Page 111 of Auctioned

As I hear her footsteps pounding down the hallway, then the staircase, I smile. Neither of the options is why she’s running.

I scare her, sure. Fuck, the things I’ve done to her are awful. The things I have planned for her are worse.

But she was right. She’s my property. I do take care of what’s mine.

She is exactly that, mine.

I crave her with every fiber of my being. From the first moment she walked into my home, I’ve been biding my time. I see that now. Having her, keeping her, this was how it was supposed to end.

Bam!

Bam!

Bam!

Her fist must slam on the locked front door. “Help!”

My lips tick up. My feet itch to follow her. To have front row seats to her feeble attempts at getting away.

All part of our game.

A few miles of driveway, trees, and greenery separate us from the outside world. My staff is gone for the week, though they wouldn’t have helped her, either.

Not to mention she’ll have to pick the elaborate lock on the front door first.

That why she’s running. She wants to play this game, knowing she’ll lose.

Wanting to lose.

I’m so fucking gone for her.

“Help! Somebody get me out of here!”

I tread closer to the door to hear her better. Her feet hit the floor at lightning speed. She’s once again on the run, this time darting across the main floor in the other direction. Toward the other rooms.

Where the expansive windows are.

Clever as she is beautiful, my little sonnet.

“Fifty.” Though I don’t shout, Ophelia’s reaction is a scream.

Fuck if the sound doesn’t reach all the way down to my balls.

Something heavy crashes against the glass. Could be one of the end tables, by the sound of it. Nothing too heavy.

“Forty.”

The naked woman in my house sprints across the floor again. Her footfalls are light. Sweet, like her.

I spend about five seconds imagining her ass and tits and hair swaying as she runs. As fear and excitement and fight take over her.

A second crash. The sound echoing around the house is different. Metal hitting glass.

My unbreakable windows.

“Fuck.”

“Thirty.” I haven’t been counting. I call the number out anyway. Her anxious energy bleeds across my home. It’s intoxicating.

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