Dance with the Billionaire Read Online Free

Dance with the Billionaire
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I’ve got toned abs and a great ass from all the dancing, so my figure’s in awesome shape. Why not flaunt it? My breasts might be a little on the small side, but they’re pert and my push-up bra is doing its best to give me some cleavage.
    I’ve put on more makeup than usual; smoky eye shadow and vampish red lip-liner and lipstick to match my dress. Heavy makeup’s not my usual style, but tonight I feel like I’m playing a character. Like it’s not really me who’s about to go out and sell her underwear to a stranger.
    Just as I’m about to grab my purse and leave the apartment, I think: If he’s willing to pay a thousand dollars for a single pair of panties, what else might he want from you, too? Come on, Julia. Don’t be stupid ... 
    And for a moment, I find myself wondering just how far I might go ...
     
    §
     
    I stare up at the imposing Ingram Building, a menacing black silhouette against the darkening sky. It’s exactly the kind of place someone like Dylan Campbell would live in. It’s taller than everything else on the block, like it’s trying to intimidate the rest of the street. I walk into the lobby, feeling the eyes of the desk clerk watch me as I make my way towards the elevators, my heels clicking loudly on the marble floor, ringing out around the huge cold room, the air-conditioning causing my skin to come out in a prickle of goose bumps.
    I half think the guy at the desk is going to ask me just what I think I’m doing in here. I feel like such an outsider. But I make it safely to the elevators, push the button, then quickly step inside, feeling a small rush of relief as the doors swish closed behind me.
    I punch the button for his floor, and then the elevator lurches into life, rushing me upwards. I try to make the most of the final few seconds before I have to knock on his door.
    The doors open onto a plushly carpeted gray corridor, and I step out, looking around me to see which way to go. But there’s only one door, so there’s only one way to go. I pause for a moment and look back at the elevator.
    You could just leave now. You don’t have to do this.
    But instead I continue, until I’m standing right in front of the door. I reach out and knock, as loudly and confidently as I can, then wait, forcing myself to keep my hands straight down by my sides and not fold my arms to cover my breasts. I’m trying to summon all my inner strength. I don’t want Dylan Campbell to think that he can intimidate me.
    The door finally opens and there he is, dressed in a white shirt and navy chinos. His eyes lock onto mine and a smile flickers on his lips.
    “Julia Tate,” he says, looking me up and down with a deliberate slowness, like I’m some piece of meat, before eventually standing back to let me into his apartment.
    It suits him – it’s cold and grey and masculine, all hard edges, chrome and glass and shiny black leather. When I turn around, he’s right behind me, close enough that I can smell his cologne: a woody, musky scent that I find myself drinking in with pleasure, despite myself.
    I look again around the apartment, then catch his eye, and say, “Nice place. It’s kind of ... lacking in personality though.”
    The smile drops from his full lips, instead replaced by a look of pure disdain.
    “You don’t think I actually live here, do you?” he says with a dismissive shrug.
    “Well, it is your apartment isn’t it?” I reply unsteadily.
    “It’s my apartment in the sense that I own it,” he says, strolling confidently towards a built in cabinet on the farthest wall, “but no, I don’t live here.”
    Okay Mr Bigshot. I get it. You’ve got more than one apartment. Who cares. God, he’s such a prick. 
    He turns his back to me to pull open the cabinet, revealing a number of expensive bottles of spirits – imported Scotch and Vodka – the kind of things we charge insane amounts of money for at the bar. 
    “Drink?” he says.
    I shake my head, and he shrugs again, then
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