Gambling For The Virgin:A Dark Billionaire Romance(165)

"Glad you could make it," I say, and her cheeks grow red before I've  even finished speaking. I pull her chair back, acting like a true  gentleman (no matter what the newspapers say, I can act like one), and  then go back to my seat.

"I don't think you've left me another choice, you know? After you asked  me out on live TV, I think I'd end up looking like an idiot if I turned  you down," she tells me with a confident smile. I can tell that she's  feigning her confidence; she's trying hard not to look me in the eyes,  and that tells me she's a nervous wreck right now.

"Who cares?" I shrug. "Looking good, looking bad …  It's all the same,  Fiona. I don't live my life according to what the media expects of me,  and you shouldn't either."

"Yeah," she agrees, finally looking straight at me. Her eyes are of a  clear blue, a little piece of heaven hidden in her iris, and I almost  forget that I'm on a date with her. I just prop my elbows up on the  table and lose myself in how beautiful she looks. Forget about all these  top models; they have nothing on this girl.

"I hope that asking me out wasn't just a marketing stunt or something  like that," she says with a smile, slowly looking more confident with  each passing second.

"Do you see any reporters around?" I ask her, waving my hand at the  empty restaurant. "If I wanted to make a show out of this, I'd have  wanted this place packed …  But it's not. And if I did all this for show, I  wouldn't have brought you this," I grab the rose in front of me and  hand it to her, the tip of my fingers brushing against the palm of her  small hands as I do it, "where nobody can see me do it."

"Thank you," she smiles, looking me straight in the eyes and finally  feeling at ease. I'm used to girls being intimidated by me; I'm rich,  world famous, and I look better than fucking Adonis himself. Not to  mention the baseball bat I have dangling between my legs, but now's not  the time to be bragging about stuff like that, is it?

"Don't mention it," I tell her as the sole waiter in the restaurant  comes up to us. I order the tasting menu, not even knowing what half of  the stuff in there really is, and a bottle of French red wine.

After we get the formalities out of the way-she's a law student, I'm a  quarterback, shit like that-and after we order a second bottle of red,  her mood seems to improve considerably. While she started the evening as  a shy girl completely star-struck by me, she's now acting more  confidently than most women I know.

"You like to show off," she teases me, talking about last night's game.  "Most of the stuff you do on the field is completely for show, isn't it?  Like, did you really have to somersault over that guy?"

"Did you see his size? It was either that or be carried off to a graveyard after being hit by him."

"Don't be so dramatic," she continues, taking a long gulp out of her  wine. "I bet that a guy your size could handle a tackle like that."

"A guy my size?" I ask her, arching one eyebrow and realizing that we're  changing gears in this conversation. For a petite girl she looks like  she's in control of the whole conversation. Which is good, for once in  my life I can act like a fucking regular human being, instead of a  cardboard star athlete. I know I shouldn't be complaining about this  (after all, most guys would kill to be in a situation such as mine), but  being used by women as a human dildo gets old pretty quickly. Sure,  most of them also try to put a collar on me, hell bent on parading me  around like some kind of big prize, but I never allowed that to happen. I  might earn a living like an athlete, but that doesn't mean I'm dumb.  Far from it, in fact: before playing in the League, I graduated with  honors from Wharton. Don't act all surprised, babe; I'm much more than  just a piece of meat.

"A guy your size," she repeats, the grin on her face telling me she's talking about more than just my height.

"You know nothing about my size." I finish my glass of wine and then  just stare at her, allowing that electric feeling to settle around us.  Fuck, remember when I told you that I wasn't thinking about fucking her?  Yeah, forget about that. Right now I want nothing more than to get her  naked.

"But I'm going to find out all about your size, aren't I?"         

     



 

"You were the one saying you'd fuck me if you had the chance," I say, my  grin widening as my heart starts pumping boiling blood to my cock. If  this conversation keeps going in this direction, soon enough I'm going  to have an erection so massive that I'm going to overturn the table.

"A deal is a deal," she shoots back.

Touchdown, it seems.

"Check, please!" I tell the waiter.

Time to get out of here.





128





Fiona





We leave the restaurant in a hurry. No wonder, though, after the  conversation heated up, I knew how our night would end up: with my  clothes on the floor.

By the time we got out of the Time Warner Center building, Danny already  had a valet waiting with his Aston Martin out front. A few heads turned  as some people noticed whom the owner of the car was, and I had to wait  while a few kids surrounded Danny, asking for autographs and selfies. I  waited patiently by the car, anxious to be alone with him. I usually  don't do stuff like this, getting naked on the first date, but this is  Danny Manning we're talking about! And more than just being famous, he  actually proved to be a perfect gentleman. I mean, what kind of guy  bothers to bring a rose on the first date? That's like something out of a  Jane Austen novel. Sure, I prefer my novels hotter than what Jane  Austen writes, but you won't hear me complain about being swept off my  feet by a perfect gentleman with manners straight out of the early 19th  century.

"Where are we going?" I ask him as he finally leaves his fans behind and opens the passenger door for me.

"Trump Tower," he replies, getting behind the wheel and revving up the  engine. My insides burn up as he tells me our destination: from the Time  Warner Center to Trump Tower is a quick drive, probably less than five  minutes. Thank God.

"I didn't know you lived there," I try and make small talk with him as we cruise through Manhattan's heavy traffic.

"Why would you? It's not like I have billboards around town telling  people where I live." Fair point. "Besides, I rarely bring people over. "

"By people, you mean  …  women?"

He chuckles, the sound of his voice turning my pussy into a wet mess.  Christ, I can't wait to get out of the car and inside his pants.

"Yeah, especially women. I don't want to risk having a crazy stalker knowing where I live."

"And what if I'm a crazy stalker?" I tease him, placing one hand on his  knee and sliding it up to between his legs. I can't believe I'm actually  doing this, but I just can't control myself right now.

"I guess that's why they invented restraining orders," he fires back at  me, his grin widening as I place my open palm right on his crotch. His  cock is already tenting his pants, and I guess he wasn't joking when he  told me I knew nothing about his size. It's like he doesn't have a cock  between his thighs, but a lighthouse. I don't think I've ever felt  anything this huge in my entire life.

Thank God he stops in front of the Trump Tower in no time, or else I  think I'd just go nuts and blow him right on the ride to his place.  Don't judge me; I have no idea what's happening to me. I'm usually a  well-behaved girl, I swear!

"Take good care of it," he tells the valet, handing him his car keys. I  follow him inside the massive building like a lost pup. I've never been  inside one of these luxury apartments, let alone fucked by a luxury kind  of guy. I guess I really won the lottery yesterday. God bless Ashley,  if it weren't for her tickets I'd be home right now, my nose buried in a  massive constitutional law tome.

"Here it is," Danny finally announces, sliding his magnetic key card  through the slit and pushes the double doors to his apartment open. He  takes a step back, allowing me to enter his place before he does, and I  almost gasp as I step one foot inside. The place is gigantic!

To my right there's a stairway that leads to an upper floor, and right  in front of that there's a living room bigger than my whole apartment.  The decor is pretty modern, all the furniture having modern straight  lines that compliment the stoic black and white colors of the walls.

But I'm not here as a decorator, am I? I turn on my heels, my heart  tightening up inside my chest as I finally accept what's about to  happen: I'm going to fuck Danny Manning, one of the most coveted  bachelors in New York City.

"Where's the bedroom?" I ask him, not wanting to waste a single second.

"Who needs a bed?" he asks, taking one step toward me and closing the  distance between us. He leans in, and my eyelids droop by instinct. Our  lips touch and it suddenly becomes real: I'm really kissing him. And, by  God, he tastes delicious, just like a real man should. His lips fit on  mine perfectly and, as he holds me by the hips, I suddenly can't recall a  kiss more perfect than this one.