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I turn toward the woman. "He's safe? This Dom?"
She nods. "Yes."
I don't know why I trust her. She's a complete stranger, but my gut says she wouldn't lie to me.
I add, "And I can tell him no and leave if I don't like the contract?"
"Yes. We will provide transportation back here," she reiterates.
I take a deep breath, then make a decision. "Okay. I'll go and listen to his terms."
She claps her hands and then leans into my ear, whispering, "I can't wait to see you back here with him."
Once again, I'm clueless about what she's referring to, but I definitely won't be returning. Everyone's treated me well here, but I'm pretty sure this isn't my scene.
Plus, I can't live with a stranger for a month and definitely not a year. Especially one who wants me to sleep with him.
Nope. I'll hitch a ride to wherever this secret hideaway is, then go on my way.
The auctioneer pulls a black satin scarf out of his pocket, and I have a flashback of less than a few hours ago.
I wince, asking, "Why do I need the blindfold?"
"Like I said, the Dom is extremely private. He doesn't allow anyone at his house. To be honest, I'm surprised he's allowing you," the auctioneer claims.
My stomach flips again, but I allow him to blindfold me.
I'm led to an SUV. I know because I have to step up to get into the back seat. The door shuts, and the sound of the engine starting fills my ears.
I spend the long ride tugging on my fingers or tapping my thigh, trying not to freak out. When the car finally stops, the driver says, "We're here."
I wait, and he opens my door, reaches in for me, and leads me over a driveway and into a house.
A man orders, "You'll wait outside."
Goose bumps break out on my skin.Why does that voice sound familiar?
The sound of the front door shutting hits my ears. The man steps forward and a woody-spicy scent laced with orange peels flares in my nostrils. My skin prickles with electricity. There's only one man who's ever smelled like that.
But it can't be.
His hot breath hits my ear, and I shudder as his tongue touches my lobe. He purrs, "Blakely, it's been a long time."
I gasp, holding my breath, my insides quivering with too many emotions.
For years, I've thought of him. I've wondered what he's doing, what it would be like to be with him, and if he remembered me.
He removes the blindfold, and my mouth turns dry.
I whisper, "Riggs."
His dirty-blond surfer locks are exactly how I remember, with one side curling close to his crystal-clear blue eyes. He's more filled out than I recall. He must have removed his suit jacket because the white designer shirt strains against his pecs. Several buttons are undone, and his cuffs are rolled to the middle of his thick forearms, displaying his arm sleeve tattoos I never knew existed. Thinking back, he always wore buttoned-up, long-sleeve shirts like my father and his friends. I gape at the inked artwork, sprawling across him. And it all makes him sexier than I remember.
"Sit down, Blakely," he orders.
A new fear hits me as I get over my shock of seeing him. I beg, "Don't take me to my father."
His lips twitch, and he claims, "It'll be a cold day in Hell when I turn you over to Hugh Gallow."
