Chapter Three

I walk toward the sofa, my long legs crisscrossing one over the other. I perch myself on the arm and toe off my six-inch heels. I cross my legs and lean forward, giving a full visual of my overflowing breasts.

I spare a glance at my timeclock, watching it quickly countdown, because there’s another round of women who will replace the six of us within minutes.

I stand and go straight for the bolder, more daring moves. I toss my long, blown-out chestnut hair over one shoulder, place a knee on the cushion of the far end of the settee and prop an elbow on the rolled arm for support as my other arm reaches around behind me.

I smack my bare ass, quite soundly, so that it echoes in this small space and hopefully resonates beyond.

The sting certainly radiates throughout my entire body, and I have no doubt I’ve left a red mark on my pale cheek.

This is the extreme I have to go to—and I’m more than willing to do so.

I slip two fingers beneath the delicate lace of my thong and stroke my cleft. All the while, my gaze is directed toward the men who are watching, whose faces I can’t make out, but whom are seemingly riveted.

Whether it’s me or one of the five others they’re captivated by, I can’t be sure. And that’s why I have to up the ante.

I plunge my fingers into my pussy from behind. Arch my spine. Throw my head back and thrust my breasts forward.

I pump steadily and heartily.

Something about the lights and the anonymity and the voyeurism help me to lose myself in the sensuous moments. I am dripping wet, instantly. And the reality of doing something so private in such a public way… That only turns me on more. So that tremors ripple along my inner thighs and my clit tingles and my pussy throbs.

My timer goes off and I’m about to do the same.

The curtain begins to slowly, slowly lower.

My climax builds. I feel the heat and the pressure and the tension seize me.

“Oh, God,” I whisper on a quavering breath as the cream oozes along my dewy folds and my fingers stroke easily against my inner walls, the tips rubbing that precious spot, deep within me, so that all I can do is close my eyes and… Give in.

I cry out before the curtain’s even at half-mast. I ride the waves of the fiery orgasm as my nails sink into the luxe material of the sofa and my throat pulls tight as my head remains back on my shoulders.

The rest of the curtain collapses to the edge of the stage, and I’m still vibrating.

Micah rushes in with my robe and gathers me up. In between fanning his face.

He tells me, “The bids are coming as hard and fast as you just did. Baby girl, you’re about to set a record.”

“That’s what I need,” I say in a rasping voice as he ushers me into the dressing room. I can hardly breathe, and I’m trembling from the release—and the insistent, overwhelming desire for more. So much more.

And I’m not even talking about the money.

As though sensing this, Micah hands me a topped-off champagne flute and—despite what I believe to be a huge coup—he more cautiously warns me, “This isn’t something I’ve witnessed before. The bids typically come early, because the Kinky Kringles have already staked their claim from the preliminary round of photos that are posted on the app. But you just kicked things up a notch, in person. The bids are still rolling in.”

My pulse leaps.

Jesus, I need the money!

Conversely, his notable concern very pointedly tells me… I might have bitten off more than I can chew.

Just as I think this, there’s a ping on Micah’s phone and he checks the message, grimaces and shoots me a complex look. One I can’t fully decipher.

He starts with… “Congratulations on your epic score.” He rotates the screen toward me, where the final sum I’ve reaped is in big, bold numbers.

I gasp.

He quickly adds, “Don’t forget, there’s a healthy chunk of commission that comes out of that figure.”

“Still…” I am borderline speechless. My knees nearly knock together, so that I sink into a chair, while I continue to gaze up at Micah.

He’s astonished, without doubt. But an intricate nuance remains.

“What?” I ask on a wisp of air.

It’s not like I really know this man. We’re not besties or confidantes or anything.

Though, when a creative genius puts his heart and soul into making you a triumph, a bond truly does instantly form.

Micah eases gracefully onto the sofa across from me and pins me with an earnest look. He says, “The man who just bought you doesn’t have a reputation within this auction house. So I can’t give you any information, advice, forewarning. All I can tell you,” he more emphatically contends, “is that when I see numbers like this… It means you’re working for every penny, girlfriend.”

My stomach roils.

So much for the ninety-year-old wanting me to read a salacious novel to him.

I swallow down a lump of anxiety. And inquire, “What are we talking about here?”

He doesn’t even blink.

“You’ve heard the saying rode hard and put away wet, right?”

My jaw falls slack again.

He gives a knowing—and confirming—nod.

“You’re gonna feel this one night for at least a week,” he affirms.

It is a warning.

It is a red flag.

So why the fuck is my pussy pulsating and my inner thighs are on fire and my nipples are tightening to such a degree that I am once again in desperate need of someone cranking the release valve?

Obviously, it’s not going to be Micah.

So I spring from the chair, drain my glass of bubbly, and tell him, “I committed to one night. I can handle one night. When does this start?”