Wet For Daddy
Drake.
The elevator ascended fast, shooting up dozens of floors without stopping. The only sound was the low hum of the mechanism and the frantic thump of my heart.
When the doors opened, I stepped out onto what must have been his private penthouse office floor. The room was massive, and all the glass walls and city lights spread out like scattered diamonds.
And there he was.
Drake was standing by the window, wearing a crisp white shirt, the top two buttons undone. He held a glass of dark liquor. He didn't turn right away. He just watched the city, a titan surveying his domain.