likes to play games.
belong with her.
never take back.
take everything from me, but they can’t take her.
I need you to sign a contract.”
end of us?
stronger than ever.
Charlotte Byrd is the bestselling author of many contemporary romance
She lives in Southern California with her husband, son, and a crazy
toy Australian Shepherd. She loves books, hot weather and crystal
Honestly, I don’t know.
On one hand, it seems insane.
A sex auction, in this day and age.
We’re supposed to be liberated and free.
We can have sex with anyone we choose.
On the other hand, being liberated and free also means that I’m free to participate in an
auction if I want.
Would this really make me a prostitute?
Or do you get some sort of one-night pass?
I mean, I’ve had a one night stand before after a really nice dinner.
How exactly would this be any different?I wait on the bed breathing very fast for what feels like forever. My fingers nervously fidget
and run along edge of my restraints. I can’t see the robe that I’m wearing, but I know it’s the
sexiest thing I’ve ever worn for a man. Plus, the feathers feel very soft and comfortable. It’s like
I’m wrapped in luxury.
Waiting is pure torture. There’s room in the mask for my eyes to open freely without my
eyelashes touching the fabric, but all I see is blackness around me. How long do I have to wait
like this? My thoughts keep going back to the amount of money that the mysterious Mr. Black
paid for me. $250,000. That’s a lot of money. I wonder what kind of night he is expecting from all
of this. To tell you the truth, I’m not the most exciting girl in bed. I’m actually quite boring. I don’t
like to do a lot and I’m not a huge fan of being on top. When I’m on top, I can never relax
enough to actually orgasm.
The door swings open. I exhale and inhale deeply, trying to compose myself. My body
suddenly gets really cold and really hot at the same time. My hormones must be going nuts. I
hear the footsteps approaching the bed.
“Hello?” I ask, not able to bear the anticipation much longer.
“Good evening,” he says after a moment. His voice is smooth, and deep, and has a kind of
oak quality to it. He doesn’t sound very old, but then again, what do I know about voices?
“Are you Mr. Black?” I ask.
“Yes, I am,” he says slowly. “But you may call me Sir.”
“Just sir?” I ask.
“Yes, just sir.”
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