One night with a billionaire

1. L U C Y

Sweaty bodies,
Covered in beer,
Being felt up every five minutes,
And Avery is no where in site.

Clubbing, you gotta love it right?

If I'm honest, I enjoy going out but just not places like this: Dreams.
Who calls a nightclub Dreams?
If I wanted to get cocky, I'd say you wouldn't even drift off into space about this place, it's that terrible.

The aroma of sweat and stale beer fills my nostrils, a hint of someone's aftershave or perfume sometimes wafting across my nose. But it's rare. As rare as Bigfoot if I'm honest; you get close to thinking you've found it, and then poof there's no such thing. Kinda like my current sex life. Tried to find it, but it's not there. Extinct would be how Avery describes it.

I don't usually do hook ups, or one nights with random guys. I prefer to be in a relationship, so seen as my last relationship became non-existent about three months ago, so has my sex life.
I mean I could probably get a hookup, there's plenty of takers right now. I've got about forty different pairs of desperate eyes on me as I squeeze through the throng of bodies, but that's probably to do with my outfit. 

Avery insisted I wear a tight black mini dress, and right now my boobs are spilling out the top and my ass is almost on show. Not my usual look, but apparently I needed to leave my comfort zone; that being jeans and a nice top.

Personally, I don't see the problem, but Avery had a hard time dealing with it. So hard she started undressing me before I could even protest. 

Typical Avery: controlling and straight to the point.

But hey, that's my best friend, and she's amazing. Apart from right now because I'm trying to manoeuvre through a sweaty, grope-fest of a club on my own.

This always happened. Or at least eighty percent of the time it did. Avery was a blonde bombshell, gorgeous pale skin, lip fillers that made her lips plump, and tall with legs up to my shoulders. This meant that guys would fall at her feet, desperate for the hot bombshell to explode on their dick. Literally. She always took someone home, without a doubt.

I'd managed to push through the busiest part of the club, but I was still being stalked by a thousand pair of eyes. I just wanted to go home, curl up on the sofa with a mug of hot chocolate, and burn this dress. 

I was halfway to the bar - almost completing my mission - when some random idiot decided he had the balls to confront my dress attire.

"Hey gorgeous, you know your ass is about to come out of that dress right?"

Typical dick.

My body swivelled directly towards him, while my hand uncontrollably made contact with his chiselled jaw. It was hard, angular, and as sharp as the slap itself. I was practically hypnotised by the sight before me.

He was off the charts, out of this world, gorgeous. You know the dark brown, dishevelled hair; five o'clock shadow - that he models perfectly; emerald green eyes; and muscles begging to be touched beneath his tight fitted, crisp shirt.
You know that type? We all do. And god do I want a piece of that.

I suppressed an eye roll at my alcohol consumed brain. What an Earth was I saying? He was clearly a dick.

He rubbed his face and gaped at me in shock. Maybe I didn't need to slap him, but he was getting on my last nerve by making that comment. I'd dealt with enough tonight as it is from men.

"You slapped me? I was being nice." He was still rubbing his cheek, a red tinge marring his skin already.

Pushing the damage I'd done to the back of my mind, I wavered my arms around and looked at him in despair. Nice? He was being nice? Jesus was he stupid?