Seducing my mom's billionaire lover
Names forgotten, perfume fading, lingerie left like trophies in my penthouse drawers.
My only rule was simple: never taste the same bottle twice.
The moment a woman started looking at me with expectation instead of hunger, she was done. The magic was in the chase, the momentary surrender, the way they gasped like no one had ever touched them the way I did. After that, it was tedious. Predictable.
I didn’t fall in love. I didn’t commit. I devoured.
And why wouldn’t I?
When you’re young, rich, and ruthless enough to own everything you touch, women are just another luxury—like cars, watches, or thousand-dollar bottles of vintage Dom Pérignon. Except women smiled prettier when you unwrapped them