one
. . .
Sabien
I'm only hereto write a fat check and disappear. That's what I tell myself as I sit in the back row of this overheated ballroom, surrounded by Manhattan's elite pretending they give a shit about charity. Another boring night. Another tax write-off. I check my watch for the fifth time in ten minutes. Then the next auction lot is announced, and she walks out.
My body goes rigid. My blood turns to fire.
She steps onto the stage in this innocent little white dress that hugs every curve like it was designed by the devil himself. Perky tits straining against the fabric. Ass so round and perfect I can practically feel it filling my hands. Long legs that would look perfect wrapped around my waist. But it's her face that punches me in the gut—wide eyes, flushed cheeks, trembling like a goddamn virgin sacrifice.
Because that's exactly what she is.
The MC drones on about dinner with a lovely young art student. Supporting local talent. Blah fucking blah. But I see what's really happening. I see the way every predator in this room is leaning forward. The hungry eyes. The adjusted crotches. The whispers behind hands.
She's shaking up there, clutching her little purse, completely fucking clueless that every wolf in this room is hard and imagining bending her over that podium.
The bidding starts at five thousand. A joke.
"Ten thousand," someone calls out immediately.
"Fifteen," from another corner.
She looks confused. Surprised. Jesus Christ, does she not understand what's happening? Did no one explain to this innocent little thing what these men are actually bidding on?
"Twenty-five thousand," calls out Henderson from the investment firm across town. I know that piece of shit. Three divorces, all from women half his age who couldn't stand his wandering hands.
"Thirty," counters Richardson, whose yacht parties are legendary for the young "models" who never seem to remember much the next day.
The bids climb higher. Fifty. Seventy-five. A hundred thousand. For one dinner with the little angel on stage, who stands there blushing, her hands trembling slightly.
The comments start, quiet at first, then louder as the alcohol and competition embolden them.
"Look at those tits."
"Bet she's tight as fuck."
"I'd keep her for the weekend."
Every word is a match to gasoline in my chest. Rage explodes through me, burning so hot I can barely breathe. My fists clench until my knuckles crack. My jaw locks so tight my teeth might shatter.
She isn't for them.
She's mine. I knew it the second she walked on that stage. Something primal and possessive burst to life inside me. A need. An obsession. A claim.
Mine.
The bidding passes three hundred thousand. I watch her eyes widen. She has no idea what she's worth. No idea what these men want to do to her.
"Three-fifty and I'll have her screaming by midnight," laughs some trust fund prick from the front row.
That's it.
I stand.
The entire room freezes. Conversations halt mid-sentence. All eyes turn to me. They know who I am. Everyone knows who I am. What I'm capable of. What happens to those who cross me.
"Auction's over," I growl, my voice cutting through the silence like a blade.