Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 79747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79747 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 399(@200wpm)___ 319(@250wpm)___ 266(@300wpm)
I feel selfish putting Dawson in this position, but I’m grateful he took my request seriously. I’ve been mentally preparing myself all week.
I turn to see his hands glued to the steering wheel and his jaw locked tight.
“Are you mad because of my father?” I ask. I want to reach for his hand but think better of it. Tonight will kill whatever lies between us. I won’t ever see him again. He’ll get his cut of money. I’ll be a free woman and wealthy woman too.
“No, I’m not mad about that.” His grip eases, and whatever he was thinking about seems to have left his mind for now.
“Is it because I’ve put you in a bad position?”
He then looks at me, surprise in his gaze. “No, Honey. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
It feels intimate, the way he says my name. I want to ask more about what’s happening. There’s obviously something going on with him, but I find myself at a loss. No, his problems are his, and I need to focus on mine tonight. I take his advice seriously, needing to mentally prepare myself for tonight.
We drive in silence for thirty minutes before arriving at a mansion. Someone is waiting and opens my door before Dawson can get there.
“Welcome, Miss Ricci.” I nod to the man dressed in a suit.
Dawson comes around, grabs my hand, and pulls me toward the house and up the stairs.
I peek through the slightly ajar wooden door and see at least a dozen men and one woman waiting, each with their own table and drink. I didn’t even consider a woman could be a possibility.
I feel Dawson watching me, and my heart begins to race. Some of the bidders are attractive, some not at all. I recognize one as a well-known judge. I wonder what Rya would say if she knew that judge was into this sort of business. Not that I could ever tell her.
Dawson closes the door, so I can’t peek any further. “Are you sure?” he asks.
I nod in silence and let him walk me to a room around the back with a single chair. He places me on it, studies me carefully, then leans close. “You want another man to fuck you?” he asks. His tone holds a hint of volatility, and I know he’s purposefully trying to spook me. I’m starting to consider that he doesn’t want this money at all because he’s clearly trying to talk me out of it.
“I need to be fucked,” I state, though it doesn’t sound like me when the words leave my mouth. I try to take a deep breath, but he gets closer, his mouth almost touching mine.
All my thoughts dissipate at his proximity.
Right now, behind this curtain and in this room, it’s only me and Dawson.
“You will be fucked,” he says, and his gaze flicks to my lips. The tension is palpable. All that tension turns into jittery heat and expectation. I want to pull him to me, to press my lips to his and demand more from him. If he’d just fucked me, I wouldn’t be here.
Neither of us breathes for what feels like years before he pulls away. I feel the loss and the immediate reminder of my decision.
Yes, I will be fucked…
… but not by Dawson.
And not by anyone I know.
He walks out the door, and soon enough, the television lights up, and I watch as Dawson comes on the screen and welcomes everyone. He’s different—charismatic and charming, coaxing and promiscuous in all the things he promises on my behalf. I watch, transfixed, as he explains the process. Each person has a tablet with them to make their bids. A photograph of me, on my hands and knees, appears on the screen. And then, after Dawson’s introduction, a woman I recognize from the group with him at the restaurant takes over. She’s most likely his assistant or business partner or something.
She tells them I have an age limit, and those who don’t qualify may leave or do as they please while the bidding starts. They can then come in on the next one.
The next one?
My heart races.
How many women are willing to do this tonight? I wonder what their reasons are.
The camera pans to the crowd, showing the bidders. I can’t see them clearly, as they’re sitting in the dark with only the dimly lit screens to light their silhouettes.
The bidding starts at one million, and I freeze as a bidding frenzy ensues. My hands are glued to the seat, and I feel them sweating. The bids come in lightning quick. One bidder constantly outbidding the others.
Oh my God, who is it?
What do they look like?
Are they kind?
Will they be slow and gentle with me?
How much will it hurt?
The bidding hits ten million dollars, and my jaw drops. I recall Dawson telling me the previous highest bid at one of these auctions was ten million. Surely, I won’t surpass that? But the bids keep increasing. My heart is pounding, and I realize I have arms wrapped around my waist. That figure can’t be real.