The Venture Capitalist by LaVie EnRose, L.V. Lewis Page A

I’m almost at the point of calling my weekend car service, when she strolls into the room.
    My skin prickles when Ms. Beale enters VIP, which annoys me, because it usually takes months for me to be this in tune with a submissive, let alone a woman I haven’t even fucked yet. I pretend not to see her, because her skittishness has been proven by her avoidance of me for almost a week, my unannounced visit to her work notwithstanding. She is a vision in a figure-enhancing purple dress this time.
    When a woman has assets like hers, not flaunting them would be downright sinful. Her hair is down in what seems to be her natural curl. I can’t wait for the chance to hold that mane while I take her from behind. Shit. Where is she going?
    Apparently, she’s seen me. Thankfully, Darnelle hasn’t seen Keisha, because she will call her over, and I’m not ready to approach her. Yet. If this goes as planned, Darnelle will make her move, then I’ll swoop in like Keisha’s knight in glittering armor, because this woman needs to be fucked. For my purposes, she needs to be flogged, cropped, bound and fucked, and not in that particular order. At this point, I’ll take it however, it comes.
    I breathe easier when I see she’s found a seat at the bar. Now to make a brief exit until Darnelle scares the living shit out of her with her ham-handed seduction routine. I turn to Brent.
    “I’d like to take a look at your cash-flow reports for the past few months,” I say. “That would save me a trip over here in the next couple of weeks.”
    “Sure,” he says, forever eager to impress the hand that feeds him. He stands and I follow him to the door at the end of the bar closest to us, which leads into the offices.
    It seems Ms. Beale is telling guy number three or four to piss off and doesn’t notice when I slip out of the room with Brent. She’ll get another offer soon enough from a celebrity whose music she’s no doubt grown up listening to and if she’s as uncompromisingly heterosexual as I believe she is, that pick up will go over like a lead balloon.
    I gave Brent’s paperwork a brief once-over, then checked the markets in several countries before deciding I’d given Darnelle enough rope to hang herself. I leave the sound-proof office area and re-enter the VIP lounge.
    Darnelle is pouring champagne for herself, Keisha, and another guy I don’t recognize, but who’s dressed like Danai, so he must be a rapper. His body language indicates he’s interested in Keisha; as in, he wants to fuck her. This woman is like a garden of flora in full bloom and all the bees are interested in her pollen. I’m putting a stop to this shit right now.
    “Ms. Beale, fancy seeing you here,” I say, enunciating the syllables distinctly. The new guy frowns when he realizes I’m staking a claim. Keisha looks as if she’s a deer in proverbial headlights, before she relaxes and counters back.
    “Yeah, fancy that.” Her response is vaguely familiar, as if she’s borrowed it from somewhere that I can’t recall. If the book or movie doesn’t involve numbers, I probably wouldn’t remember it anyway.
    Her posture changes upon my arrival, and as she looks up at me with an emboldened stare, my eyes are drawn to her nipples beading through that goddamn purple dress.
    Our eyes duel as they have been wont to do since we met merely a week ago. Rapper guy hands me a glass of champagne, and while it’s not my preferred brand, I take it and have a seat, because I’ll be damned if he’s going to horn in and steal away this woman I’ve been obsessing over for a solid week.
    I move to the edge of my chair and address Keisha. “I’d like to have a word with you in private after you finish your drink. I still have something that belongs to you since our early attempts to connect with you to effect its return weren’t successful.”
    She fires back shaking her head, “You shouldn’t have gone to any trouble. I’ve replaced all my personal property that