“Four thousand dollars,” a deep voice calls from the left side. Jill squeals in delight.
I stop paying attention to the auction. So Christian was in that kind of trouble at school, fighting. I wonder why. I stare at him. Lily is watching us closely.
“And now, allow me to introduce the beautiful Ana.”
“Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks fluent Mandarin, and is keen on yoga… well, gentlemen-” Before he can even finish his sentence Christian interrupts him, glaring at the MC through his mask.
“Ten thousand dollars.” I hear Lily’s gasp of disbelief behind me.
“Fifteen.”
What? We all turn as one to a tall, impeccably dressed man standing to the left of the stage. I blink at Fifty. Shit, what will he make of this? But he’s scratching his chin and giving the stranger an ironic smile. It’s obvious Christian knows him. The stranger nods politely at Christian.
“Well, gentlemen! We have high rollers in the house this evening.” The MC’s excitement emanates through his harlequin mask as he turns to beam at Christian. This is a great show, but it’s at my expense. I want to wail.
“Twenty,” counters Christian quietly.
The babble of the crowd has died. Everyone is staring at me, Christian, and Mr. Mysterious by the stage.
“Twenty-five,” the stranger says.
Could this be any more embarrassing?
Christian stares at him impassively, but he’s amused. All eyes are on Christian. What’s he going to do? My heart is in my mouth. I feel sick.
“One hundred thousand dollars,” he says his voice ringing clear and loud through the marquee.
“What the fuck?” Lily hisses audibly behind me, and a general gasp of dismay and amusement ripples through the crowd. The stranger holds his hands up in defeat, laughing, and Christian smirks at him. From the corner of my eye, I can see Mia bouncing up and down with glee. My subconscious is gazing at Christian, utterly gobsmacked.
“One-hundred thousand dollars for the lovely Ana! Going once… going twice…” The MC stares at the stranger who shakes his head with mock regret and bows chivalrously.
“Sold!” the MC cries out triumphantly.
In a deafening round of applause and cheering, Christian steps forward to take my hand and help me from the stage. He gazes at me with an amused grin as I make my way down, kisses the back of my hand then tucks it into the crook of his arm, and leads me toward the marquee’s exit.
“Who was that?” I ask.
He gazes down at me. “Someone you can meet later. Right now, I want to show you something. We have about thirty minutes until the First Dance Auction finishes. Then we have to be back on the dance floor so that I can enjoy that dance I’ve paid for.”
“A very expensive dance,” I mutter disapprovingly.
“I’m sure it’ll be worth every single cent.” He smiles down at me wickedly. Oh, he has a glorious smile, and the ache is back, blossoming in my body.
We’re out on the lawn. I thought we would be heading to the boathouse, but disappointingly we seem to be heading for the dance floor where the big band is now setting up. There are at least twenty musicians, and a few guests are milling about, furtively smoking-but since most of the action is back in the marquee, we don’t attract too much attention.
Christian leads me to the rear of the house and opens a French window leading into a large comfortable sitting room that I’ve not seen before. He walks through the deserted hall toward the sweeping staircase with its elegant, polished wooden balustrade. Taking my hand from the crook of his arm, he leads me up to the second floor and up another flight of stairs to the third. Opening a white door, he ushers me into one of the bedrooms.
“This was my room,” he says quietly, standing by the door and locking it behind him.
It’s large, stark, and sparsely furnished. The walls are white as is the furniture; a spacious double bed, a desk and chair, shelves crammed with books and lined with various trophies for kickboxing by the look of them. The walls are hung with movie posters:
But what catches my eye is the white pin board above the desk, studded with a myriad of photographs, Mariners pennants, and ticket stubs. It’s a slice of young Christian. My eyes come back to the magnificent, beautiful man now standing in the center of the room. He looks at me darkly, brooding and sexy.
“I’ve never brought a girl in here,” he murmurs.
“Never?” I whisper.
He shakes his head.
I swallow convulsively, and the ache that has been bothering me for the last couple of hours is roaring now, raw and wanting. Seeing him standing there on the royal blue carpet in that mask… it’s beyond erotic. I want him. Now. Any way I can get him. I have to resist launching myself at him and ripping his clothes off. He waltzes over to me slowly.
“We don’t have long, Anastasia, and the way I’m feeling right this moment, we won’t need long. Turn round. Let me get you out of that dress.”
I turn and stare at the door, grateful that he’s locked it. Bending down he whispers softly in my ear, “Keep the mask on.”
I groan as my body clenches in response. He’s not even touched me yet.
He grasps the top of my dress, his fingers sliding against my skin, and the touch reverberates through my body. In one swift move, he opens the zipper. Holding my dress, he helps me to step out of it, then turns and drapes it artfully over the back of a chair. Removing his jacket, he places it over my dress. He pauses, and stares at me for a moment, drinking me in. I’m in the basque and matching panties, and I revel in his sensuous gaze.
“You know, Anastasia,” he says softly as he stalks toward me, undoing his bow tie so it hangs from either side of his neck, then undoing the top three buttons of his shirt. “I was so mad when you bought my auction lot. All manner of ideas ran through my head. I had to remind myself that punishment is off the menu. But then you volunteered.” He gazes down at me through his mask. “Why did you do that?” he whispers.
“Volunteer? I don’t know. Frustration… too much alcohol… worthy cause,” I mutter meekly, shrugging. Maybe to get his attention?
I needed him then. I need him more now. The ache is worse, and I know he can soothe it, calm this roaring, salivating beast in me with the beast in him. His mouth presses into a line, and he slowly licks his upper lip. I want that tongue on me.
“I vowed to myself I would not spank you again, even if you begged me.”
“Please,” I beg.
“But then I realized, you’re probably very uncomfortable at the moment, and it’s not something you’re used to.” He smirks at me knowingly, arrogant bastard, but I don’t care because he’s absolutely right.
“Yes,” I breathe.
“So, there might be a certain… latitude. If I do this, you must promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“You will safe word if you need to, and I will just make love to you, okay?”
“Yes.” I’m panting. I want his hands on me.
He swallows, then takes my hand, and moves toward the bed. Throwing the duvet aside, he sits down, grabs a pillow, and places it beside him. He gazes up at me standing beside him and suddenly tugs hard on my hand so that I fall across his lap. He shifts slightly so my body is resting on the bed, my chest on the pillow, my face to one side. Leaning over, he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and runs his fingers through the plume of feathers on my mask.
“Put your hands behind your back,” he murmurs.
