Page 42 of Highest Bidder

The dress I’d picked out—tight in the waist, flared at the hips, long enough to be elegant but short enough to tempt—suddenly felt ridiculous. I’d spent half the afternoon getting ready, curling my hair, redoing my makeup twice, standing in front of the mirror trying to guess what he’d want to see when I stepped out of the car.

Apparently, I’d guessed wrong.

“Nice to see you, too,” I snarked as I stepped past him, my heels clicking as I walked up the steps. The house smelled familiar when I walked through the door this time, and somehow that made it worse.

I’d wondered all week if he was going to pick up where we left off last Sunday, or if we were going to start anew. Apparently, he’d chosen the “hold a grudge” option.

The door shut behind him, and I stood there awkwardly with my bag in my hand, unsure what to do next.

Did I strip right there in the entry? Take off the dress that he clearly hated? Or should I retreat to the guest room to change?

Fuck it.

I dropped the bag and reached behind me to tug the zipper down, then slipped out of the arms and shimmied to get the form fitting dress past my hips. I leaned down and retrieved it from my feet, then folded it over my arm, as if standing in his entryway in only heels, bra, and a collar was totally normal.

“I’m assuming I’ll be in the same room as last time?”

He didn’t say a word. Just took his sweet time to rake his gaze from my head to my toes and back again, his jaw tight the entire time. His eyes were unreadable except for the briefest flicker of something softer I couldn’t name.

“Guest room’s the same,” he finally said, his voice flat. “Put your bag away, then come find me. My cock needs servicing, whore.”

I didn’t argue. I knew my place. And the filthy way he reminded me lit a spark in my belly. My pussy was already wet, aching to be used.

My therapist was going to earn her paycheck in our next session.

****

Jeff

I watched her walk away with her hips swaying and that luscious ass I wanted to bite. Or ruin. Probably both.

Fuck.

She turned me on, there was no point pretending otherwise. But I needed to get a handle on it—onher.

Because the second I saw her step out of that car, every rational thought flew straight to hell. And I couldn’t afford that. Not with her.

She was supposed to be mine to control. Not the other way around.

I wasn’t going to pretend I didn’t want her, but I still planned to remind her what this was—whatshewas.

Not my girlfriend. Not my partner.

Just a warm hole with manners that I owned for three more weeks. Last Sunday, she’d needed a reminder of that.

She was damn lucky she hadn’t been wearing panties when she stepped out of that dress just now. If she had, I would've ripped them off her and stuffed them in her mouth before I bent her over the stairs and fucked her ass without any lube.

She hadn’t said a word of protest when I told her my cock needed servicing. In fact, I could have sworn her pupils dilated a little.

Ah, I think sweet Vivian liked her role as my whore.

I liked it, too.

But what had concerned me this week was how much I’d thought abouther, not just her holes.

I needed to get that shit under control. I didn’t get the happy ending unless I paid for it. And I was only paid up for three more weeks.

I’d barely settled at my desk in the den when she strutted in with no hesitation. Without a word, she walked across the room with her hips swaying as the ring of my collar jingled and caught the light.

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