The Six-Hundred-Dollar Gigolo

Juliet Sparks woke up with two distinct sensations: a blinding headache throbbing behind her eyes, and the terrifying, undeniable feeling that every single inch of her body had been thoroughly, relentlessly used.

She gasped, her eyelids fluttering open against the harsh morning light streaming through floor-to-ceiling silk curtains. Heavy Egyptian cotton sheets clung to her bare waist, cool against her flushed skin. The air in the opulent hotel suite smelled intoxicatingly rich—a heavy, lingering mix of expensive sandalwood, dark espresso, sweat, and the unmistakable scent of fresh, slick skin from hours of unbridled sin.

A sharp, throbbing ache between her thighs made her freeze completely, a slow burn pulsing deep within her core.

Oh, god.

It wasn't just a dull physical soreness—it was a sensory trigger. A sudden, scorching wave of explicit memories slammed into her brain with the force of a freight train, painting vivid pictures behind her eyelids:

Broad, calloused hands gripping her hips so possessively they left dark, flush imprints on her pale skin... A heavy, muscular chest pressing her into the plush mattress until she couldn't tell where her body ended and his began... His deep, low growl vibrating against the sensitive curve of her throat, demanding her name before his wet, hot mouth came down on hers in a punishing, breathless kiss that consumed her whole.

Juliet’s chest heaved, her nipples hardening instantly beneath the thin fabric she was wearing as her body traitorously remembered every touch.

He had turned her over on her stomach, his thick fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her head back just enough to whisper filth in her ear while he drove into her, deep and unyielding, until her knees shook and she was reduced to begging him not to stop.

She remembered the sheer, frantic friction of skin against skin—the slick glide of his heavy body sliding against hers, the bruising pressure of his thighs pinning her wide open, and the white-hot explosion that had ripped through her entire being, making her scream his name into the dark room while her fingernails tore claw marks straight down his broad, bare back.

Juliet’s pulse raced wildly against her ribs. She sat up abruptly, wincing as her sore, tender core protested the sudden movement, and threw back the duvet.

She wasn't wearing her oversized pajamas. She wasn't even wearing her silk slip. Instead, she was engulfed in a men’s crisp white dress shirt. The luxury fabric drowned her frame, the top four buttons completely undone, gaping wide enough to expose her chest—where faint, crimson bite marks and rug burn kissed her collarbone and the top curves of her breasts.

Beside her, a mountain of dark, golden-tanned muscle shifted under the heavy sheets.

Juliet stopped breathing. Slowly, inches at a time, she turned her head toward the other side of the king-sized bed.

Even with his face buried deep into the plush white pillow, the man was built like a dark fantasy sculpted specifically to ruin women’s lives. His broad, bronze shoulders were littered with faint, red fingernail scratches—her fingernail scratches, she realized with a stomach-dropping shock. A spine carved out of solid marble stretched down into the shadow of the duvet, which rode dangerously low, exposing the sharp, razor-defined V-line of his hips and a glimpse of dark hair trailing downward.

More memories rushed back in a chaotic, dizzying wave, crashing through her hazy mind:

The annual Sparks family banquet last night... Her fiancé, Adam, standing beside her stepsister, Karen, his arm wrapped around Karen's waist with a sickening, practiced familiarity. Karen taking the microphone with a fake, teary pout to announce that Adam was breaking off his engagement with Juliet—and that because Juliet had no husband or prospective heir, she would forfeit her late mother’s beloved Sparks Design Studio to Karen at midnight on her twenty-fourth birthday, per the grandfather's strict inheritance clause.

Juliet remembered the bitter rage that had blinded her, the feeling of absolute isolation in a room full of high-society sharks. She remembered stepping out onto the terrace to gather her thoughts, her hands shaking as she took a glass of champagne from a passing waiter's tray.

The champagne had tasted strangely sweet. Syrupy.

Then came the dizzying fever. The terrifying loss of motor control. The heavy, predatory hands of a sleazy investor cornering her in a dark service hallway, his reeking breath on her skin as he whispered that Karen had promised him a "very fun night with the black-sheep daughter."

And then... this man had stepped out of the shadows.

He had ripped the creep off her like a piece of filthy trash, tossing him aside into the wall with zero effort.

Karen set me up, Juliet realized, her blood running ice-cold despite the heat flushed across her skin. She had that disgusting investor spike my drink to ruin my reputation publicly! But... wait. Did Karen hire an escort to trap me in a hotel room, only for him to double-cross the plan and save me instead? Or did I literally drag Karen's hired gigolo to bed in a fever-crazed state?

Panic, cold and sharp, seized her by the throat.

Think, Juliet! You have a design studio to reclaim today. You have a midnight deadline. And you just spent the entire night doing unspeakable, wildly scandalous things with a guy who looks like he costs five thousand dollars an hour!

Her hazel eyes darted around the room. She spotted her purse, her torn lace stockings, and her folded clothes sitting on a velvet armchair in the corner. Scrambling out of bed, her legs trembled slightly as her bare feet hit the cold hardwood floor. A sharp intake of breath escaped her lips—her inner thighs felt utterly slick and weak, a testament to just how mercilessly her mystery partner had taken her throughout the dark hours of the night.

She threw on her clothes with frantic, clumsy fingers, bypassing her ruined stockings altogether. Reaching into her purse, she pulled out her leather wallet and flipped it open.

Six hundred dollars. Six crisp hundred-dollar bills—literally all the physical cash she possessed in the world right now.

"This is ridiculous," she whispered to herself, her hands trembling. "He's probably going to demand a credit card. He's going to demand a contract payment!"

Desperate, she grabbed a thick notepad bearing the luxury hotel's gold-embossed logo resting on the nightstand. She reached deep into her bag and pulled out her luckiest charm: a bright purple pen topped with a fluffy flamingo.

Clicking the pen, her handwriting rushed across the paper in frantic, slanting strokes:

To the ridiculously built stranger,

Thank you for saving me from that disgusting creep in the hallway... and for, well, everything else that happened afterward. I am leaving $600 cash on the nightstand. If you are a high-end escort my stepsister Karen hired to frame me, I am deeply sorry, but this is literally all the cash I have in my possession.

Please do not try to track me down, look for me, or call the police. My stepsister is a literal psychopath, and you do not need this dramatic nightmare in your life. Consider us completely square.

- A girl in a massive rush

Slapping the six hundred dollars down onto the mahogany nightstand, she weighed it down with the note and her trusty purple flamingo pen.

She took one last, trembling look at the broad back of the sleeping titan, scooped up her heels, and bolted out the heavy suite door like her life depended on it.