Auctioned to Him 2: His for a Week

by Charlotte Byrd

  “It was an accident. I’m definitely not going to do it again later tonight.”

  “Okay, okay. Sorry!” he says sarcastically. “I’m just having a good time with you, Brielle. Lighten up.”

  I take a moment to collect my thoughts. The curtsy has definitely broken the ice, but it got us nowhere closer to where we needed to be. I have so many questions for this man. The last man on earth, I thought I would see.

  “Why am I here, Wyatt?” I ask.

  I’m trying to be as serious as I can be. Even though, a huge part of me is relieved that Mr. Wild is NOT some 70-year-old man with hemorrhoids.

  “What do you mean?” he asks, nonchalantly. As if he has nothing to explain. Nothing to hide.

  “Why am I here?” I shrug. “What do you want from me?”

  He shifts his weight from one foot to another and looks down.

  “I don’t know. I don’t really have an answer,” he finally says.

  “You don’t? You brought me all the way over here, and you don’t have an answer?”

  “No, not really,” he shakes his head. “I just wanted you to come. You didn’t want to go out with me…”

  He doesn’t finish his sentence. I wait for him to complete it.

  “I didn’t want to go out with you, so you decided to bring me here for a year. Force me to work for you?”

  That gets his attention. And insults him, judging from how red his face gets.

  “You are free to leave anytime, Ms. Cole,” Wyatt looks straight at me. “You’re not my slave or anything like that. Who do you think I am?”

  I shake my head. Now, it’s my turn to get incensed. “No, I can’t. Not really, though,” I say.

  “Yes, you can.”

  “You paid for my Momma’s very expensive treatment, Wyatt. I really appreciate it. Why? Why did you do that?”

  “Because I heard that she needed help. You needed help.”

  “But there are millions of people in the world to help. Why me?”

  “Okay, there you got me,” he shrugs. “I did it because I like you. I wanted to help you. I didn’t want you to lose her. I heard she’s doing really good.”

  “Yes, she is. And I’m very grateful for that. I want you to know that I am.”

  “Great, that’s what I wanted to hear.”

  “But I still don’t understand this,” I wave my hands in between both of our chests. He grabs my hand and wraps his warm, strong fingers around each wrist. My heart skips a beat. I feel a surge of electricity pass through him to me. It’s just a spark, but it makes me feel warm all over. All the shivers and uncertainty that I’d felt before dissipates. Now, I just want him to kiss me. I want him to keep holding my wrists and for him to slam his body into mine.

  “What are you doing?” I whisper. I don’t know how long he’s been holding my wrists, but I never want him to stop.

  “I wanted you…” he whispers. Wyatt takes a beat and looks straight into my eyes. “I want you.”

  That’s it. The words just hang there in between us. I don’t want to breath in or out for fear that I will make them dissipate.

  “You want me?” I whisper. He stares at me. “You want me to do what?” I ask.

  “Nothing,” he shrugs. “Nothing you don’t want to do. I just want you here.”

  I nod. I don’t understand, but I don’t really need to right now.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Mr. Wild? Ms. Cole?” Mr. Whitewater says. “Dinner is ready.”

  Wyatt hands me my glass of champagne. At some point, I had put it down on the coffee table, but I have no memory of doing that.

  “This is delicious,” I whisper.

  “Yes, it’s quite lovely,” Wyatt smiles. “We grow the strawberries ourselves. Fresh from the garden.”

  I bite into a strawberry. Its flavor explodes in my mouth and fills my nose and mouth with the most luxurious aroma I’ve ever experienced.

  “Thank you for wearing one of the dresses,” Wyatt whispers over my shoulder as I follow Mr. Whitewater down the hallway. “I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

  I turn back. How does he know that? What the hell do you know about me? I want to ask, but I know he’s right.

  “I don’t want to make you mad. I just want to say, thank you. You look stunning.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say. Though I have no idea why he’s thanking me for it.

  “It’s just such a treat for me,” Wyatt explains as if he knows what I was thinking.

  His words send shivers up my spine.

  The large 12-person table that I had seen in the dining room earlier that day is gone. Now, there’s a small table there instead. It’s elegantly set with sparkling silverware and crystal glasses. The plates are ivory white, and the pottery is so magnificent, I can’t help but touch it.

  “I love these plates,” I say running my fingers over the middle of my plate. Then I realize that this is probably really not polite. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” I say, embarrassed.

  “No, it’s okay,” Wyatt laughs. “I didn’t know someone could love plates.”

  I stare at him as if he was speaking a foreign language. “What are you talking about? These are magnificent! Look at how many little man-made imperfections there are in the middle. These are not factory made. They are crafted by an artisan. A very special artist.”

  He smiles at me. “You know, you’re quite a surprise, Brielle.”

  Chapter 8 - Wyatt

  She sits across from me staring at my mother’s Mexican plates. She is doe-eyed, and I want nothing more than to grab her and kiss her. Her innocence is enchanting and contagious. She’s making me look at the plates my mother has bragged about for ages in a completely new way.

  “You know, these plates are from Mexico,” I say. “My mother brought them back with her many years ago. Apparently, they are quite unique and expensive, because they are so plain. Mexican pottery isn’t known for that.”

  Brielle’s eyes open even wider than before. Now, I have her full attention. I just wish we weren’t talking about fuckin’ plates.

  “Oh wow,” she says running her fingers lightly against the grain of her plate. I want more than anything to be that plate. No, I want my cock to be that plate. I want her to run her fingers so carefully and lovingly along the curve of my erect cock.

  “Wyatt?”

  “Huh?” I come back to reality. Unfortunately.

  “I just asked if you know what time period these are from.”

  “Oh, before the revolution. Mexican revolution. So, at least at the beginning of last century.”

  When can we stop talking about the goddamn plates?

  Finally, Mr. Whitewater emerges with two servants. They are carrying two plates.

  “Pine nuts and kale salad with strawberries,” Mr. Whitewater presents the food.

  Brielle smiles and the world lights up.

  “This looks delicious,” she whispers and smiles at me, then back at Mr. Whitewater.

  I pick up my glass to make a toast, but she has already dug into her salad.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she swallows quickly and drops her fork. Her crudeness makes me horny.

  “No, it’s okay. I just wanted to say thank you for joining me here. It’s a pleasure.”

  I have a whole speech planned out, but I leave it at that. She waits for me to continue, but I don’t. Something is making me tongue-tied. I’m never tongue-tied.

  “Thank you,” she smiles. We clink glasses.

  The rest of dinner goes without a hitch. We don’t speak much, and when we do we are consumed with formalities. By the time, the dessert comes, I realize that this wasn’t the best idea. I shouldn’t have made this dinner so formal. She feels awkward, and her awkwardness is making me feel uncomfortable. This place, this formality, isn’t her. It’s not me, either. I just thought that it would be impressive. It worked on so many other girls that I’m lost as to what I should’ve done.

  Aft
er dinner, I walk her back to her room. She walks a few steps ahead of me, and I watch the way the taffeta under the dress bounces as she walks. I want to push it up and wrap my fingers around her ass.

  “Did you have a good time?” I ask when we reach her door.

  “Yes, very much so,” Brielle smiles at me. “Dinner was delicious.”

  “And besides dinner?”

  “You mean with you?”

  I nod.

  “Yes, I had a good time. To tell you the truth, I’m really glad you didn’t end up being some 70-year-old creep. I had no idea who Mr. Wild was when I got here.”

  “Well, I’m not 70-years-old. Whether or not I’m a creep is for you to decide.”

  I take a step forward, and she takes a step back. Suddenly, there’s nowhere to go. Her head hits the back of the wall. I take another step forward.

  I take her chin and tilt her head toward mine. Our lips touch, and I run my tongue on the side of her lips. She tastes like honey and lavender. She smells like the cheesecake, which we just ate for dinner. I pull her face closer to mine, and she wraps her hands around my shoulders. My cock grows large and pushes into her taffeta. She steps up on her tip toes, and my cock slides just a bit in between her legs.

  Our kisses grow stronger and more powerful. I am thrust into a passion the kind of which I have never felt before. I grab her breasts and pull on the straps of her dress.

  “Wyatt,” Brielle whispers.

  “Brielle,” I manage to say. I kiss her neck. The urgency in my kisses intensifies, and I run my fingers up her naked leg.

  “Wyatt,” she pushes on me. I push back on her and continue to kiss her. “Wyatt, stop!” her voice is powerful and needy, but I continue to kiss her. She’s feeling just like I am. She must be!

  “No, no, no, I can’t,” I whisper.

  “Wyatt, stop!” she knees me in the balls. Shooting pain surges through my body, and I drop to the floor.

  “What the hell, Wyatt?”

  “I’m sorry…” I whisper. I can’t say it any louder. I’m laying on my back in the fetal position on the floor. I hear Brielle go into her room and lock the door. After a few minutes, the pain subsides, and I manage to scramble up to my feet.

  I knock on her door. No one answers. I knock again, and for some reason try the door knob.

  “It’s locked, you asshole!” Brielle says.

  “I’m sorry. I’m really, really sorry, Brielle.”

  “Go away!”

  “Please, Brielle. I’m really sorry. You don’t have to let me in…”

  “I know that! I mean, what did you think? You invite me here, get me a pretty dress, wine and dine me, and I’ll just do whatever you want? I’m not a whore, Wyatt.”

  “I know,” I say. “I never meant for it look like that. I just got carried away. I thought we were both feeling something, Brielle. I didn’t mean to take it too far.”

  “Well, you did. And you’re an asshole. When a girl says no, it means no. Keep that in mind for the future.”

  I’m so embarrassed. I can’t believe this happened. I can’t believe I did that.

  “I honestly thought that we were both into it, Brielle. Please. You’ve got to believe me.” My voice cracks a bit at the end.

  “Fuck you!” Brielle says. “Oh yeah, and I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”

  She can’t! I will stop her! She has no right! “You are?” I ask. Please, don’t.

  “I’ve decided that I’m not in debt to you,” she says. “You paid for my Momma’s treatment knowing that full well. And I’m not going to sleep with you. Not for any amount of money. Not even for a quarter of a million dollars.”

  She’s right, of course. I did all that knowing that. I just thought that maybe as a thank you. No, that’s not right. I wanted her to want me. I didn’t want her to just sleep with me once. There’s something about her that makes me want more. It’s like she has some sort of spell on me.

  “Okay,” I finally say. “I understand. I’m leaving now.”

  I walk back to the library. I don’t know where I’m headed. I’m just lost. Distraught. Ashamed. Who was that person back there? Not me, for sure. Brielle’s right. I was an asshole. Am an asshole. She deserves much better than that. Who knows how far I would’ve taken it if she hadn’t kneed me in the balls.

  “Agh, I’m such an idiot!” I say out loud. The words echo across the library chamber.

  I hit my fist on the built-in bookshelves.

  “Dammit!” I say. Now, my hand is hurting, and my heart is pounding even faster than before. I take a deep breath and look up.

  The bookshelves are stacked three high with old books, but only one stands out. Charlotte Brontë’s Jane Eyre. The library is poorly lit, but this book seems to have a spotlight on it. I look out of the window and see the bright yellow moon looming high in the sky.

  She’ll like this, I decide. I pick up the first edition and flip through the pages. She won’t be able to throw this gift away, I decide.

  There’s my grandfather’s old writing desk in the corner. I sit down and open the top. I take a small piece of decorative paper from the top shelf and pick up the old ink pen, which miraculously still writes.

  * * *

  Brielle,

  This is a first edition of Jane Eyre. I hope you like it. I hope you accept this gift as my apology. I’m sorry.

  Love,

  Wyatt

  * * *

  I read the note over. Of course, she will know it’s a first edition. It says so in the front! I ball up the piece of paper and toss it in the trash can.

  * * *

  Brielle,

  I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do any of that this evening. Well, that’s not true. I did mean to kiss you. I loved kissing you. I loved tasting you on my lips – I want to taste your sweet cunt.

  * * *

  I read this note over again and again then crumple it up. This is supposed to be an apology. And like all apologies, it will have to be partly true and partly untrue. I can’t say everything I want to say. Otherwise, she won’t accept it.

  I write another note. My final note. When I’m finished, I wait for the ink to dry before carefully folding it and place it in front of the title page. In the back of the writing desk, I find a small box, which ends up being the perfect fit for the book. Now it really looks like a gift.

  I walk back to Brielle’s room and knock on the door. She doesn’t answer. I don’t know if she can hear me, but I decide to leave the box right outside. After trying one last time, I finally give up and walk away.

  I’ve done all I could. At this point, I have no choice but to accept her decision. Whatever it might be. No matter how much I hate it.

  Chapter 9 - Brielle

  I spent the night crying into my pillow. How dare he do that to me? I sob. My pillow is damp from all the tears I shed. I’m not just crying over what happened. I’m crying over what it means. He was such an asshole, and now I can never trust him again. I had to physically push him off me. Who the hell does that? How far would he have gone if I wasn’t strong enough to push him away? To knee him in his balls?

  Millions of thoughts swirl in my head. I hate him. And I love him. I want to kiss him. And I want to punch him. I want him to knock harder on my door and knock it down. And I want him to go away and leave me alone. My makeup is running down my face, and my eyes burn from all the cheap mascara getting into them. Finally, when they start to burn so much that it becomes unbearable, I force myself to go to the bathroom and wash my face.

  “Why do you have to be such an asshole?” I say to myself in the mirror as if I’m talking to Wyatt. “We had such a great dinner. You were lovely. Polite. I was kind of a mess, but you weren’t. You were…a gentleman. And then that. That happened. How can I forgive that?”

  I shake my head. No, I can’t forgive that, because next time it might be much worse. I sigh.

  I tried. I really tried. I came here. I had dinner. I even kissed him. This is all that he
could’ve expected from me. It’s okay if I go now. I’ve tried to repay my debt. It didn’t work out. Because of him. So it’s not my fault, right? Right.

  There’s a knock at the door. Then another. And another. I don’t answer. I’ve said enough. I don’t want to argue anymore. My mind is made up. In the morning, Mr. Whitewater is ordering me a cab or a driver, and I’m getting out of here.

  The following morning, I sleep in late. I’m still in bed at eight a.m. The bed is made of feathers and softness beyond my imagination. I feel like I’ve slept on a cloud, and I’m not looking forward to going home to my thin, uncomfortable mattress at home. I got it for $99 on sale, and it feels like it.

  I pull on the most comfortable pair of jeans I own and my favorite turquoise tank top. Someone once told me that I looked great in turquoise, and I’ve stocked my closet with turquoise tops ever since. I always thought they were right, but this morning, I’m not so sure. I look pale and tired. A big part of me is regretting the fact that I’m leaving, but I’m not sure I have the courage to go back on my word.

  There’s a light knock on the door.

  “Who is it?”

  “Good morning, Ms. Cole,” Mr. Whitewater says after I open the door.

  “Good morning, Mr. Whitewater,” I say with a yawn.

  He looks like he has been awake for hours. His hair is perfectly groomed and coiffed, and his suit is starched and ironed, or whatever one does to suits to keep them wrinkle-free.

  “Mr. Wild told me that you will be leaving this morning. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Yes, me too,” I nod. I am sorry. I wish this weren’t happening.

  He doesn’t say another word, doesn’t make a move either. I stare at him. What’s wrong? Slowly, his eyes tilt down. I follow them to the floor and see a light pink box.

  “Oh, what’s this?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure. But it’s for you,” Mr. Whitewater says. He quickly takes a step back and turns away from me to give me some privacy.