V-Card For Sale – A Billionaire/Virgin Second Chance Auction Romance Page 12

  Clark’s whole body was draped over me, pressing me into the floor. His dick was merciless, in and out, and over again, my whole body was throbbing with pain and pleasure, some blissful fusion of the two. Together we rocked, harder and faster, and better, until, with one final thrust to end all thrusts, Clark came. His pulsing rod shook an orgasm into me too, so it was both of us cumming, him on top of me, his cum spraying into me, while I soaked onto the carpet below.

  We lay there for a while, and when Clark finally slid out of me, he told me to wait. I did as I was told, even as I heard water running in the bathroom. When Clark came back, he picked me up and carried me into the bathroom. There, he deposited me into a tub that was filled with rose petals. He climbed in after me and wrapped his arms around me. There we were joined once again, there was no need for conversation now that our bodies had said so much.

  Now was the time to feel: the hot oblivion of the tub water, the cool breeze from the open window. Now was the time to smell the flush of the rose petals floating all around us. Now was the time to be thankful for it all, to thank God for Clark Denton, for all the hard years I had endured so that now I really appreciated what I had.

  “I love you, Kristin Blair,” Clark said suddenly, and the whole room echoed with it, our little tune, our big love.

  CLARK

  The next morning, I served her breakfast in bed.

  “I made your favorite: raisin toast and scrambled eggs,” I whispered and she kissed me.

  We ate it together, the eggs and margarine-saturated bread, she feeding me when I wasn’t feeding her. By the time we were supposed to be leaving, Kristin was still naked and I had nothing but my boxers on. A quick call to the airport fixed that, however; I had bought my own jet a few months ago.

  “We have another hour,” I announced to Kristin as soon as I hung up the phone.

  “First, let’s check on the cats,” she said.

  We went to our office, the felines’ current favorite hangout. As if it wasn’t enough that Kristin and I worked there (with breaks for sex and cuddling), lately the cats had taken to flopping together there, too.

  This morning, sure enough, Kristin’s instincts had proven correct: all three cats were now curled in a warm pile of fur and fat. We surveyed them with incredulous grins.

  We had introduced the cats to each other gradually, sure there would be conflict. But Romeo and Juliet had welcomed Nala as easily as if they had always known her, and Nala had quickly taken to eating like mad and curling up with the couple. Now, months later, she was just as fat and just as likely to be curled up with them.

  “Okay,” I said after a few minutes of our amusing fat-cat cuddle show, “Should we get dressed now?”

  But Kristin shook her head.

  “There’s one more thing I want to do.”

  “Oh?” I asked, but she only took my hand. Leading me up the stairs, she took me to the empty room with the window.

  “It’s a while since we’ve been here,” she said softly.

  She opened the window, climbed up and sat down in our old position, her legs hanging down over oblivion. I climbed up beside her, put my arm around her. I was reminded of why she liked it up here.

  “It’s not just the beauty of the view, or being out in the fresh air, is it?” I asked. “It’s because sitting here like this reminds you of it, doesn’t it?”

  Kristin nodded.

  “It reminds me of sitting here just over a year ago and feeling the view reduce me to an insignificant speck, reminding me of just how lonely I was. Now, though, it makes me feel even more lucky to be sitting here and feel so differently, to have such a different life—such a full, vibrant and exciting life.”

  I turned to her, because her words were as good as mine—better, because it was like our brains were hooked up on the same weirdly high wonderful line. And I kissed her because it was the only thing left to do to her, my Kristin Blair, my soulmate, and the love of my life.

  And, as I drew back, I surveyed the landscape, clasped my love’s hand and thought: today was the day.

  Yes, today was the day that nothing could get better.

  The End

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  Boss Me, Bind Me

  Layla Valentine & Ana Sparks

  Ready for more?

  Here is mine and Layla’s previous book, Boss Me, Bind Me, in full!

  Copyright 2017 by Layla Valentine and Ana Sparks

  All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part by any means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the explicit written permission of the author. All characters depicted in this fictional work are consenting adults, of at least eighteen years of age. Any resemblance to persons living or deceased, particular businesses, events, or exact locations are entirely coincidental.

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  Chapter One

  Donna

  Today was the first day of the rest of my life.

  As the protestors and I advanced toward the police, I wasn’t afraid. Not anymore. This was my fourth protest, and this time, I had even managed to drag Helen out. No, I wasn’t afraid, because I needed to do this. Justice was going to be served, even if I had to wrest it out myself.

  The other protestors had similar thoughts. A sea of faces twisted with the same injustice my heart was fighting against. Fists were pumped and mouths opened and closed with the chant that tied it all together: “RayGen not again! RayGen not again! RayGen not again!”

  This same mantra bloomed from my own throat, and soon, I was one of the twisted faces and pumped fists, my voice a part of the collective voice. “RayGen not again! RayGen not again!” It was a voice for good, one against RayGen’s latest oil pipeline, another development on our land that shouldn’t have been allowed, that had been taken unethically. Just how my family’s ranch had been.

  The sun was shining obliviously, the sky an almost insultingly clear blue. Helen, my fellow waitress at Blue’s, still hadn’t released her death grip on my arm, her hand acting as a manicured handcuff.

  The police and private security had their own twisted faces, their own chant: “Get back! This is private property. I warn you—get back! You have to dissipate, or you’ll be facing arrest.”

  They were advancing and we were drawing back.

  “Donna, there’s no media,” said Helen, and she was right.

  There were no reporters, no videographers, no one. Without them, our cause was more hopeless than futile, our rebellion less than invisible. Without the media, this was as good as a gob of spit on RayGen’s impassive face.

  And yet, as I looked around me, at the faces I was growing to know better and better each protest—Peter and Sam, the hippies with their tie-dye shirts and shaggy hair; Yan, the petite mother with the loudest voice; Kyle, my own manager—I knew it wasn’t about that. It wasn’t about standing up for justice when the odds were good, when we were bound to be victorious.

  No, fighting for justice wasn’t about winning. It was about doing what was right, fighting for it—often hopelessly, uselessly, and stupidly—and yet fighting all the same. It was about standing up for the good in the world when no one else would.

  And yet, the dirt underfoot was slippery as we drew back, farther and farther, the police and security advancing with their riot shields and their unseeing faces.

  As we passed a digger, its black teeth already dug into the ground, Yan ran over to it. Out of her green canvas backpack she extracted a long, thick silver
chain. It clanged as she took it out and swung it round her bare tan arm and the digger’s golden yellow one.

  But she was too late. Two scowling officers were already there, one at each arm, shoving her back into the still-withdrawing crowd of protestors. Their faces wore only a mild annoyance, as if they were swatting away a fly. As the group of protestors neared the dirt road we’d come in on and looked around, seeing the bowed heads and set-in frowns, it was clear: we’d failed.

  Yan had tears in her eyes. I went over to her and hugged her.

  “It’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

  Because this wasn’t over, and her brave act of rebellion hadn’t been in vain. I had an idea.

  Chapter Two

  Carter

  The alarm went off at 6:55 a.m., as it always did. I got out of bed, put on my robe, and went downstairs.

  Breakfast was on the table—a bowl of shredded wheat. I had fifteen minutes to eat, but I did it in five. There was no time to waste. Wasted time was wasted money. Bad habits were like flesh-eating diseases; once you developed them, you had to amputate to remove them.

  Karen was nowhere to be seen. Good.

  Today’s suit was hanging on the outside of my closet—black with blue stripes. Once it was on, it was time to brush my teeth. After thirty seconds on each quadrant of my mouth, the toothbrush buzzed and I was done.

  My briefcase was ready by the door. I picked it up and went outside where my car was waiting.

  Inside, I sat down and paused. My phone was buzzing with notifications, but they could wait. My screen went black, and I stared at my reflection. I felt strange.

  I turned the key in the ignition and pressed my foot on the gas.

  No matter. Once I got to work, I’d pop a caffeine pill or a painkiller depending how I was feeling—lazy or annoyed. Or both.

  The roads were clear, the cars like clumsy turtles bumbling out of my way, the same way life always had.

  Weird, how no one else saw the patterns that underlay everything. The equations, the fractions, the rules that were absolute, that, once found, made the user unstoppable. That was what I was and, after today, what I would be—immutably.

  “I’m going to make you proud, Father,” I whispered under my breath.

  I got to work in seven minutes, three better than usual. Today was turning out to be a success already. I pulled into my parking spot, the one labelled “CEO,” then strode into my building.

  In the lobby, the suited peons were swarming, a horribly frightened, busy mass. I strode through easily; all stepped aside for the CEO of RayGen, the wonder kid, the boy who was tapped in, unstoppable, ruthless. The last man who had annoyed me had ended up flipping burgers.

  The black marble echoed as I walked across it, and the elevator beeped for a split-second before arriving. I’d had it installed after all. “The best elevators in the country,” the seller had said before I’d lowballed him into the price he gave them to me for. Sometimes it was so easy. It astounded me how others didn’t get it. Take, or be taken from. Choose, or have your choice made for you. They were simple yet incontrovertible laws, and still, these days it seemed like I was the only one who got it. No matter.

  In the elevator, people had pressed themselves out of the way and were shooting admiring looks at me. I nodded back. After work today, I would eat the meal ready for me on my table, go to the gym, and then sleep.

  Floor by floor, more people scuttled out until the silent box reached the top—my floor, the penthouse. The elevator doors opened, and as I sauntered out, Cynthia shot me a significant smile.

  Ah yes, Cynthia. Maybe between work and going home to eat, I could spare twenty minutes for her. Why not?

  My office door opened at my touch. I surveyed it with a swell of pride: the rich mahogany desk and shelves, the panoramic view of the city, the scowling picture of my father presiding over it all like an omnipotent god. I nodded to him and smiled a close-lipped smile. Today would be as expected and orderly as all other days were.

  Chapter Three

  Donna

  This cannot be a good idea.

  As I strode up to the tall dark tower of a building, the fearful voice in my head repeated the words: This is not a good idea. There’s still time to turn back.

  But I only picked up my pace and clenched my fingers around my black purse so they’d stop shaking.

  I wasn’t going to turn back. I couldn’t. I’d bought this suit—a fitted gray two-piece—just for the occasion.

  Images of my parents, their kindly faces all crumpled as they surveyed our new house, and of my final view of our ranch in the back car window as we drove away slid through my head. RayGen had snatched our home away from us without so much as a “please” or even a fair payout.

  No, I was going to do this. I had to.

  Inside the building, I weaved my way through a scowling crowd of people, all of whom seemed to be hurrying, and looked just as scared as I felt. Their gazes rested on me too long, as if they knew already. This was not a good idea. My plan was never going to work.

  And yet, my legs were locked in motion. I wasn’t going to stop.

  Consulting the black glass directory on the wall beside the elevator told me where I needed to go: the penthouse.

  The elevator arrived immediately, the wall of people inside shifting to make room for me.

  When I pressed the golden “P” button, their stares lingered. I kept my gaze straight ahead.

  You’re a successful businesswoman. You’re Lillian Stafford, CEO, I reminded myself.

  This is never going to work, the other voice said.

  Swiftly, the elevator rose, emptying out the other people, bringing me closer to the floor I didn’t want to reach, to the finality that wasn’t going to be good. After a few more floors, it was only me, the silver chrome box, and, as it stopped at its final destination, the penthouse.

  The doors opened, and I stepped out. From a too-high clear glass desk, a blond receptionist looked down her nose at me.

  “Yes?”

  For a few seconds, I stood there speechlessly. Her utter disdain, the way her features were tensed in a bored sort of disgust—she had to know what I was about to do. Yet, how could she? When her gaze shifted away to the computer at her desk, I found my voice.

  “I’m here to see Mr. Ray.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  She didn’t even look at me.

  “No.”

  “You have to have an appointment.”

  She still hadn’t looked at me, and suddenly, I was horribly, horribly angry.

  “I don’t think you realize just who I am.”

  At my confident ‘fuck-you’ tone, she looked up. Squinting at me, her eyes narrowed, she was about to speak when I did.

  “I am Lillian Stafford, CEO of Stafford Corporations.”

  As she prepared to speak again, I added, “I wouldn’t want to be the person who prevented me from seeing Mr. Ray, if I were you.”

  In the following silence, we stared each other down, her skeptical, narrowed eyes matched by my haughty glower. Let her deny my entry. Let her just try.

  “Okay,” she said slowly, rising and walking over to an out-of-place wooden door.

  Opening it and sweeping her hand inside, she continued. “He just stepped out for a minute. He’ll be back momentarily.”

  Then, she and her strained, polite voice were gone, thankfully, and I was left with the enormity of what I was about to do.

  Truth be told, I had never expected to even get into the office of Carter Ray. I had expected them to laugh me away at the front desk, require an access card that I had to flash at the elevator—anything. And yet, now, somehow, despite everything, here I was.

  My gaze stopped on the wall, on a portrait of a malevolent-looking man. There was no time to waste; Carter could be back any minute.

  I hurried over to his wooden desk, trying not to be distracted by the intricate carving on the front of the impressive thing. Focus. Just fo
cus, Donna, I told myself. Just find a loop, a drawer, a—gotcha! The brass handle on the top drawer would do.

  Taking the handcuffs out of my pocket, I secured one around my wrist, and then the other on the handle. Then, I sat down on his navy cushioned chair, staring down the door, taking deep, slow breaths. I had made it this far. I could do this.

  The longer I waited, the more my worries festered. What was I thinking, lying my way in here and handcuffing myself to his desk? Carter Ray was a notorious sociopath; he was sure to laugh me out of there, if not call the police. Behind me, the eyes of the grumpy man in the portrait burned into me. I glared at the rich mahogany door in front of me miserably. If only that stupid, snide receptionist wasn’t at the front, I could sneak out of here and avoid this mistake I had so clearly made.

  And yet, as I rose, it was too late. The door handle was turning. The door opened, and I sat down.

  Framed in the doorway, the man paused. His dark eyes flicked around the room, stopping on me. He turned around, probably peering at the secretary he was going to question in a minute. When he turned back, he shot me another look, stepped inside, and then closed the door behind him.

  He cocked his white-blond head at me.

  “What do you want from me?”

  As I took him in, with his chiseled, harsh face, a strange excitement coursed through me, and the words spilled out of me.

  “I’ve handcuffed myself to your desk in protest against your company’s ongoing assholery. I’m not leaving; I don’t care what you do to me.”