just imported from a private vineyard in Tuscany," he pours two glasses. "Shit costs more than a mid-sized sedan."

They take a sip, and the conversation finally turns from dick to deals. "The real estate contract for the Southbank development is hitting a fucking wall."

Matt takes a sip, the dry, expensive oak coating his tongue. "What’s the hold-up?”

"The agent says some wealthy old hag is in charge of the trust. She’s skeptical about who she hands the keys to, and she’s demanding a face-to-face meeting before she signs anything."

"We’re going to have to change her mind. And just in case my sparkling personality doesn't do the trick, we might need to turn on the charm. You know," Troy adds, wagging his eyebrows. "A little personal attention goes a long way with a woman who hasn't been touched since the nineties."

Matt scoffs. "I’m not into old ladies, Troy. I have limits."

"You’re too closed off, man," Troy sighs, leaning against the bar. "It’s business. A little attention to a lonely widow could net us fifty million.”

"There are plenty of other contracts to win. It’s okay to lose a few if the price is my dignity," Matt says firmly.

"You need to go wild sometimes," Troy circles his glass. "Break the routine. Get a little dirt under your fingernails."

"You mean like sucking a dick?" Matt gestures toward the door where the pink-haired 'girl' had just exited. "No thanks. I’d rather spend my night buried in a tight pussy. That’s the only 'wild' I need."

Troy laughs, a deep, belly-shaking sound. "Fair enough. Tell you what—forget the old hag for an hour. Let’s head down to the club. It’s early, but the dancers are already warming up. We might find a girl or two worth drilling tonight."

Matt finishes his wine and sets the glass down with a definitive thud.

~~~~~

Jessica feels like a goddamn queen. She didn't just quit; she humiliated him and got paid for the privilege.

The victory over Bill still has her ego soaring with a shot of adrenaline that’s got her craving three things: top-shelf liquor, a beat she can lose herself in, and a stranger to break her six-month dry spell.

She stands in front of her full-length mirror, adjusting the black silk gown that’s less of a dress and more of a legal waiver. 

The V-neck deeps all the way down to her belly button, showcasing the soft curve of her breasts, while the back is completely open, showing off the smooth, flawless skin of her spine, and the hemline is so skimpy it’s a miracle it covers her ass at all.

She slides into her heeled boots, the extra height making her legs look like they go on for miles. With a final swipe of blood-red lipstick and with a heavy mist of the seduction perfume, she’s lethal.

The seduction scent costs her a month’s salary but smells like a billionaire’s fever dream. She isn’t worried about the price tag. Jessica has a system. 

When she’s low on cash, she hits the high-end spots and hunts for the "soft" targets—chubby men with Rolexes and "peewee" penises who are terrified of being laughed at. 

She treats them like kings in the back of their Maybachs, making them feel like gods while she works their tiny rods with a mouth that knows every trick in the book. 

She sucks on those peewees like they’re the crown jewels, making them feel like kings for twenty minutes before the notification ping hits her phone. 

They practically trip over themselves to give her "transfers in zeros" because she’s the only woman who doesn’t laugh when they drop their pants.

But tonight isn't about the money. She’s got some money sitting pretty in her account, and she’s ready to end her celibacy streak with someone who can actually handle the fire.

She steps out of the Uber at the VIP entrance of the building, her blonde hair flying in the cool London breeze. The bouncers don't even ask for ID; they just watch, transfixed, as she smells like a dream and looks like a heart attack.

Inside, she heads straight for the bar, her hips swinging with a "disrespectful" confidence that has every guy in a ten-foot radius spilling his drink. 

She orders a double vodka, neat, and turns her back to the bar, leaning her elbows on the wood so her cleavage spills forward. She’s a bad slut on a mission, and she can feel the energy in the building shifting. 

Little does she know, the man who’s about to fulfill every one of those morning fantasies is currently stepping out of a lift just a few feet away.