Acceptable Service: Tipping The Ruthless Billionaire

Pain drilled through Colette Barrett's temples, a sharp, rhythmic pounding that synced perfectly with the nausea rolling in her stomach. It felt as if a semi-truck had parked directly on her skull. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, afraid that letting in even a sliver of light would shatter her head completely. She tried to shift, seeking the cool side of the pillow, but her left hand brushed against something that was definitely not a pillow.

It was warm. It was hard. It was skin.

Her eyes snapped open.

The room was dim, filtered through heavy, expensive blackout curtains, but there was enough gray morning light to reveal the situation. She was in a bed the size of a small island. The sheets were high-thread-count Egyptian cotton, smooth against her naked legs. And right next to her, breathing with the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep, was a man.

Panic clawed at her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle the scream building in her chest.

Memories from the previous night flashed like a disjointed slide show. The torrential rain soaking her cheap coat. The dive bar where she tried to drown the sorrow of her father's latest medical bill. The sleazy guy who wouldn't take no for an answer. Running into the hotel lobby to escape the rain. The elevator. A man with cold fingers and a voice like gravel.

She looked at him. Even in the shadows, he was devastating. Sharp jawline, dark stubble, a nose that looked like it had been carved from marble. He was too perfect. Too groomed.

Her heart sank into her stomach. This wasn't a random hookup. This was The Pierre Hotel. This was a penthouse suite. And this man looked like he cost more per hour than she made in a year.

He had to be an escort. A high-end, exclusive male escort.

Colette squeezed her eyes shut again. She was broke. She was drowning in debt. And now, she had likely racked up a bill for services she couldn't even remember enjoying. If he woke up, he would demand payment. He would call security.

She had to move. Now.

She slid out from under the heavy duvet, wincing as her sore muscles protested. Her dress-a thrift store find that had seen better days-was in a heap on the carpet. She snatched it up and shimmied into it, her fingers fumbling with the zipper.

She scanned the floor for her shoes. One was near the door. The other was under the nightstand. As she reached for the second heel, her foot nudged a pair of pristine Italian leather loafers.

Thud.

The sound echoed in the silent room like a gunshot.

On the bed, the man stirred. His brow furrowed, and a low, guttural sound vibrated in his chest.

Colette froze. She stopped breathing. Her heart hammered against her ribs so hard she thought he might hear it.

He didn't wake up. He just rolled over, burying his face in