Page 12 of Mr. Wilde

“Careful. She’s only part of the cocktail staff.” Off limits to any fun and games on the upper floors he means. As if I’d ever do that. He knows that’s not my scene.

I take another sip of my beer, attempting to appear unaffected. “I know.”

But do I?

Gianni founded the Devil’s Playground long before it became a legend. Back when it was merely a private refuge for men with too much money and not enough anonymity. He invited me into this world after my net worth hit ten figures, after the tabloids started sniffing around my dating life like bloodhounds. Every woman I’d dated before this place wanted something from me. Access to unimaginable wealth. The Paris Hilton lifestyle.

A ring.

I didn’t want any of it. So I came here instead. Not for decadence, but for control. There were nonnegotiable rules in place here. It was a space where expectations were negotiated upfront, and no one pretended it was anything else.

My hunger for sex has always been as hearty as the average guy’s. That was never the issue. The problem was how my sexual appetite changed after everything else in my life went wrong side up. It morphed from a hot night of fun to what is now purely a release. A distraction. A place where I need complete control.

Not in a cruel or dominating way. Nothing like the men upstairs who thrive on power dynamics, ritual, and carefully structured submission. For me, it was simpler.

It quieted the noise.

When my thoughts get too loud, I find a professional. Someone who knows exactly where the boundaries are. A woman who isn’t interested in my name or net worth. One who leaves without asking questions.

The carefree days of tangled sheets and lazy laughter are long gone. These days, intimacy is transactional. Temporary. Nothing more, nothing less.

And yet⁠—

I watch Cassidy carry a tray through the room, her shoulders rolled forward, her eyes scanning instinctively, and my chest aches in a way I don’t comprehend.

Gianni notices. That guy notices everything. “You didn’t come here looking for a relationship,” he says quietly.

“No,” I agree.

“You came here to avoid one.”

Why is he stating the obvious? I finally look at him. He’s studying me with that calm, infuriating insight that built this entire empire.

“Then you should probably stop looking at her.”

I nod.

But I don’t.

Cassidy glances up just then, and our eyes meet across the room. The burning tether her deep blue gaze ignites is doing something dangerous to my body. A heat traveling up my spine that’s difficult to ignore. Fuck. I need to get laid.

She looks away first. But not before I see it. That flicker of awareness. She feels me looking. Something about it makes my dick twitch. Hell, that’s new. For the first time in years, I want more than a distraction. And there’s no doubt this Cassidy is a complication with a capital C.

I force myself to focus on my beer, the glaring red neon exit sign, the design of the artwork hanging near the bar… anything but the pink-haired princess who has suddenly taken up residence in my head.

Thankfully, the boys return from the bar, several holding cigars and joking about who knows what. Probably how impressed the ladies were with the Patek Philipp watch Becket is wearing. That stupid thing is worth like 30 million dollars. I mean, who wears that much money on their wrist?

Sure, I’m loaded, but it’s all invested. Stocks, my home, my business. I’m grateful for the opportunities it affords me. But I never want to be that fixated on my portfolio. It’s only money. It can’t cure cancer.

Or bring back someone you’ve lost.

Gianni slides into the seat beside me with cool confidence, as if he owns the place. Yeah, well… I guess he does. “You look like you’re debugging something,” he says, nodding at my empty bottle.

So much for focusing on random inanimate objects. “Always,” I reply.

Devon snorts. “You ever give that big brain of yours the night off?”

“That’s like asking you to take a night off from being rich.”