The Bachelor's Promise (Bachelor Auction)

by Naima Simone

  “Of course. This is my fault. I should’ve called before I dropped by,” she said. Giving him a sensual smile, she stroked his arm, squeezing his wrist. “I look forward to hearing from you tomorrow. Good night.”

  She swept past him, and he waited until she exited the building and the valet brought her car around. But once she slid into the vehicle, he strode toward the elevators and Noelle, who silently watched him approach with a guarded expression.

  The muted ding of the elevator announced its arrival, and she wasted no time stepping through the open steel doors. She’d dropped the friendly act from moments ago, leaving her quiet and aloof once more.

  He should’ve been thankful for the return to their “normal”—avoidance, silence. But instead, an edginess set up shop inside him.

  Contrary to the image of him portrayed in the social and gossip columns, he was a private person who jealously guarded his personal space. His home was his inner sanctum, and very few people made it past the lobby. Including the women he slept with. Usually he went to their homes or a hotel. He wouldn’t have permitted Jocelyn inside his home, just as he hadn’t allowed any woman.

  And now he was letting Noelle inside his home.

  He pressed the button for the penthouse, studying her reflection in the mirrored wall.

  Blue eyes clashed with his in the mirror, challenging him even as the smudges under her eyes made her appear vulnerable, fragile.

  “She’s…” Noelle paused. “Sweet.”

  Boring. Bland. Plastic.

  The same as the other women he’d been with in the last few years.

  Maybe Noelle hadn’t meant that description, but it was true. Still, he wasn’t trying to marry Jocelyn or any of the women he socialized with. The women he took to bed… He gave them his attention, his cock, and orgasms, but not his heart.

  Peyton had been his redemption, his sign of hope that maybe, just maybe, he could have happiness in his life. Being with her had been—easy. No guilt, no anger, no past. He’d given his heart to Peyton. And in return, she’d stabbed him in the back with Tony Rana’s knife.

  “It’s just a date,” he finally said.

  “One she paid thousands of dollars for. I can’t say I blame her for being…anxious.” She cocked her head to the side. “Does that make you some kind of gigolo?”

  He snorted. “She’s paying for a trip, not sex.”

  “Really?” she drawled, disbelief dripping from every word. “So you don’t plan on fucking her? Is that a sudden moral decision or a physical problem?”

  Slowly, he turned to face her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were pushing me.”

  “Pushing you?” she scoffed. “For what?”

  “I don’t know. Details about my sex life? Do you want to talk about it?” he challenged. He shifted forward, eliminating the space between them in the already close quarters of the elevator. He leaned over her and planted a hand on the back wall, his arm nearly brushing her ear.

  “No,” she rasped. “And I don’t care.”

  He tilted his head. “You sure about that?”

  “Yes,” she said, but her gaze dropped to his mouth before quickly returning to his eyes. But not quickly enough. Lust licked at him, sent heat surging through him like a torch. And all because of a glimpse at his mouth. A hungry glimpse. A glimpse that, whether she acknowledged it or not, asked him to taste her. And fuck if he didn’t want to give it to her.

  Her sweet, floral scent drifted to him, and damn if he couldn’t help pressing closer, inhaling more of her into his lungs. “You want the truth?” He waited for her nod, and when it came after a long moment, he placed his mouth next to her ear, letting his lips graze the outer shell. “Sex is a release, a pleasure. I love the sound of it, the scent of it, and damn sure the feel of it. You know what I’m talking about, right, Noelle? The burn of a man pushing inside you, stretching you, filling you until he’s so deep you don’t know whether to beg him to stop or give you more? The sound of bodies sliding over one another, screams of pleasure? Do you like that, Noelle?” He dropped his voice, roughened by the need that had been riding him like a fucking saddle. Leaning back, he gently pinched her chin and lifted her head. He wanted to see her eyes, needed to see them. Needed to read the answer to his question in them.

  She didn’t reply, but with mere inches separating them, he caught the flash of apprehension in her gaze. If it’d only been nervousness he read in her eyes, he would’ve backed off. But underneath…underneath he spied something else.

  Curiosity. Desire. There and gone so fast, hidden by the sweep of her lashes, but he’d caught it. Fuck, for both of their sakes, he wished he hadn’t.

  Heat curled in his gut and wound a sinuous path south, settling in his cock. Even as his mind rebelled, his flesh throbbed in adamant demand to be balls deep inside this woman. Because a part of him—the part not ruled by logic or reason—wanted to satisfy that curiosity, that hunger. That part didn’t give a damn that she was the daughter of the man who’d stolen his mother’s spirit and the sister of the man who’d screwed his fiancée behind his back. Didn’t care that not only could he not trust her, he couldn’t trust himself.

  No, this part only hungered to instill full knowledge in those blue eyes. Witness them widen with revelation…darken with pleasure.

  The elevator gave a smooth, almost imperceptible bump as it came to a stop. Still, neither one of them moved. And in the stillness, only her soft wisps of breath punctuated the silence.

  The chime pealed, followed by the sibilant hiss of the doors sliding open. They might as well have been the reports of gunshots. He jerked away from her. Away from the thoughts infiltrating his head. Away from unexpected, unwanted temptation.

  Dragging his fingers through his hair, he turned sharply on his heel, cursing under his breath. When was the last time he’d gotten laid? Before the auction. Maybe that was the problem. Lack of sex, and then talking about it. Damn it, that had to be the reason. What other explanation would suffice for why his dick was hard for a woman who was a living, walking reminder of the pain and loss he’d suffered? A reminder that while he was watching movies with her, eating dinners with her, laughing and touching her, his mother had been dying?

  He stalked from the confines of the elevator as if hunted. Games. He’d never been one for playing them. So what the hell had he been doing back there? Pushing her. Teasing her. No, taunting her. Big difference. Because he’d wanted her to react. By doing…what?

  An image of “what” waved in front of his mind like an erotic red flag.

  Noelle, pressing that pretty, lush mouth to his to shut him up, to punish him.

  Noelle, sliding that tight, petite body against his, letting him discover how high that tattoo on her thigh rose.

  Noelle, digging those short, no-nonsense nails into his shoulders, silently demanding he show her what it meant to be under him. Rising over him. Kneeling in front of him.

  “Damn it,” he growled, punching his key into the front door and turning it with a vicious twist before stalking into the foyer. He threw the ring onto the table, the clatter echoing like a struck gong.

  Behind him the door closed with a soft click, and he forced himself to stare straight ahead and not glance over his shoulder.

  “I’m going back out,” he informed her, deliberately leveling his voice, masking the lust that still clawed at him like an angry, caged animal. “A business dinner. I won’t be home until late.”

  “Fine,” she murmured, skirting past him and climbing the stairs to the second level.

  He frowned, studying her slow gait. The defiant woman in the elevator had disappeared, leaving this weary one behind. The transformation surprised him.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, taking a step in her direction.

  She nodded, not pausing or looking back at him. “Fine,” she muttered again, reaching the second level and disappearing down the hall.

  Ten minutes later, he followed, a tumbler of whiskey in hand.
An aberration. An anomaly. That’s what the incident in the elevator had been. Anger and sexual frustration from a celibacy he wasn’t used to had momentarily weakened his restraint and common sense…

  He slammed to a halt in the middle of the hallway. Frowned. Motionless, he stood, straining to catch the noise that had caught his attention. Several seconds passed, but all he heard was the low hum of the heating and air system. Shaking his head, he started forward again—

  There it was again. A low whimper.

  He jerked his head and stared at the closed door on his right. Noelle’s bedroom.

  Unfamiliar indecision immobilized him, his grip on the glass of whiskey tightening. He hadn’t been in her room since the day she’d moved in. Damn, he’d just vowed to maintain his distance and…

  A soft moan, followed by an even scarier sound—silence.

  “Shit.” He pushed open her door and charged inside. Quickly scanning the room, he almost missed the form huddled under the covers. But another stifled cry drew his attention back to the bed.

  “Noelle?” He slowly crossed the room, nearing the bed. “Sweetheart, are you okay?”

  When she didn’t respond, he tugged the cover back, and she shivered as if an earthquake had centered right under her bed. She hadn’t bothered removing her coat, and her dark hair covered the side of her face. Still, when she lifted her lashes, her eyes, dull with pain, focused on him.

  “Please,” she whispered, the plea hoarse and weak. “Please go away. I don’t want…” A racking cough cut off the rest of her words. With a sob and moan, she rolled over and away from him, curling tighter into herself.

  She wanted him to leave. And he should’ve honored her wishes. Yet he moved forward, sliding off his suit jacket and tossing it on the chair. He strode into the bathroom, grabbing a washcloth and wetting it with cold water. Seconds later, he returned to the room, and she hadn’t moved. He set the cloth on the bedside table and gently went about stripping off her coat and shoes, opting to leave her in her work clothes for the moment. Murmuring a warning, he pushed aside her hair and laid the cotton cloth over the back of her neck. She flinched but then loosed a whimper that might’ve been objection or appreciation.

  With economical movements, he kicked off his shoes, then eased the covers farther back and slid into the bed behind her, curling his body around her smaller one.

  “Aiden,” she whispered, going still.

  But he only held her tighter, lending her his body heat and his comfort. The anger and confusion ebbed, leaving him emotionally stripped and just a little raw. Since his mother’s battle, any sign of illness—whether in him or others—left him teetering between fear and anxiety. Between vulnerability and the need to protect. With Noelle, those feelings were amplified. He wanted to cover her, both figuratively and literally. He needed to be there for her. To make sure she would heal, gain her strength back. Be okay.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” he promised. “I’m staying here.”

  Chapter Eight

  Sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, warming Noelle’s hand and arm. She inhaled slowly, then released it, a wave of relief rushing through her when a drum solo didn’t start pounding in her head. Encouraged, she eased her eyes open.

  “Thank God,” she muttered when knives didn’t stab her in the pupils. Maybe today she wouldn’t wish for death. Sue me, she snorted to herself. When a person was struck down with a virus that felt more like a plague, then she reserved the right to be a little dramatic.

  Groaning, she pushed back the covers and carefully sat up. Damn, her body felt like dumbbells had been tied to her arms and legs. But at least nothing ached, pounded, or cramped anymore. Her stomach and throat were sore, but the nausea and hacking cough that had dogged her for the last three days had eased. Three days of vomiting, shivering, coughing, and sleeping.

  Three days of Aiden not leaving her side.

  She scanned the room, a little surprised not to see him propped up in the corner chair. For the past seventy-two hours, every time she’d opened her eyes, she’d find him just feet away, working on a laptop or tablet, murmuring on the phone, or reading. As soon as he’d seemed to sense her gaze on him, he’d immediately set aside his work or book or end his call and come to the bed. Helping her to the bathroom. Bringing her soup and liquids. Administering the medicine prescribed by the doctor he’d had make a house call—a house call! What doctor did that anymore?

  Shit, if Aiden Kent was a cartoon villain, he’d be Two-Face.

  Warily, not fully trusting her trembling legs, she rose from the bed—and didn’t fall on her face. Great sign. Hesitant, she shuffled forward, and when she didn’t face-plant, she continued toward the bathroom. Three days of washing off with a cloth, and she was more than ready for a hot shower. Even if she had to sit her ass on the floor. Heat flared in her face. God knew what she looked like—not what the cat dragged in, but what it decided to leave in the alley among the garbage cans. The opposite of the women Aiden was used to, women like Jocelyn.

  She tried to deny the ugly, tainted thorn of jealousy that slid into her chest as she grasped the bathroom door and pushed it open, but maybe her ability to lie to herself had also been weakened along with her immune system.

  Jocelyn, with her sleek, dark-auburn hair, the simple but elegant green dress that had hugged every slender curve, and her towering stilettoes, had reminded her of Peyton. The woman who’d been as different from Noelle as a frog was from a swan. And that had been like a knife to the heart. Cheating aside, Peyton, like Jocelyn, fit into Aiden’s newly adopted world that reeked of wealth, sophistication, and exclusivity. A world into which he fit seamlessly, despite where he’d come from.

  A world into which Noelle did not fit.

  Standing in the lobby, the differences couldn’t have been more obvious. Both Jocelyn and Aiden had reeked of sophistication and wealth, while Noelle, in her old coat and pantsuit that she’d found in a Chicago consignment shop, had appeared exactly what she was: the poor relation.

  Ten minutes later, she emerged from the bathroom, refreshed and, God, clean. Too tired to blow-dry her hair, she’d towel-dried it as best she could before her arms started aching and drew it up in a messy topknot. She drew on a pair of sweatpants and rummaged through her drawer for her hoodie. Forget a bra today. God had decided not to bless her in the breasts department, so going free wasn’t an issue…

  Her bedroom door opened with a soft creak, followed by a swift, hoarse intake of breath.

  She froze, a gasp locking in her throat, the sweatshirt clutched in her hands.

  Oh shit.

  Silence plummeted into the room. It was heavy. Alive.

  She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Not with sizzling currents racing up from the overly sensitive small of her back, across her bare skin, and to the back of her neck. His gaze. Its touch was almost physical…electric.

  She knew what he saw. Her body expressed her passion for art. From the flowers, leaves, and thin branches that stretched up her hip and lower back to the pink ribbon at the small of her back.

  Move! Put your shirt on, damn it. The order rebounded inside her head, but she remained paralyzed by shock…and excitement. She…liked his eyes on her. Liked that he hadn’t backed out of the room. Liked that he made her feel, like a current whipped and sizzled in her veins. Like she was empty and aching to be filled. Risking a glance over her shoulder, she almost wished she hadn’t. Almost. Hungry. He appeared starved, like he was two seconds from stalking across the room and tracing every inked line with his mouth, his tongue, and his fingers. An answering need pulsed in her clit, dampening the panties she’d just pulled on and would probably have to change as soon as he left the room.

  “I’m sorry,” Aiden finally murmured. “I thought you were still asleep.” A pause. “If you feel up to it, breakfast is ready.”

  “Okay, thanks,” she whispered, clasping the hoodie tighter to her chest.

  He nodded, backing out of the room. As soon as the
door closed, she bowed her head and exhaled a long breath.

  Jesus. She pulled on the top then wrapped her arms around herself. Where was the cautious, guarded woman who avoided rocking the boat like a seasick sailor? The woman who was focused on her goals, her dreams, and not the pretty, deceptive lure of a man, of attraction. That woman had left, leaving this new, reckless person in her place. And she scared the hell out of Noelle. Because this woman, who stood half naked in a room wishing Aiden would substitute his gaze for his hands, was unpredictable. Rash. Vulnerable.

  This woman would foolishly let her guard down around a man who’d made no secret of his feelings toward her, regardless of him opening his home to her. Would convince herself his actions were motivated by a softening of his heart rather than obligation.

  Six years ago, she’d been this woman. And she’d been dangerous.

  “Thank you.” Noelle nodded down at her empty plate. “For breakfast.”

  “You’re welcome.” Aiden picked up her dish along with his and headed out of the dining room toward the kitchen. The slice of buttered toast and bowl of Cream of Wheat had been simple, but after not being able to hold much down for days, the meal could’ve come from a five-star restaurant. Moments later, he returned with a steaming mug and set it down in front of her. “Your employer called this morning while you were getting dressed. She wanted to find out how you were doing.”

  She winced, stirring her tea. “I wouldn’t blame her if she fired me. At work one week, and now I’ve been off three days.”

  “Actually, she ordered me to keep you home for the rest of the week.” He shook his head, a half smile curving the corner of his mouth. “I believe her exact words were, ‘You chain her ass to the bed if you have to.’”

  Noelle snickered, almost choking on her tea. “That sounds like Lo,” she said.

  “She also mentioned a show she needed you well for,” he added, lowering into the chair across from her, his legs in a lazy sprawl. “What show?”