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“A hundred thousand,” the first man to bid says clearly. A murmur of excitement passes through the party guests. Things are getting too serious.
My legs are jelly, and my knees are seconds from buckling out from under me. Holy shit, did I hear that right? I think I might be sick.
“Two hundred,” someone else adds.
“Three.”
Yep, I’m definitely going to be sick. Who on Earth would spend that kind of money on me?
“Three-fifty!”
“Five hundred—”
“One million.” I recognize his voice now. It’s the first man who bid on me.
My chest seizes. One million dollars for an hour of my time? Who the hell is this guy?
Several long beats pass. Nobody else makes a bid. How could they after a massive jump like that?
Priscilla Kelp claps her hands, looking pleased as punch. I’d be happy, too, if I just made a million plus change for my uncredited performance arts school.
“Thank you all so much for your support,” she says. “Please, right this way. The rest of you, enjoy the rest of your evenings.”
I’m quickly swept away, confused and still a little dazed by everything that’s happened. I’m guided to one of the many lavish rooms in the penthouse suite. My skin suddenly feels very hot, the tips of my fingers and toes uncomfortably numb. Is this really happening? I mean, surely nothing bad will happen. There are tons of witnesses just on the other side of the doors. Besides, if my mystery bidder tries anything funny, I at least have a couple years’ worth of self-defense classes under my belt.
I’m left waiting for a few minutes. Or maybe it’s hours. I really can’t tell, too focused on the anxious skip of my heart. What’s taking this guy so long? I just want to get this next hour over with. If he keeps me waiting any longer, I might very well dip and go home. I’ll cover Charlotte’s half of the rent out of what little there is in my savings account if I have to. This whole thing was such a stupid mistake.
Pacing back and forth in the room, I fiddle with my hair. It’s a wild, overheated mess of ringlets. I pull uncomfortably at my barely there lingerie, praying everything is covered. Should I sit down? Or should I stand? What does this guy even want to talk about? Do I have anything worth saying?
The door to the room creaks open.
I turn, sucking in a sharp breath.
In steps a man. My mystery bidder. Until now, my mind was running wild with speculation, trying and failing to fabricate an image of who he was. My jaw drops open when I see him. My imagination could never have predicted the silver fox who walks in.
He is arguably the sexiest man I have ever seen in my entire life.
He stands roughly a foot and a half taller than me with a wide chest and strong shoulders. There’s grey in his hair and beard, both of which are trimmed and neatly groomed. He’s muscular, but not bulky in the gross bodybuilder kind of way. Tanned skin pulled taut over rolling muscles, accentuating the bulge of his arms, his strong thighs, and his chiseled abs. Like all the other party guests, he’s completely nude save for the black mask he wears over his eyes. Naturally, my eyes are immediately drawn to his cock. I swallow, my breath catching in my throat. To say he’s well-endowed would be doing him a disservice. He looks like a Greek statue, every inch of him carved to perfection.
I press my knees together, ignoring the blooming wet heat between my legs. Good grief. Should I say something? Or does he talk first? Whatever the answer, if I don’t breathe soon, I might pass out.
Without saying a word, the man takes a seat on the available couch, casually throwing an arm over the back while crossing his legs. His dark brown eyes sweep over my body. I swear I can almost feel it as he scans my skin, admires my form. He doesn’t say anything for the longest time, which makes me exceedingly nervous. I don’t know what to do.
“Well?” he says after a moment. His voice is rich, deep—the lowest resonating notes of a bass cello. “Take it all off,” he orders.
Chapter 4
Mikhail
Iread people for a living. My father taught me how to sniff out lies, how to figure out a person’s tells. It used to serve him very well when he was still part of the Antonov Bratva. While my brothers and I have distanced ourselves from that side of the family, my father’s teachings have proven useful in our line of work. It’s in the eyes, in the body language, in their choice words.
And that’s exactly why I know my dear Charlotte is full of shit.
“I won’t ask again,” I say flatly. “Take your clothes off.”
She casts her pretty blue eyes to the soft carpet. Avoidant. Then she crosses her arms over her chest. Defensive. “No,” she mumbles, her voice soft but firm.
“It’s only fair,” I insist. “You get to see all of me, so I want to see all of you.”
