Taking The Virgin (The Virgin Auctions, Book Three)

by Paige North

  I wish the kiss would last forever, but he eventually ends it, his mouth still on mine, my lips humming with heat. Surely something else is coming next—something incredible and mind blowing…

  I look into his eyes, the emotion I’m feeling written across my face, when suddenly he stills and tenses up.

  That’s when I realize I’ve done something wrong.

  Chapter 5

  His strong back tenses, warily arching underneath my hands. It’s as if I’ve done something that’s already pushed him away, and I don’t know what it is.

  As he backs off of me, he lowers his head so I can’t see his expression, then turns away from me.

  I touch my fingertips to his arm but he only gets to his feet. I pull my hand back as if stung.

  He digs his fingers through his disheveled hair, clearly agitated, but then I realize he’s actually trying to put some order to the chaos that my hands made of his thick strands. His breathing is labored.

  “Shit,” he says. “I can’t believe we didn’t use a goddamn condom.”

  Is that all?

  My voice is light. “It’s okay. I’m on the pill, remember? And I gave you my paperwork from my doctor…”

  But his tone is firm, almost a reprimand. “I always use one. Always.”

  He’s still not looking at me. He picks up his clothing from the floor then surveys the room around him—my clothing and towel cluttering the carpet, the silk robe I tossed into a chair. Then he wipes his hand down his belly where I spread my cream all over him.

  All I see is beautiful disarray, but he’s got a dark look on his face that tells me his point of view clashes with mine.

  Suddenly, I feel like the mess. I’m someone who has come into his pristine home and left unwelcome debris. I’m someone he used, someone he’ll be throwing out in just a matter of time, and from the way he’s acting, that time is about to expire.

  Still clearly disturbed, he puts on his trousers. It’s as if a different man walked into this room earlier to give me such a tumultuous, raw experience, and another guy altogether is leaving me cold.

  “Don’t worry,” I say softly, not knowing how else to handle this. “I’ll clean everything up.”

  If I think that this is going to get him to stay and give me more of what he gave me, I’m wrong.

  “Please see that you do,” he says in a frigid tone.

  Then, without even another word or look, he leaves me on the bed, naked and vulnerable and in absolute disbelief under the pale glow of the TV screen.

  After he closes the door behind him, I still can’t believe he’s gone. Numb, I sit up, slightly wincing at the tenderness between my thighs. I start to grab my discarded chemise to put it on and at least cover myself from all the embarrassment I’m feeling, but I really do feel dirty—sticky, sweaty, and burning with the friction of my skin against his. It should be a good kind of dirty, but after I thought that such intimacy passed between us during sex, I’m humiliated to admit I was wrong.

  There was no connection. There was nothing but the transaction he wanted.

  But there was the way he just cut me off and left, and that’s what seems to matter the most right now.

  I slide off the bed while clutching the chemise. I slowly pick my clothing and towel up off the floor and fetch the robe from the chair. I think I need a shower, a comforting balm.

  After I take one and then dress into a nightie that’s not nearly as sexy as the chemise, I can’t bring myself to sleep in that big, white bed. It seems too glacial…and messy. Instead, I huddle on a chaise lounge by the window with the bedspread and a pillow, but I never do get to sleep.

  I’m too busy tossing and turning and wondering what the heck went wrong.

  The first noise I hear after the sun begins to peek through the curtains is a soft chiming sound that comes from the intercom on the nightstand. It looks like a tiny modern piece of silver art that blends in with everything else, and when Nat’s voice speaks through it, it’s almost as if she’s hiding somewhere in the bedroom.

  “Miss Hope?” she says in that gentle tone of hers.

  I pull the bedspread around me and sit up on the chaise lounge. “Yes? I’m already awake.”

  And I’m still aching from last night, and it’s not just my body.

  “Good morning,” Nat says. “Dr. Gregory would like you to know that you may take your time with breakfast. All I need to know is what you’d prefer to eat and when, but there’s no rush in the slightest.”

  I pause, then ask, “He went to work already?”

  “Long ago. He puts in more hours than most.”

  “Oh. All right.” I realize that I’m fine with him being gone. No awkward goodbyes, no reminders of how things ended on such a chilly note.

  So then why is my heart sinking in my chest?

  Because he was your first, I think. You’re never going to forget him, no matter how things turned out.

  Nat goes on. “Dr. Gregory’s left a check for you for the full amount of the payment, and as agreed, your travel will be taken care of.”

  So I did do my job, and I didn’t disappoint. At least I can take that as a consolation—as well as the fifty thousand dollars. That cheers me up ever so slightly, because now I’ll be that much closer to getting my brothers and sisters back.

  “Thank you.” I rise from the lounge. “What time is my flight?”

  Nat laughs. “Whenever you want it to be. Dr. Gregory’s private company jet is at your disposal to take you back to Florida.”

  I widen my eyes. Say what?

  He’s treating me as if I really pleased him last night, and maybe I did. Wait—I know I did, at least sexually, but I have the strange feeling Dr. Owen Gregory just has no idea how to express that to me or maybe to anyone.

  “Thanks again, Nat. I’ll be down as soon as I get myself together.” I try to smile. “And I’d like it if we could eat breakfast together, if that’s possible. Is it?”

  “I think that could be arranged, Miss Hope.” She sounds happy that I asked.

  That cheers me a little more—every bit counts—and by the time I pack up my meager belongings, clean up, and get dressed, she’s set a table in the sunny breakfast room on the first floor. The private chef has whipped up an Italian Eggs Benedict with a kiwi, blueberry, and raspberry side dish, along with yogurt, strawberry muffins, and a selection of teas. As we devour the delicious meal, Nat steers clear of anything that has to do with last night or Highest Bidder. She’d rather ask me about my time in college and what sort of art I love as well as my favorite music and literature.

  I tell her that there’s a romantic side of me that’s partial to pre-Raphaelite paintings and Degas, that I’m into Lord Huron and old-school Sting, and that I’ll read anything although my heart belongs to poetry. She’s partial to Jackson Pollock, loves jazz, and wishes she had more time to read.

  It seems that the only thing we don’t talk about is my night with Owen, but when we’ve both had our fill of food, I glance at her a little longer than before. She seems so warm and so open that I decide to ask something I’ve been wondering since the master of this house won me in the auction.

  “Do you end up having breakfasts with a lot of Highest Bidder girls?” I ask.

  She hesitates, then merely smiles that pleasant smile. I know that’s all I’m going to get from her, although there’s something about her expression that lets me know that I might have been the only one who’s ever asked her to breakfast.

  When it’s time for me to leave, she walks me to the door, and before I go, I impetuously hug her. She embraces me back.

  “I hope all your dreams come true,” she whispers to me. And as we pull apart, she hands me an envelope with the check in it.

  There’s nothing more to say as I depart, walking toward the waiting limo that’s going to take me to the private jet.

  During the drive, I sink down into the plush leather seat, watching the city streets go by. I don’t feel like the Juliet Hope who
arrived in Manhattan just yesterday. I’m sadder yet more experienced. I’m in a bittersweet mood because I got what I needed—thousands of dollars to kick-start a new life for me and my brothers and sisters.

  The experience really could have gone a lot worse than it did but, somehow, I wanted more…

  At the executive airport, the jet is ready and waiting for me, and my gaze widens as I take in how big it is—probably the size of a hotel suite.

  I’m escorted to the aircraft by a man in a black suit and a Bluetooth earpiece who looks like he might be some sort of security person. I don’t give that too much thought as I climb the stairs to the plane. All I have with me is what I came with—my light duffel bag, my coat, and my firm optimism about what I can do for my family. But I feel like I’m leaving something major behind.

  My first time, and it was with a man I’m never going to forget…

  After taking my phone and earbuds out of my bag so I can listen to one of my playlists during the trip, I step into the jet, expecting to be greeted by a flight attendant. But when I see who’s actually waiting for me in one of the lavish seats, my pulse tangles.

  Owen Gregory stands up to greet me, dressed in one of his finely creased tailor-made suits, just as impeccable and breathtaking as ever.

  Chapter 6

  Once again, Owen’s appearance is perfect—not a hair out of place, not a stitch unraveled, not a wrinkle on him. He watches me with those dark eyes as if him showing up here out of the blue is the most logical thing in the world.

  As the brunette flight attendant walks up to me and takes my bag and coat, I gather my wits, then turn back to Owen.

  And what is my grand statement to him?

  “You’re here,” I say lamely. So much for gathering my wits.

  “It would seem so.”

  Silence beats between us, and I don’t know what to do with myself. So I peer around the jet, taking in the spotless pale leather seats, gold trim, and entertainment screens in this front area. There’s obviously more behind Owen, but his authoritative body blocks the passageway.

  He gestures toward a single seat, and I hesitate. Then he says, “I decided to accompany you on the flight back to Miami.”

  “Why?”

  Owen tenses at my question. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the flight attendant duck out of sight.

  He doesn’t answer.

  I decide to leave things as they are. After all, here I am on a private jet. How many more times will I ever get to travel on one of these? It shouldn’t matter that Owen is about as predictable as the weather or that he left me in his frosty dust last night. I’m going to enjoy this, dammit, and I take a different seat than the one he motioned to. I slip onto a leather sofa, buckle myself in, and look out the window.

  At my rebellious snub, I think there’s a subtle smile on his lips as he stares at me. I refuse to look back at him, even as he slides onto the sofa next to me.

  Damn him. I know he did it on purpose, just to ruffle me, but I parry back by ignoring him. I keep looking at the tarmac out the window and try to shut out the clean smell of his skin, the heat of his presence. But no matter how hard I fight him off, my heart seems to be arching from one side of my chest to the other.

  The flight attendant comes by and hands Owen an electronic tablet.

  “And champagne for both of us,” he says to her without even consulting me first.

  I don’t refuse. Might as well get everything I can out of this trip.

  As he begins to swipe over his tablet screen, I stick my earbuds in and access a playlist on my phone. I learned my lesson yesterday when I tried so hard to make conversation with him. I’m not about to be blown off again.

  Why did he insist on being here? On sitting right next to me?

  One playlist and two champagnes later, we’re well in the air, flying toward my home. My skin is still vibrating at his nearness, and I’m on edge, half-listening to my music, half eager to have him say something to me. But aside from feeling him looking at me every so often, as if he’s assessing my mood, there’s nothing between us. Nada. Zip.

  I’ll never figure him out, so I’m not even going to try.

  Eventually, my eyelids grow heavy, thanks to my lack of sleep the night before and the booze. Soon, I’m slumped in my seat, drifting off and away, unable to resist dreaming about the feel of Owen’s hands on me last night, his mouth sucking on my breast, kissing my belly, ravaging my pussy…

  I feel so warm, so comfortable, and I softly moan at the feel of solid arms wrapped around me. This is a great dream because now I’m imagining Owen holding me, my cheek against his hard chest, my belly filled with a liquid heat that simmers.

  I sigh and shift my hips. He shifts, too, and I start to realize that this is no dream.

  I open my eyes, aware of the fact that I really am in his arms. I actually fell asleep on him, and he’s not pushing me away. I flush all over, my body flooded by warmth.

  Then I feel a spot of wetness against my cheek, and embarrassment overtakes me.

  Was I drooling on him?

  With a start, I back away from him, and he lets go of me. Even with the darkness of his flawless suit jacket, I see a drool spot on him, and I want to die.

  “Oh my god,” I say, wiping at my mouth. “I’m so sorry.”

  He merely looks down at the drool, and I fuss at his lapels, trying to erase the wet mark.

  “Red,” he says, wrapping his fingers around my wrist to stop me. “Don’t worry about it.”

  Desire zings over my skin at the contact. But even more surprisingly, it looks like he doesn’t care that I’ve defiled his suit.

  Is this really the same man who seemed so disturbed by my clothing on his floor and the mess I made last night?

  His phone rings, and as we sit there with his fingers still cuffing my wrist, neither of us moves. I see chaos in his fathomless gaze, and I have no idea what it means. I only know that I’m feeling the same raging confusion in my gut. And in my crazy heart.

  After the fourth ring, he lets go of me then stands up. “You’re free to order more cocktails and some food. You haven’t eaten yet.”

  Before I can tell him that I had a big breakfast, he answers his phone. “Yes?”

  Then he saunters toward the passageway, and I sit back in my seat.

  My flesh tingles from where he touched me, and I trace my fingers over the invisible band of pressure I still feel. The tingles spread over the rest of me, and from then on, as Owen stays in the back of the jet, I try to solve the puzzle of this man.

  As well as the puzzle of what I’m feeling for him.

  Whenever the attendant checks on me, I don’t order food or drinks. It isn’t until we’ve landed and she opens the jet door that I realize maybe I’ll never see Owen again. The drool had to have been the last straw for him, and he was only hiding his anger and disgust that I soiled his lovely suit.

  I’m truly a hot mess, but was I ever anything else?

  The attendant brings my bag and coat, which I stuff into it because of the mild air. She’s bidding me goodbye when Owen finally does appear.

  My blood thickens in my veins, chugging through me as I meet his gaze.

  “You didn’t order anything to eat,” he says. “I’m not about to send you on your way before you get some nourishment.”

  Who is he, supernanny? “I’ll be fine, but thank you anyway.”

  The attendant has left us alone again, and I start to leave the jet.

  “Juliet,” he says.

  He called me by my name, and it’s enough to stop me from going anywhere. When I glance back at him, he has his hands folded behind his back. He looks like a boss, and I imagine him in an operating room or his corporate offices, running everything, keeping those around him in line.

  “I’d like you to have a meal with me before we part company,” he says.

  His formality doesn’t surprise me, but his invitation sure does.

  And, god help me, I can’t say no to
him.

  He takes me to a beautiful, exclusive seafood restaurant on a Biscayne Bay dock. The afternoon sun shimmers on the water beside the silver high rises across the way. Palm trees sway in the breeze as he orders more expensive champagne, plus ceviche and then an entrée of crab-stuffed lobster.

  In spite of what he told me yesterday about not wanting to know anything about me, he makes the smallest of small talk, asking me questions he would know the answer to if he’d actually read my Highest Bidder profile.

  He seems particularly focused on my days studying art in college and my career aspirations. I refrain from telling him that any and all jobs are on hold until I can get my personal life together, because I have the feeling he doesn’t want to know that much about me. But he’s back to being the more relaxed version of the Owen Gregory—the guy he was before things ended on such an odd note last night.

  After our meal, we take a walk along the beach, saltiness riding on the air, the waves a dull roar, the sand nearly empty of tourists at this time of year.

  The champagne and the nice meal have made me rather brave, so as we saunter along, I risk saying, “I did a bit of research on you.”

  “And what did you find?” He hasn’t loosened his silver silk tie this entire time, and his jacket is still buttoned and neat. He’s almost unreal, and I can tell that the few other people who walk past us think so, as well. They look at him as I do—as if he’s a magnetic, imposing, gorgeous specimen who’s just stepped out from an article about titans of industry.

  “What did I find out about you besides the obvious?” I shrug. “I saw that you won early admission to Harvard when you were only seventeen. You almost make me feel like a…”

  I search for words, almost landing on slacker.

  “You’re quite accomplished yourself,” he says. “But I had to leave home when I did.”

  There’s a hint of bitterness in his voice, and as if he wants me to forget what he said, he forges on. “All of us have our plans. Ambitions. We only go about getting them in different ways. I felt the need to push myself to my limits.”