Page 6 of Auctioned to the Agent
He drops another kiss to my forehead and says, “Goodnight, angel.”
“Goodnight, A-Andrew,” I respond, stumbling over his name as a different one tries to escape my lips. I fought it back because it would be absurd to use such a moniker for a man I’ve only just met, a man whoboughtme. Still, the idea of calling him Daddy sits heavy in my chest, and I can’t deny that it feels right.
I shake the thought away as Andrew leaves the room, closing the door behind him. Rolling onto my side, I reach over and turn off the lamp, hoping against all odds that sleep will find me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll wake up and find this has all been a nightmare. But the thought settles wrong. In truth, I don’t want this to be merely a bad dream. Because if it is, then I’m not really here in Andrew’s home, in his clothes, his kiss still lingering on my lips. If this is a dream, then in reality, I’m back at my stepfather’s house, and that’s the true nightmare.
Chapter Four
Andrew
I’m just pouring myself a second cup of coffee when Holly wanders into the kitchen. Her hair is bed rumpled and her eyes still have that sleep-heavy, half-lidded look. In nothing but my borrowed t-shirt, I can’t help but think how similar to this she might appear after a night of passionate sex. My cock starts to swell in my pants, so I shake off those thoughts and focus on not spilling scalding coffee all over my countertops.
“Sleep well?” I ask her when she settles onto a stool at the kitchen island.
“Better than I expected, thank you.” She pauses for a second, picking nervously at her nails, her gaze down. “Um, I want to also thank you for helping me last night.” She darts a glance at my face, then back to her hands. “I promise I’ll pay you back the money you lost, or um, maybe I can talk to the auction house and explain everything so they’ll return your bid?” She says it like a question, and I reach out to put a hand over both of hers before she can pick her skin raw.
“I don’t think that’s a conversation that will end how you hope. The men who ownZoltoy Domaren’t the type to be reasoned with, if their reputations are to be believed. You signed all the necessary consents and non-disclosures. So did I. They won’t be giving me back a dime.” I pause, considering the situation. “That said, I don’t think they’ll take kindly to the knowledge that you were coerced into the auction under false pretenses. I’ll make afew calls today and see what I can find out. I don’t want you to worry about the money. Leave that to me.”
She swallows heavily, then nods. “I’ll get out of your hair as soon as possible. I just need to get a ride back to Craig’s house so I can get my things.”
The idea of Holly ever stepping foot in her stepfather’s house again makes an icy rage course through me. I do my best to keep my expression neutral, but I have to force my hand away from my coffee mug before I break it.
“Where will you go from there?” I ask. I have no intention of letting Holly go back there. If she wants her things, I’ll send someone to collect them. But I am curious if she has come up with some kind of plan for her future overnight.
“I’m not sure,” she says shyly, and I can see the embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “I don’t have any other family. I might be able to ask someone at work to let me stay with them for a few days until I can figure something out…or I can go to a shelter.”
The mental image of this sweet, innocent, beautiful girl spending the night at a homeless shelter is abhorrent and not happening on my watch. As far as I’m concerned, I won the bid for Holly, and that makes her mine. I won’t ask her to do anything she doesn’t want to, but I’m not willing to let her go either. Not yet at least.
With those thoughts in mind, I push away from the counter. “We have time to figure it out. What do you say we start with breakfast?” As if answering on its own behalf, Holly’s stomach grumbles, and she slaps a hand over it, looking up at me with wide eyes. “I’ll take that as a yes,” I tease.
“Sorry!”
I chuckle and turn toward the stove where I have bacon and scrambled eggs waiting on the warmer. Grabbing two plates, I dish up our breakfast and place it on the island, then grab two glasses from the cupboard. Holding up the bottle of orange juice, I ask, “Juice and coffee okay? I think I might have some creamer in the fridge.”
“Only juice, please. I’ve never adapted to the taste of coffee, no matter what I add to it.” I nod and pour the juice, then join Holly at the island, taking the stool next to hers.
We are quiet as we start to eat, and I’m pleasantly surprised to find Holly isn’t the type to fill the silence with unnecessary chatter. We’re nearly finished eating when the doorbell rings, and I go to answer it, pleased to see the courier with the clothes I ordered for Holly when I got up this morning. As much as I love seeing her in only my t-shirt, I want her to be comfortable.
I accept the bags from the courier and hand him a tip, then return to the kitchen where I find Holly has cleared our dishes and is rinsing them.
“You don’t have to do that,” I tell her. She looks at me over her shoulder and smiles, but it doesn’t change the sadness in her eyes.
“You didn’t have to help me at all. This is the least I can do.” Then she notices the bags in my hands and asks, “What is all that?”
“I ordered some clothes for you. If you want to stay as you are,” I nod my head in her direction, indicating my borrowed t-shirt that just brushes her legs at mid-thigh, “I won’t complain, but I thought you might like some clothes of your own. I guessed at your sizes. If anything doesn’t fit or you don’t like it, we can send it back.”
She blushes, and I can’t help but wonder how far down her chest that rosy hue extends. Holly approaches and accepts the bags from me.
“You’ve done so much for me, I can’t begin to thank you,” she says, then pauses for a moment before rising on her tiptoes and pressing a kiss to my cheek. Her boldness must embarrass her because she hurries away without giving me a chance to respond—or return her kiss the way I want to.
A few minutes later, I’m checking emails on my phone when Holly re-emerges from the guestroom dressed in jeans and a soft-looking cashmere sweater that compliments her skin tone. Fashion is not my thing at all, but I’m satisfied to see the clothes I chose look good on her. Or maybe it’s just her making the clothes look good. Something primal inside me stirs as I take her in, wearing the clothes that I provided for her. I push it back and pocket my phone as I meet Holly in the middle of the living room.
“I was wondering if you might do me a favor,” I say.
“Of course, what do you want me to do?” she responds immediately.
“Sing for me.”
“W-what?”
