Taking The Virgin (The Virgin Auctions, Book Three)

by Paige North

  As he teases my clit with his tongue, nosing against it to add pressure, I hear my juices bathe his face. The carnal thought of him getting so messy sends a splinter of lust through me so fast and hard that I cry out again. But I don’t come.

  Like a brute, he seems to sense this, and he repositions me so that I’m upright again. He takes me by the hips, and with a barbarous thrust, he plunges into me with his stiff, unrelenting cock.

  It seems as if all of me escapes from my body with this cry of sublime pleasure, and as he pounds into me again and again, I can feel myself coming. I was already nearly there again for him, balancing on a thin yet crooked line that seems to rip through me now, flashing back and forth like lightening, hitting me with strikes of blinding rapture.

  I come like a bolt that rocks the sky, clinging to him, urging him on as he hammers into me. I grip his hair and press my forehead to his chin. His teeth are bared in savage passion as he drives and drives, hitting me deeper and harder with every stroke. And when he climaxes, he does it with a blazing series of spurts that fills me with wet and wonderful heat.

  Then, as I still grasp at him, he picks me up as if I’m a wisp of air, a thread of oxygen that he’s trying to suck into his lungs with every gasp he makes.

  We fall back into bed together, and he holds me for a while, our breaths matching as we come down off of our mutual high. Then, almost subtly, he looks back at the chaos we left over at the vanity table.

  Another mess that bothers him in some profound way that I can’t get a hold of.

  I touch his cheek and bring his attention back to me, and he embraces me, cuddling me like that for what seems like forever. Or at least it could be until I fall asleep in his strong arms.

  When I awaken later, he’s not there and the mess is cleaned up, but I only close my eyes again, knowing I’ve got him for the next month…and maybe longer if I don’t let him push me away again.

  Chapter 14

  Over the next few days, things settle down a little into a routine for us.

  Owen works a lot, and while he’s gone, I make my calls to social services, bank loan officers, and the expensive lawyer I’ve hired with the money from my new escort contract. I touch base with my brothers and sisters to assure them that I’m still here and I haven’t forgotten them.

  But I also take some time to go shopping for more beautiful clothing just as Owen suggested, because I know that will please him.

  Last of all, I dance in the music room, laughing until my happiness echoes off the high, sterile walls.

  Whenever he comes home, we eat together, our discussions never straying from the nice, civil tone we established that first night of our newest agreement. I learn more than I thought I ever would about the medical robotics and artificial intelligence his company is developing, and my art history-major imagination can’t help but paint all of his avid descriptions into complicated yet beautiful designs and practical sculptures.

  The incredible, mind-blowing sex doesn’t change either, and I’m get deeper and deeper into him. Is he doing the same with me? Because, some nights during our afterglow, he stays to cuddle with me, stroking my hair, making me feel cared for and so very safe.

  Sometimes he stays an hour. Sometimes most of the night. But I always wake up to him being gone.

  Tonight starts off the same as it always does after he gets home—with a lovely dinner from Chef Thomas (roasted cod with a ratatouille), a little bit of wine (I’ve definitely learned how much I can handle.), and then I go straight to my room.

  I ready myself for Owen, using all those lotions and soaps he’s bought me, and then I wait.

  Sometimes I recline in bed for him covered only with a sheet.

  Sometimes I pose in a chair, feeling sexy in the sheer, delicate lingerie he bought for me.

  Whatever he asks for, I give him, and he always responds with an intensity that makes me come for him with noisy, unrestrained fervor.

  Tonight I’m lying face-to-face with him long after we’ve gotten it on. He’s stayed with me and has fallen asleep with his burly arm possessively curved over me. I can’t get to sleep myself because I’m edgy, hoping that this will be the night that he doesn’t leave me for his own bed. I want him to stay, to finally cross that flashing red line that separates casual sex from real sex, the kind I want with him more than anything.

  The curtains are open, fully letting in the bright moonlight. Shadows from the trees dance over Owen’s face as I risk touching his cheek.

  My fingertips scratch against his skin. Lately he’s started to come to me with a bit of stubble on him, and it makes me think that he’s loosening up around me.

  I touch his hair, which has grown out ever so slightly, as if he’s letting his inner wildness come out a little there, too.

  Night by night, it seems that he’s slowly turning into my dirty guy—or at least dirtier than the man I initially met. I doubt he knows what’s happening to him though, because by day, he goes right back to being rigid and impeccable.

  But at least I have this Owen after dark.

  I continue touching his hair, his face, stroking him, half afraid he’ll open his eyes and catch me. Half afraid that he won’t.

  Then, out of nowhere, he jerks in his sleep, and I brace myself, because sometimes this happens with him—bad dreams. Only twice so far, but I think this is one of the reasons he never stays the entire night.

  His expression tightens, and he takes his arm from around me, rolling to his back while pushing one hand away from him in unconscious agitation. It’s as if he’s fighting something off, and I can’t help but think that he’s in a shrinking room that’s suffocating him. As sweat emerges on his tanned skin, I wish I knew what really haunted him.

  I wish I knew what to do.

  He hauls in a choking breath, startling upward. His breathing is heavy as he remains sitting there, tensed up and clearly confused.

  I sit up, too, but I don’t touch him. I made that mistake once, only to be brusquely shrugged off. And even though he looked at me as if he regretted it, the damage to my heart was done.

  Now he looks around while fisting his hands, then lowering them as if he finally realizes that the dream is over; he sees the calm, orderly room he’s actually in. As he shakes his head, he draws up his knees and harshly runs his fingers through his dark hair, putting himself back together again.

  I don’t say anything. Instead, I let him get out of bed. His bared muscles are taut all over his massive body as if he’s coiled, stressed and ready to spring.

  Please don’t go anywhere tonight, I think. Please stay and let me make you happy.

  By some miracle, all he does is move toward a silver velvet chair near the window. He slumps into it, controlling his breathing, looking outside at the crooked tree branches silhouetted against the moonlight.

  I know he’ll probably get the chair cleaned tomorrow because of naked skin and germs and all the subtle messes he’s making by sitting there.

  Then again, whenever he’s with me in the bedroom, he never seems to mind being that way, at least in the heat of the moment.

  Still in bed, I lean toward him, silent but wanting oh-so badly to help. He looks absolutely lost, and my heart aches for him.

  I let a minute pass, then another until he finally glances over at me.

  I don’t think I need to say anything, because that dark look is an acknowledgement of what just happened. I only know that it’s okay now if I slide out of bed and slip onto his lap.

  As I cuddle against him, my flesh against his, he pulls me close. I nestle my face into his neck. The sweat on his skin feels cool against mine, his body hard against my soft one.

  I feel his heartbeat knocking against my lips, and I kiss his tensed vein. He holds me tighter.

  What makes you this way? I want to ask. What happened to you in the past?

  “I woke you up,” he finally murmurs.

  “I wasn’t sleeping anyway.” Before your nightmare I was watching you,
wishing you’d wake up and tell me everything about you and how you feel about me.

  “Work is stressful right now,” he says. “It carries over into my personal time.”

  I’m pretty sure he’s making excuses, but I don’t question him. I only want to lighten his load.

  “Well,” I say while easing my arm around his wide chest and hugging him, “that’s why I majored in art history. Low stress, high reward.”

  I already feel his muscles getting looser, like ropes that have been given some slack. “Are you sure about that? I don’t think any serious career is absent of stress.”

  “In my naïve, optimistic mind, yes. I’m very sure that I’ll have the best of both worlds. Eventually.”

  He laughs a little, as if testing to see if it feels right.

  It must, because he strokes a finger over my hip. “And what do you think the rewards will be in your future?”

  Do you mean after I get my siblings back in our family home? But I rub my face against his neck instead of saying it out loud.

  “Eventually,” I repeat, “I want to be a curator, either for museums or private art collectors. Or I’ll teach.”

  “I can have Nat put together a list of my business associates who could use a good art advisor.”

  His generosity stuns me. But then I parse out his words.

  Business associates. Not friends. I’m not sure this man has the time or inclination for those, and I hold him tighter. In response, he brings me even closer to him.

  I sigh. I could stay here forever, in his secure, iron-banded arms.

  “Owen,” I say, “you’ve done enough for me already. You don’t have to start a client list, too.”

  “It’d be anonymously done.”

  It’s like a splash of cold water on the moment, a reminder that I’m still his Highest Bidder escort and there’ll be no future between us.

  He seems to realize that, and he rocks me slightly, pressing his lips to my head and consoling me as if I’m the one who had the bad dream. But isn’t that true? Isn’t that my life in a nutshell? A nightmare that’s only been interrupted by this wonderful yet perplexing time with him.

  Through the air vents, the heat blows on, white noise that sounds so comforting as he continues to cuddle with me. We don’t need to say anything else—for now, this is enough for me, and I think it’s enough for him.

  It’s almost as if the bad dream never happened.

  At least I think that for a while, because eventually I feel him start to tense up again. I think he’s becoming aware that our cuddling is too intimate. Or maybe he’s getting agitated about our naked skin on his velvet chair. Both that and our intimacy are two big messes that will need to be cleaned up.

  He rises to his feet with me in his arms then carries me to the bed. He gently lays me down on the mattress. As he draws the sheet and bedspread over my body to tuck me in, my blood sings a sad tune. From the look on his face, I know that he’s disturbed, and it’s not only because of the germs we’ve left behind on the silver velvet chair.

  His emotions were messy in front of me, and it’s time to wash that away.

  He glances back at the chair, as if battling the urge to start cleaning it now, but in a fit of need, I grab his hand.

  As he looks back down at me, I see the war going on in his dark eyes—compulsion versus me. Which one will win tonight? And even if I’m the winner for now, will I come out the loser in the end?

  When he entwines his fingers with mine, my hopes soar. I know my gaze is asking him a question I don’t dare say out loud.

  Will you stay with me?

  The war continues in him, but the longer it goes on, the more my chest wells with sorrow. Maybe I can’t win this. Maybe he isn’t capable of letting go of whatever haunts him.

  He bends down to kiss my forehead, then tucks me in a little more. All the while my heart breaks.

  “Goodnight, Juliet,” he says against my forehead.

  And then he’s gone, just as he always is.

  I don’t fall asleep. My head is foggy with memories of how it used to be with us, back when I thought he was an ogre, back before our new contract went into effect.

  I’m once again bewildered and stinging because of him.

  But somehow I make it through the night. The next morning begins my usual routine.

  Get out of bed and prepare for the day.

  Eat breakfast.

  Get ready to work with the bank, make calls to social services and ancillary organizations, my lawyer, etc., try to get in touch with whichever of my siblings is available to speak.

  But when the afternoon rolls around, my routine is thrown off course.

  Owen comes home from work much earlier than usual.

  Nat is the one who tells me he’s here, and I excitedly leave everything at the desk in the den where I’ve been working.

  He’s home! Early. What does that mean?

  I’m almost out of the room when my phone rings, stopping me cold, because it’s the ringtone I assigned to my lawyer.

  Torn, I stand there for a second, but I know what I have to do.

  I go back to the desk to take the call. Just as I lift up the phone, I see Owen appear in the doorway.

  He’s actually smiling a little, dressed in one of his perfect suits and filling it out with every hard muscle on his amazing body. He looks happy to see me.

  But I’m already answering. “Hello?”

  “Juliet? This is Edgar. I’ve got some troubling news.”

  Owen’s smile fades as he watches me. He must see the terror on my face, because he tenses up. He still doesn’t want the chaos of my emotions, but I can’t hide them as my lawyer goes on.

  “The foster parents who are taking care of Jasmine are trying to stop you from getting her back.”

  Jasmine, my youngest. My eleven-year-old sister. The one who called me on the jet because she missed our parents and me so badly.

  As the news sinks in, I feel sick, and I slump down into the nearest seat because my legs won’t hold me up. I lose my cool in front of Owen, whose expression has gone blank as he folds his hands behind his back.

  Then my lawyer puts the nail in the coffin. “They want to try and adopt her, Juliet.”

  Chapter 15

  I feel numb as the news about my youngest sister sinks in.

  Adoption…Jasmine…they’re trying to stop you from getting her back…

  I fumble for a response to my lawyer, especially as Owen stands in the doorway like a lofty, expressionless statue.

  My lawyer continues. “Juliet, are you still there?”

  “Yes,” I whisper, glancing away from Owen, who’s looking even stonier by the second.

  “I’m sorry this isn’t the news you wanted to hear,” my lawyer says. “But we’ll do all we can tomorrow to defend your position at the courthouse.”

  He doesn’t sound very confident at all, and worry strings through me, brittle and shaky.

  He goes on. “There’ll be an emergency hearing in family court. I’ll text you the time and location presently, but you should plan to be there early.”

  It takes me another moment to fit all the pieces into a blurry puzzle image: I have to get home. Then to the courthouse. Defend my position so I can keep my little sister…

  It all comes together in a blaringly clear picture: I’ll need to go back to Florida, away from Owen so I can keep my family intact.

  When I look up at him in the doorway again, he’s gone, and that only adds to my pain.

  “Juliet?” my lawyer asks.

  “I’ll be there, Mr. Salazar.”

  I have to be, and as I dully thank him for his help, then disconnect our call, I give myself another minute to stay seated. I don’t think I can even walk a straight line right now, because I’m either about to burst into tears or crumble all the way to the floor.

  Dear god, I’m really in a fix. If I tell Owen I need to leave him, even for a day, he just might consider me in breach of contract a
nd cancel on me, leaving me without the money I so sorely need to reunite my family. But if I were to stay here instead, I might as well be telling the authorities that I don’t care about my little sister.

  Even as I sit here between a rock and a hard place, there really isn’t any choice.

  I take a deep breath and stand. Somehow I make my way out of the den.

  I find Owen at the foot of the grand staircase conversing in low tones with Nat, who nods to me and then hustles away as I approach. Before he turns to me, he coldly folds his hands behind his back, then faces me. He towers over me, leveling me with that impassive gaze.

  To think, only minutes ago he was almost smiling as he came into the den, and the loss of what could have been wracks me.

  “I’m sorry,” I simply say.

  “For being on a personal call when I unexpectedly walked into a room? I only thought to give you privacy by walking out.”

  He knows as well as I do there’s more to it than that, but I’m not one to argue. The shock of the bad news is starting to wear off of me, and stress is taking its place, tearing me apart and leaving a trembling sensation in my chest.

  I manage to speak. “I’m actually sorry because I have to go home immediately to deal with a family emergency, Owen.”

  Instinctively I close my eyes so I won’t see his anger. But when I don’t hear him say anything I open my eyes.

  He’s tilting his head as if reading me. “All right, Juliet.”

  I stare at him. Did he just say it’s all right?

  I can’t be hearing him correctly.

  Then he nods, as if the conversation is casually winding itself up. “I don’t want to know the details. Just tell me when I can expect you back.”

  Relief nearly brings on the tears, but then I remember that this next chapter of my nightmarish story is only just starting, because I still have a hearing for Jasmine tomorrow.

  God, tomorrow I could lose my sister…