Really, could be anything.
But a little part of me knows, even before the notification page finishes loading, that it's not nothing. It's far from it.
Sure enough, the majority of the notifications are for messages sitting in my on-site inbox. Just a glance at the subject lines of those makes my stomach clench in a combination of fear and excitement, disbelief and a heady rush of relief. Because the subject lines all contain, for lack of a better term, bids.
"$15,000 for a taste of that sweet pussy," reads the first email, and they only get crazier from there. I scroll up slowly, not opening the emails themselves, not yet, because I'm not willing to even entertain that all of these are serious. They have to be pranks, right? Or if the guys are serious, they're probably serial killers or something secretly.
Shit, what the hell am I getting myself into?
But then one message in particular jumps out at me.
The numbers all around it have gotten seriously high, like, I would actually consider that high. Offers for $45-50k, just for one night with me, just for the opportunity to forever be labeled the first guy who got to deflower me. I can't decide if I'm flattered or nervous or turned on or freaked out or some combination of all four.
Part of my brain is already doing the mental math. $50,000 would pay for one of the three months Gram would need at the good nursing home. The really nice facility I toured with my cousin Cam, the only other one Gram still talks to, as she and I debated options. The one that has personalized one-on-one nurses and on-site rehab, the one where they looked at her charts and didn't sigh in despair, but patted my shoulder and told me she's a strong woman, they could make her better. Give her another ten to fifteen years, depending how hard she was willing to work in rehab. And knowing Gram, she'd work her ass off if it meant getting her independence back.
$50,000 could change our lives. Give her a fighting chance. Maybe even save her life.
But then my eyes skim past that offer, because I've noticed another one. One that couldn't possibly be real. One with one extra zero, I figure a typo, surely. There’s no other words in the subject line, no comment about my hot ass or my tight bod, or the way he wants to ruin me. But this sender didn’t need any other words. He gets his message across in numbers alone.
$500,000.
My brain doesn't even bother trying to daydream about that one. No freaking way.
Still, my fingers seem to be functioning independently from my cerebrum. They're already clicking open that message, and my eyes scan the first line.
Bonnie.
Shit, I think immediately. Why did I use my real name? I probably should not have put that kind of detail up on a website like this. Scratch that, definitely should not have. Oh god, I am going to wind up with so many stalkers.
But something makes me keep reading anyway.
Your offer piqued my interest. I'm sure you have heard from a lot of other men already, given what you have to offer, but trust me when I tell you: I know what I want when I see her. And I do not make offers like this lightly.
If you are serious about this, you can find me on Skype at the below address. By the way, I would advise creating a more convincing pseudonym for that site, Bonnie.
I'm torn between blushing bright red and glaring at the screen. What an asshole.
I mean, he's right. But seriously, can he get any more condescending?
Don't keep me waiting, he has the nerve to add at the bottom of the email, right above his signature line. P, is all it says. "Or is that even your real name, Mr. Get a Pseudonym?" I mutter. His Skype username is PiercingPine32, so maybe it's a play on that? Who knows.
My finger hovers over the delete button. Surely some of these $40-50k offers will be from less irritating know-it-alls.
But $500,000. That could pay for as much time in the top-of-the-line facility as Gram needs. Not to mention the year and a half of nursing school I've already been through and the remaining two to boot. I could study full-time, maybe even finish in three years and start working earlier than I'd planned. Without juggling shifts at the diner, I could easily manage that.
I chew on my lower lip. I am on here to sell myself to the highest bidder, after all. And Mr. PiercingPine certainly is that. Who cares if he's the biggest asshole on the planet, if he'll pay me that kind of money for one simple night?
The least I could do is see if he's serious. Try to scope him out, see if he's a nutjob. He's probably just some broke kid from the Midwest fucking around on this site anyway, trying to see if he can get some girl to give him her bank information if he promises to send her money. Well. I might be a virgin, but I'm not exactly some naive little schoolgirl.
"Fine, P," I murmur as I pull up Skype and set up a new username: BonnieSeeksClyde. "Let's see what you've got."
The account created, I add PiercingPine32 to my contact list. I'm about to close the laptop again and head off to the train when my computer pings.
He added me back.
Was he just sitting around waiting for me? I raise an eyebrow. The broke kid in the Midwest theory is looking more and more believable.
My fingers hover over my keyboard, frozen as I try to think of an opening line, when his chat window pops up.
Took you long enough, my dear.
Long enough? I snort, then check the Sugar Babies site again. He only put in that bid an hour ago. He's lucky I checked it before I jetted off to Gram's, or he would have been waiting even longer.
Then again, maybe he would have just bid on some other hot virgin by then. If it's as big a trend as Erin seemed to think, there must be a ton of girls cashing in on this right now.
So I swallow my pride and my instinctively irritated response. Right. Sugar Baby. Virgin. Sweet, innocent young thing looking for a man to corrupt me. Get into character, Bonnie.
It's embarrassingly easy. After all, I kind of am looking to be corrupted right now. At least, if you call losing your V-card corruption. Which seems like a very Catholic schoolgirl thing of me to think.
"Progressive feminism, Bon," I mumble. Nothing wrong with wanting to get my pussy wrecked by a hot guy with a huge dick.
Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. P. Or do you have a name? Mr. Pine?
My name is Pierce, Bonnie. I should return the favor, after all, one real name for another.
"Oh, like Piercing instead of Pierce is such a great disguise," I mutter under my breath. In the chat, I type, How do you know that's my real name?
Am I wrong? he counters.
I purse my lips. No. I'm just curious why it was so obvious.
Let's just say, your name wasn't a type of animal, flower, or fruit. It stood out.
Oh. I frown at my screen. Sorry, I haven't done this before.
Don't be sorry. I like that about you.
What, the things I haven't done?
I expect him to tease me, but all I get back is a one-word answer.
Yes.
Well then. Guess we know what his fetish is. Then again, that probably should've been obvious when he offered me half a million freaking dollars. I rub my temple with one finger. Okay. Time to figure out if this guy is for real.
So how does this work, exactly? I'm in the middle of typing, but another message from him interrupts me.
Enough small talk, Bonnie. I need to see you.
"Whoa, kidnapper much?" I raise an eyebrow. But, almost as though he's reading my mind, he qualifies that statement immediately.
Virtually speaking, of course.
Without another word, my screen lights up. I jump so hard the laptop nearly flies off my thighs.
He's calling me. Video chat. Not just audio.
My eyes dart around the living room. No way. Erin could come home at any time—I haven't got her schedule memorized, since it's pretty random during the week. I grab my laptop and bolt into my bedroom, shutting the door behind me.
But, of course, it looks like a time bomb went off in here. Between my late shifts at the diner, my classes, and being up in NoCal so
often, I don't have much time to take care of the place. My bed is heaped with semi-dirty laundry, jeans and sweaters I can totally get away with wearing one or five more times before I need to haul them to the laundromat. My desk is piled with notebooks and print-outs and highlighters scatter the floor.
I shove everything on the bed off of it and position myself in front of my least embarrassing poster, a simple reprint of Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, gazing soulfully out a window as a cig dangles from her gloved fingertips.
I suck in another deep breath and answer the call. For a second, my own camera feed floods the screen, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grimacing. Shit. It's not just my room that looks a mess right now. I've got my blonde curls in a messy bun on top of my head, there's still smudged mascara from last night clumped around the rims of my green eyes, and I'm wearing Erin's freaking Fashion Institute of Design & Management sweatshirt, the old one she cut the shoulders out of and then got bored with.
Crap. Dead giveaway where I am, if this guy is a stalker. Not that I go there, but I live close enough for the shirt to be incriminating.
I'm in the middle of tearing it off when the call connects. Thanks to that, the first thing I hear from him is a low, throaty laugh.
I tear the sweatshirt the rest of the way off my head and my eyes land on the computer screen. I freeze in place like a deer in headlights.
Definitely a scam, screams the only functioning part of my brain that remains. Because holy fucking shit.
He. Is. Smoking. Hot.
Icy blue eyes study me in high-definition. He's got the kind of cheekbones you could cut a steak with, and a strong jawline to match, complete with careless, dark two-day stubble that he clearly doesn't even notice is there. It only serves to highlight his perfection, like shading on an art drawing. I imagine running my hands through that scratchy stubble, feeling it rough against my fingertips, my palms, my own cheek . . . Or between my thighs.
"Tell me, Bonnie," he says, and fuck, this is unfair. His voice is deep, full of charcoal, with some kind of New England accent that I can't quite place. Maine? Boston? No, fancier than that. Connecticut, maybe, or Vermont? "Do you always begin your video calls with strangers by stripping?"
I swear, my cheeks could start a small forest fire.
"Uh . . ." I clear my throat, hard. Ugh, it's not fair. He's got a full head of dark hair. The razored edge in front flips over his forehead, just low enough to skim his equally perfect black eyebrows, which are currently arched in amusement. "I forgot I was wearing . . ."
Then I glance at myself on cam. Great. Underneath the FIDM hoodie, I had the wonderful fashion sense to don a bright red T-shirt with the Trix rabbit on it. Super sexy, Bonnie. Meet the hot rich man with a cereal shirt on.
"I'll be right back," I say. "I'm just going to change really—"
"Sit down," he says, because I had started to rise. I freeze halfway to my feet, laptop in my hands. His ice-blue eyes lock on mine, and I remember the hint of command in his messages earlier. Part of me prickles at him trying to order me around.
Another part of me, a much larger part than I want to admit, is turned on as hell by the calm control in his voice. This is the kind of man who tells people what to do. This is a man accustomed to being obeyed. One who won’t be afraid to take control, to dominate me.
This is not the kind of guy you ignore.
I sink back onto my bed, laptop balanced on my crossed legs. "Whatever you say, Pierce." I lock eyes with the camera, and I swear I can feel him looking at me through it, a palpable sensation.
His smile turns predatory. I don't know how to explain it—it's the same look he wore a moment ago, only now the edges of his mouth seem sharp, his blindingly white teeth flashing, his eyes hungry. "I apologize, Bonnie. I seem to have given you the wrong impression."
I blink at the screen. "What do you mean?"
"You asked me my name. It is Pierce. But that is not how you will address me. You will address me as 'sir.' Is that clear?"
Again, I'm torn. Half of me wants to rebel, to tell this asshole to shove it. The other half, my lower half, tingles in anticipation. Fuck. I can already feel my panties starting to grow damp. "Yes, sir," I whisper, and it makes me feel even hotter to hear those words come out of my mouth.
"Good girl. Now, Bonnie. I'm not one for beating around the bush. Are you interested in my offer?"
"Very," I blurt. Shit. Do I sound too eager?
He raises an eyebrow, and sits in silence. It takes me a moment to realize what I've forgotten.
"Sir," I add belatedly.
He nods. "Better. And I'm glad to hear my offer caught your attention. I hoped it would. As I said, you piqued my interest. And I have rather, shall we say, exacting taste." His gaze slides down my body, and my face burns again as I glimpse the stupid bunny on my shirt.
Dammit, Bonnie. I can't even sell myself properly.
But he's not frowning. He's still got that hungry smile on when his eyes snap back to mine. Or at least, to the camera, which makes it feel like he's staring straight into my soul. Those eyes of his are mesmerizing. So pale they're almost gray, except for the bursts of bright blue around the center.
"I hope this arrangement will work for both of us. But I understand, of course, that there will need to be certain parameters set. And certain proofs given."
"Proofs?" I repeat like an idiot. Then I shake myself. Of course. "I mean, yeah, I . . . No offense, but I don't really know if you're who you say you are, so—"
He raises a single eyebrow. "Who did I say I was, Bonnie?"
I blink. "Er. No one, I guess. What I meant was, I've never met anyone from the internet before, and, uh, well, you hear stories about . . ."
His smile deepens. "I understand completely. Naturally, I will provide you with whatever proof of trustworthiness you require, along with a small token of my means upfront, to assure you of my honest intentions. You will, I trust, be willing to provide the same type of proof to me."
"I . . ." This was not at all how I pictured this would go. Then again, I hadn't expected it to actually go anywhere. "Yeah, of course," I stammer.
"Bonnie," he says, and there's a warning in his voice that I don't quite understand.
"Yes, Pierce?" Shit. Only then do I realize. "I mean, sir. Sorry, sir.
"That's the second time you've forgotten." His eyes flash. "Don't do it again."
Fucking hell. Why is it so damn hot when he does that? And why do I want to simultaneously slap him and press my lips to that perfectly sharp, curved mouth of his? "I won't, sir."
"Now. If at any time you begin to feel uncomfortable with this arrangement, or pressured in any way, you are free to walk away. I want you to remember that, Bonnie. None of this is necessary. It must be something you want to do."
"I do, sir," I reply, my voice strong and clear. Because I really do, I realize. For the money, but also to lose my virginity once and for all. And, additionally, because Pierce P here is literally the hottest man I've ever spoken to for more than 10 seconds. And the way he's devouring me with his eyes right now, like I'm a piece of meat he's hungry to bite into . . . Fuck. I want him to do whatever the hell he wants with me. Money or no money.
Focus, Bonnie. Eyes on the prize.
"Same goes for you," I tell him, suddenly. "If you don't want to do this or anything, or change your mind before we . . . Um, before we do that. I understand, sir."
He laughs, and that sound, low and almost dangerous, does funny things to my stomach. I feel like I just swallowed a jar full of butterflies.
"May I ask what's funny, sir?" I venture, my cheeks still red hot. They've been burning this whole time, an involuntary reaction to him. Just another reason to be embarrassed. Between that and my hideous shirt and my complete awkwardness, it's a wonder he hasn't ended this call yet.
But his eyes rake over me again, still every inch as appreciative. "Oh, my dear. I thought my desire was quite clear." He's doing that thing again, s
taring straight at me, and the computer seems to melt away, so it feels like we're in the same room, face-to-face. "I want you," he says, and I swear to god I can feel my leg muscles start to give out. Thank god I'm sitting.
Once again with the mind-reading, however, he tilts his head to the side. "Now, Bonnie. Please stand. I'd like to see all of you."
I rise on trembling legs, and the laptop is at an angle on the bed where it just points straight at the crotch of my jeans.
"Move the laptop. Do you have a desk?"
Why am I letting him order me around? I wonder, even as I obey and set the computer on my desk. Much better angle, though it shows off my messy room behind me, and the fraying window curtain and tape-marked walls behind that. Oh well. He wants to know what he's getting.
"Take off your shirt."
I feel my nipples harden beneath it, and a throb of desire pulses straight to my crotch. But I hesitate, one hand on the hem. "Look, no offense, but I still don't really know who you—"
"What is your email, Bonnie? Preferably one without a last name in it; you can't be too careful online."
I tell him my secondary email, the one I mostly just use to sign up for spam newsletter lists and sales announcements from my favorite stores, since it's not like I can afford to shop in any of them anyway. I watch him click on his screen a couple times.
"Check your inbox."
Blinking, I turn away to shuffle through my belongings for my phone, which wound up under the pile of laundry in my haste to clear the bed. I stand and refresh that inbox, then stand there like a dumbass in the middle of the room, gaping.
There's a $300 Visa gift card in my inbox.
"As I said. A small token." He raises that damn eyebrow again. "Now. The shirt?"
I should feel dirty. I should feel cheap. I should not feel this fucking hot while stripping for a guy who just threw cash at me. But fucking hell, I feel like a sex goddess as I peel that Trix shirt off of my body and let it drop beside me. At least I wore a decent bra today, leopard print with black straps. Push-up, too, so the girls are on full display. I don't have much of a chest, but what I do have fills out an A-cup to almost overflowing, and gives me a nice curve of cleavage.
Best of Penny Wylder: Virgin Romance Page 18
