As usual, Cav doesn’t miss a thing. “Aw, my baby girl still feeling the edge?”
I lean close. “You know you left me hanging. That was plain mean.”
His eyes darken. “Don’t think I’ll leave you hanging for long. Now, let’s make an attempt at being sociable so you can get the full experience, and then I’ll take care of you.”
The I’ll take care of you is the only part of that sentence my greedy body cares about. I should probably be more intrigued by the famous people tipping back drinks, uncaring who sees them acting ridiculous.
We’ve only gone a few feet when it hits me—this is their safe zone. Windsor’s house is their haven. No one is going to out them for acting that way here, I assume, within reason, so this is the place they let it all hang out.
It makes a certain sort of sense. Back in New York, there are certainly parties where I’ve felt the same way. When all the guests are part of a similar social and economic stratosphere, things get a little wilder than normal.
Windsor’s home is a large square, with a mammoth courtyard in the center dominated by a sparkling blue pool, a hot tub, and several seating areas. A young couple is in the pool, and the woman has the man pressed up against the corner. Both of them are still fully clothed but completely soaked. In the hot tub, several women cluster around an older gentleman who I don’t recognize as being in any films. But given the harem he’s attracted and how they’re pawing over him, he must be someone of note.
“Who’s that?” I ask quietly, and Cav follows my line of sight.
“One of the top studio producers. Those girls are all B-and C-list actresses hoping to hop up on the A-train, and they know he gets a major say in casting all of the movies for a certain hot director.”
“Is that normal?”
“For that particular producer and director, it is. They’ve been working together for twenty years, so it’s a pretty well-known fact at this point.” Cav turns us away as a woman climbs on the man’s lap like she’s about to ride him. “And he’s fresh out of a divorce, so they’re looking to take advantage of it.”
In my opinion, it’s the older man taking advantage of the younger women, but I guess my instincts are screwed up here. Maybe it’s the women who are the predators in this situation. Everyone has a motive. It’s really not all that different from New York.
We go back into the house through another open door, and I fall more in love with Windsor’s place with every step. Yes, it’s way too big for one person, but it gives off this airy vibe of being on a constant vacation. I love it. It’s so different from my apartment and the street noise that I can’t escape, even way up in my ivory tower. I know I’m lucky to not be living in a shoebox-sized place in the city, but even the most expensive penthouses in New York can’t come close to competing with this.
Cav leads me into the dining room and the decadent spread of food along a buffet. It’s virtually untouched, which surprises me more than I let on. Even if the stick-thin women are going to turn their I’ll just have a wheatgrass smoothie noses up at this, why aren’t the men eating?
A quick survey of the room shows that the lines at the bar service are dominated by men, so apparently they’re all more worried about drinking than eating.
Cav has no such reservations. He grabs two plates and hands me one. “You’re not drinking on an empty stomach.”
“I’m going to be the only female eating in this entire place.”
Cav shrugs. “Fuck ’em, Greer. You don’t need to impress anyone. You’re already the most beautiful woman here. The guys can’t keep their eyes off you, and if I make it out of here tonight without putting my fist through someone’s face, I’ll count myself lucky.” He reaches for the first set of tongs. “Eat, woman.”
“Fine.”
The choices are decadent enough to rival one of Creighton’s parties. I stick to the veggies and seafood, and Cav loads up on meats and cheese. He grabs us both a drink before we set up at one of the tall tables lining the side of the room. They’re all empty except for ours.
Cav doesn’t seem to care at all, though. He digs into his plate with gusto. I’ve honestly never seen a man eat so much or so often as he does, but it explains why most of the guys I know don’t look anything like him. I assume it takes a lot of protein to keep his physique intact.
It’s almost laughable now when I think of Tristan. Tristan who could wear skinny jeans and be in no danger of sporting a dick print. I can’t even imagine Cav trying to get them on. He’d probably bust the legs wide open. And for sure, there’d be no room for the equipment he’s packing.
Speaking of his equipment . . . my gaze dips below his belt as he digs into his food.
“Eyes up here. You’re not getting the D until I’m ready to give it to you.”