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"Take good care of him, and yourself, too."
I hug her hard, and then Hunter is there beside me, offering his arm. As we move toward the side door, crowded by the laughing, hooting girls, and Hunter wraps an arm around my waist, I can't help feeling just a little like we're bride and groom. Which is ridiculous. So, so silly. And feels more so as we burst through the door into a ring of guards. I feel Hunter's arms around me, guiding my steps, and then he's picking me up. I feel his feet leave the ground and I'm aware we've moved into a car.
He tucks me close, under his rock-hard arm, and leans up. "Drive," he tells someone.
I feel the car lurch forward and hear the familiar whirring sound of the thick, plastic partition going up between the front of an Escalade limousine and the back. Seconds later, the hood is pulled gently off my head, and I'm staring into Hunter's green cat eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
~HUNTER~
I've gone and done it now. Lost my fucking mind. When Marchant started acting sketchy on the phone last night, I didn't know what the hell was going on, but then I remembered those billboards on the way to the ranch, and how I always get a giant hard-on when I see that woman's curves. I got a sick idea and when I really lit into March, he gave the old tired “I’m not going to say yes or no”, and for Marchant that's always a “Yeah, Bro!”
Libby DeVille—virgin for sale.
I had half a mind to punch Marchant out until I realized what a hypocrite I was being. Well, until he pointed it out—that I myself pay for escorts, and what's different about Libby and those girls?
The answer: a thousand fucking things, and nothing at all. Is it wrong for me to make a distinction? Maybe, but I don’t care. I stayed angry, and tonight, when I saw her wearing red, all that long dark hair splayed across the bed, it was like a holy vision. Except we weren’t in heaven. We were in a fancy brothel, and there were a dozen other men with the same view I had—and they didn't deserve to be there. I know I didn't either, but this world's imperfect, and I couldn't stand to see her with somebody else.
So I bid on her.
I piled cash all the way to the ceiling for her, but now that I’ve won I'm wondering what the hell I'm gonna do with her. I don’t plan to make her fulfill her contract, obviously… I know, I've had a lot of sex with escorts, but Libby isn't an escort. If she fucks me, it'll be because she wants to.
Hal pulls away from the curb, and there’s an obvious question in Libby’s ocean-colored eyes, like she has no idea why I'm so riled up. She folds her arms over her middle, looking gorgeous with her hair rolling in waves over her shoulders. "I wish I understood what's going on with you."
I grit my teeth. The feeling is mutual. “Why did you do this?"
"Do what?" She crosses her legs, and I can see every line of her under the snug jacket I borrowed from Loveless.
I scowl, because I’m not in a game-playing mood. “Pursue your PhD,” I say with as much sarcasm as I can muster. “What do you think?”
She's looking down at her hands, but her spine is stiff. She's got her hackles up. Her eyes rise to mine and I find her face blank. "I did it because I needed the money. Are you going to get all judgy?"
Me who just paid for her. Me who, I assume she knows, visited Love Inc. almost daily for several years. Of course I don’t judge her for the idea, but the execution…well, stupid, even if she doesn’t know that.
I shudder to think who she could have ended up with. I also don’t understand why she’s so hard up. "I know the value of your mother's home. Why not just sell it?" I rub my dry eyes.
“It’s in my dad’s name.”
I frown. “You must have had some other means. Some kind of trust fund—”
"Hunter," she cuts me off, quiet but firm, "you're not my keeper."
I inhale deeply, rubbing a hand across my face. I like the way my name sounds coming from her mouth. I think about the way she looked, lying on that bed, and I'm hard again in an instant, even as she gives me a wide-eyed, serious look.
"I hope you didn't bid on me out of some misplaced feeling of responsibility." Her eyes drop, then raise to meet mine, and I can sense a rallying as she squares her shoulders slightly. "Why did you bid on me?"
My answer won't do, so I ignore her question. "Do you realize anyone could have won?"
"Anyone without a criminal record," she corrects. "And yes."
"Do you know who the runner-up was?" The runner up was Alexander Halford, a weasel corporate attorney who's fifty-five and only fucks women in their '20s.
She lifts her shoulders, staring straight ahead, at the limousine’s divider wall. "I don't care."
"Such trust in the world." Even to my own ears, I sound like a caricature of some cynical old man, but I don't give a shit. Looking her over, imagining Halford's hands on her, I feel another wave of rage.
"Trust or apathy?" She arches a brow. "It's just sex, and it's just one time. I wanted what could be done with the money badly enough that it didn't matter who the winning bidder was."
