Eros Riley was hot as fuck, that much she had to admit, and if Gianna Moretti admitted to it, that meant a lot.

Now, one thing you had to understand about people with her kind of money was that everything was a choice, including being in the company of a plethora of above-average-looking men. The truth is, people who say money can't buy everything are simply those who don't have it, and therefore don't know shit what it can really buy. You can buy anything with money; youth, beauty, old age, a kidney, a friend, too many friends, fame, a singing career if you'd like, a husband hot off the pages of a magazine, a collection of exotic wives housed strategically in equally exotic corners of the world, consequence-free rape and murder if you pay the right people, education at top establishments for your kids—and a fancy degree to match—when their brain capacity can only see pi as a dessert, hell, you can even get elected to run a country when you can't spell right these days if you have enough of it.

Why? In a world where overpopulation is a thing, you can always count on the majority of its inhabitants to be poor, and as long as the number of poor people continues to grow, the need for money grows with it and so does its capacity to buy all kinds of shits. Money can't buy love, you say? The way the world is today? Mothers don't even have time to love their kids between jobs and updating their Facebook for likes, and you were hoping someone would love you for free when you can't get off your phone long enough to say ten words to each other during dinner? It doesn't happen. Love is overrated anyway. It's an excuse for self-glorified virgins to fuck and make babies and it's not like we need more right now—self-glorified virgins or babies.

Anyway, the point was, that people with her money also didn't have to look at ugly people if they didn't want to, and most of them didn't want to, mind you. You could hire beautiful people, choose to go only where beautiful people go, and if your neighbor wants to paint their house something hideous there are ways to relocate them or yourself if you have the dough. The result is that the elite society is filled to the brim with beautiful people like Eros, so much so, that being shown a slab of juicy, pedigreed, A5 Matsusaka beef—or a limited edition Hermès Birkin—would be more effective in making their knees weak than throwing a half (or wholly) naked Greek-god lookalike at them. So when she said Eros Riley was hot as fuck, it meant he was hotter than Beyonce's new line of underwear if that ever happened.

And he was standing there now, in a well-chosen designer suit he managed to fill to the last quarter-inch of the cut with his bulk (including the bulk that had grown way past the last quarter-inch of those pants right before her eyes just seconds ago), trying strip her naked right there in his obscenely large backyard (where bodyguards and gardeners stood witness, mind you) with his eyes and grinning at his own imagination to boot. Now, if this had been that third-rate romance novel you could now safely buy and pretend you're reading Tolstoy, thanks to Kindle and oversized phones, the self-glorified (dirt-poor—they're always poor) virgin MC in a bad boy billionaire please-tie-me-to-a-chair-and-let-me-pretend-I-hate-it stories would be finding it highly offensive and quickly label Eros a vile, ungodly creature to be avoided at all costs by now.

Gianna, however, had always considered herself a grown woman with a healthy sexual appetite, and Eros was being vile and ungodly in his obvious desire to get his godly length (however long that was) into her pants, she found herself thoroughly enjoying the sight and the imagination of what it would be like to tie this man to a chair immensely and wasn't going to lie about it. It turned her on, made her knees weak like swallowing a gleaming piece of bluefin tuna otoro fresh off the dock.

"Oh, we're not going to Ginger," she told him, turning away quickly to head back to the chopper. Pull yourself together, woman. Don't jump the man in his own backyard.

"Okay. Where then?" He said.

"Carl's engagement reception, of course. You're my plus one for the night. Are you coming, Your Royal Highness, or do I have to roll you a red carpet?" The truth was, she'd thrown that invitation in the fireplace and incinerated it last Monday, but suddenly thought it might be a good idea to utilize this god for something two hours ago.

Eros didn't reply. He simply smiled and followed her to the chopper. The knowledge of being trapped in a tight space with this man unsettled her a little. The fact that he hadn't protested over the sudden change of plans also made her a bit nervous. God of love or not, she was playing with a being more powerful than she was for sure, and the possibility of having it backfired on her didn't escape her awareness.

Just before she ducked her head through, Eros reached over her shoulder and placed a hand—a very large hand—on the doorframe above her head. "Careful," he said politely, casually, and still that deep, baritone voice that suddenly sounded next to her ear nearly made her jump out of her skin. He smelled like rum with a hint of tobacco, maybe also leather. Bvlgari Black, she thought. She also noticed as she went through, that his other hand was hovering just inches off her waist as if to support her through the door but never touching.

For a god, she had to admit he was surprisingly well-mannered.

Ten minutes in the air, Eros was sitting across from her, filling up the seat and brightening up the interior decoration of her plane the way a glorious work of art could change the entire house. He had his head turned to the window, long legs crossed over the erection that was still blatantly there for her to see. His eyes, she realized, were very blue.

Eros smiled, still looking out the window. He seemed to be entertaining himself with some thoughts. "I can change them if you prefer other colors."

So he has been reading her mind. For how long? She wondered. "I thought true love has nothing to do with appearance."

"It doesn't," he said, turning to face her this time, a grin playing about his lips—lips she still remembered on hers from earlier that day. That was a good kiss, she had to admit. "I was just thinking sex. You know, what would turn you on and all?"

It did set something alight in her belly, but at the same time, she hated being a foregone conclusion. "That's going a little too fast, Mr. Riley."

"Am I, Gianna?" Eros tilted his head to one side, studying her face now with those curious blue eyes. "I certainly wasn't the only one thinking about it just now."

She parted her lips to offer a retort and closed them when she realized it would only sound childish. After all, there was no point to her denying it when he could read her thoughts, was there?

"No, there isn't. But for the sake of conversation," he turned to face her directly now, anchored an elbow on the armrest and leaned his strong jaw on the knuckles of his hand, "would it please you, Gianna," he said, uncrossing his legs and placed them apart, drawing her attention to where it shouldn't be, "if I let you tie me to a chair?"

It did turn her on like throwing a match into a pool of gasoline, but there was an equal part of her that didn't like to be played that way, and that latter part made her unfold her legs, extended one under the table to where his right leg was, and then, softly and steadily, ran the tip of her stiletto along the inner side of his calf. "Oh, I'd do a lot more than that if you let me, Eros."

And because he was reading her thoughts, as she knew he would be, Eros stiffened in his seat, his hand clamped tight on the leather of the armrest as the rest of his muscles strained just as hard. She was, of course, at this point imagining him naked and strapped to a chair with bands of leather across his chest and her standing over him, looking down.

"You'd like that, wouldn't you?" She said, letting her imagination run a little wilder as her imaginary fingers slipped into his hair, yanking his head back to face her. "Something a little rough?"

The breath he sucked in then was loud enough to be heard three rows down.

Not about to let the golden opportunity slip away, Gia guided her imaginary legs to straddle over his lap and watched Eros pressing himself deeper into the seat, straining as he held his breath in anticipation. She lowered herself onto his erection, nice and slow to savor the moment, and just before she impaled herself on his godly length, slammed her fist on a button on the armrest of her seat.

It flashed bright amber, and within seconds, Elizabeth, her flight attendant was there.

"Good evening, Mr. Riley," said Elizabeth, smiling innocently. The woman, of course, had no clue what she had just interrupted. "My name is Elizabeth. Would you like something to drink? A glass of wine perhaps?"

The look on Eros' face, the way his godliness left him like a deflated balloon, was simply priceless. God save Elizabeth and the flight attendant call button.

To his credit, Eros recovered himself quickly. He was smiling now, two rows of perfectly aligned white teeth glowing as if to applaud her for a job well done.

"I'd love to," he turned to Elizabeth to reply, said it with a smile that made the woman shift her weight and nearly fell off her two-inch heels—however impossible that should have been. "Red," he said. "Something bold," he turned back to Gia, didn't care that there was a third party standing there who would definitely notice the sudden switch of attention, "full-bodied, a little spice here and there," he paused, made a point at looking at the place between her legs where the dress creased on her lap. "Maybe a strong finish, if you can accommodate. What do you think, Gia? Should we open that bottle?"

She sneered at the gesture, copied it, which, in her case, meant tracing her eyes down to his crotch and attempting to unzip those pants. "Why not? It should be interesting." A strong finish, Eros? The foreplay hasn't even begun.

He smiled widely at that, almost laughed in delight. He looked adorable when he did that, she had to admit. "Well then, Elizabeth. Do get us that bottle, if you'd please. Take your time to decant. We wouldn't want to waste it, would we?"

Elizabeth, being trained to perfection, took the cue and quickly relocated herself to the bar at the very back, closing the partition door behind her as if suddenly coming down with the premonition that the two of them were about to fuck each other senseless on one—or several—of those seats and required her to go hide somewhere out of sight. The partition, from what Gia understood, had been designed to keep out or keep in the noises in case a private discussion of business nature was to happen in the air. Now she wasn't so sure that was all it had been put there for.

"Of course, not. Sex is precisely what it's there for, Gia. I'm surprised you didn't know," said Eros. They were alone again in the cabin and the helicopter that was made to fit ten passengers comfortably felt suddenly crowded. "Joining the mile-high club is a bucket list activity for every average income male, living it is a privilege of the filthy rich. I take it you haven't utilized that partition, have you?"

That, she hadn't. She was pretty sure having sex in every possible place and in every possible position wasn't an average girl's idea of fun, and yet he'd made it sound as if she'd been using iPhone 4 after all this time and missing out on the third camera or something. "If that is supposed to get me to try it right now, it's not working, Eros. I'm not interested. You're not getting it tonight."

"You're not interested," he repeated, rolling those words in his mouth for a taste and grinning like he knew something she didn't. "To fuck me here, Gianna? Or to fuck me in general?"

This man, she admitted, could say the word fuck well enough to corrupt a convent full of nuns, if not also priests.

"Because one of those is a lie and you know it," he added when she didn't reply.

Well, it was true, but she wasn't going to admit it, especially since he already knew the answer. "And just a few minutes ago, I thought your manner was impeccable."

"My manner is impeccable," he said, clasping his hands together over his chest as he did, "but since you saw fit to throw yours out the window and rearranged our plans without discussing it with me to suit your personal interest, I figured we could be a bit, should we say," he paused, pretended to think of a word, said it with a purr and enough messages to read between the syllables to bury the Great Pyramid of Giza, "barbaric, to each other, don't you think? And for the record," he added, "it's never a good idea to leave a man hungry. You are playing a dangerous game, Gianna."

"Perhaps," she said, holding his gaze to make sure every word sinks in, "but in case you forget, Eros, I happened to be a self-made billionaire, a woman who's had to chew up more dangerous men than you can count to get here, not a spoiled little girl with inheritance you can lure with colorful candy or the excitement of making out in one of daddy's cars in his own garage. If you want my stock, you're going to have to bid a lot higher than cheap thrills and easy fuck. Besides," she switched then, to a honey-sweet smile, "if you don't stop reading my mind, by the time I decide to feed that beast of yours, none of it would be new and you'll be tasting noting but second-hand pleasures. You wouldn't like that, would you, god of love and sexual desire?"

To her surprise, Eros smiled brightly at that. He looked like a boy then, one who'd just opened a present and found the exact toy he'd been wanting to get his hands on. He said, shaking his head in disbelief, "That fucking idiot left you, really?"

She realized then, that for all the danger of their encounters so far, she was actually enjoying this man's company immensely.

***

A/N: As always, the props this chapter (I love this, oblige me):

The Hermès Birkin-this line of handbags starts at $12,000 for a new one, and most of the time, you can't just go buy one. Some models, says my billionaire best friend who owns a lot of these, you'd have to be a regular customer to get your hands on it. This particular limited edition sample, namely the 2015 Himalaya niloticus crocodile Birkin 35 was sold at USD 206,111 at a Christie's auction.

Because I'm on a diet, I'm also broke, and I need to see this for my own sake:

The $500/KG melt-in-your-mouth Matsusaka wagyu beef. They play classical music and massage cows and feed them beers for this. They also come with serial numbers you can trace back to the cow's ancestors. I've only had normal A3 Wagyu, and it's enough to die from a heart attack for, truly.

And of course, my sole reason for going back to Japan almost every year:

The Otoro aka the fattiest of the fattiest part of the tuna (not to be confused with maguro, chutoro, or toro which are the lesser part of the tuna) will blow any orgasm you've ever had in your life away. It melts in your mouth, brings tears to your eyes, makes your life worth living (and dying for, for all that fat) if you are a sushi lover. They come in many prices that can go up to $3,603/pound especially if it's bluefin. If you're ever going to try, make sure they're fresh or the experience is much, much less. I will only eat them in Japan really.