Auctioned to Him 7: The Contract

by Charlotte Byrd

  “No, we can’t do this here.” I suddenly remember where I am. I pull away from him and look around for Stacey, but she is nowhere to be found. Maybe she’s hiding somewhere near the cockpit.

  “Oh yes, we can.” He wraps his arms around me and draws me back to him.

  “Should we go somewhere more private?” I ask. I can’t stand the fact that Stacey will know what I am doing here with him. I’m not this kind of girl. Gatsby just does something to me. He makes me do crazy things.

  “Like a bathroom, you mean?” he mumbles through the kisses. I nod. Suddenly, he pulls away from me and looks me straight in the eyes.

  “We don’t need to go to the bathroom, Annabelle. You see that button over there?”

  A small button with the words ‘Private’ on it is glowing. “That means no one’s going to bother us.”

  Gatsby presses another button, and the light around us dims. Wrapped in a soft light as if from a candle, I look at him.

  “No one is going to walk in on us, Annabelle. You don’t have to worry,” he whispers and moves closer. Wordlessly, he pulls off my work jacket and untucks my blouse from my skirt. He runs his fingers over my thighs.

  “I don’t know…” I mumble, but he silences me with a kiss.

  He positions me across his chest, pulling off my blouse and undoing my bra, freeing my breasts. He runs my fingers up his arm, feeling the veins that bulge out of it, as he cups my breasts.

  His arms are strong and powerful, much stronger than they look in that tailored suit of his. Kissing me along my neck, he pushes me back to my feet and takes off my shoes. Once I am barefoot and topless before him, he unzips my skirt and drops it down.

  I thread my fingers into his hair as his lips graze my nipples. Shivers run up my spine. His thick hair is so silky that my fingers can’t find traction, and I end up just caressing his hair instead of tugging on it as I had planned.

  Completely nude, he sits me back down on his lap, facing away from him. His fingers find my clit, and my pussy begins to throb. I resist the urge to clench my thighs and open up instead. I pull up my feet to the top of his knees and open wide. He is still fully dressed, yet I am completely naked and spread wide like an eagle. It’s not like me. I’m not this girl, and yet I feel no shame.

  He starts to kiss me behind my ears as his fingers find their way inside of me. The faster his fingers move, the more energy starts to build up within me. It builds quickly, spreading from my clit outwards toward my toes and fingers.

  I let out a moan. “I’m getting close.”

  “I know.”

  His fingers swirl faster.

  “Come for me,” he orders.

  That sends me over the edge. The orgasm pulsates throughout me, and my body starts to shake. My mind goes blank, and my body goes limp on top of him. The release is so intense that I close my eyes and disappear as if into another world.

  Whenever I come back, I am wrapped in a blanket in a fully reclined seat with Gatsby lying next to me.

  “How was that?” he asks, pushing hair out of my face.

  “Wonderful,” I mumble.

  “Good. We’re almost there.”

  I look out the window, but it’s pitch black and I can’t see a thing. “Where?”

  “Yellowstone.”

  16

  Gatsby is so close to me. I want to rip off his clothes. I want him to have his way with me. But Stacey, the flight attendant, is back with dessert. We’re having strawberry cheesecake made with real strawberries and delicious organic cream from grass-fed, free range cows.

  The gorgeous cheesecake is presented to me on a plate monogrammed with the initials GTW.

  * * *

  Gatsby Tristan Wild.

  * * *

  Gatsby Tristan Wild, the owner of this private plane, and my one and only one-night stand.

  Gatsby Tristan Wild is also the guy I met in Yosemite National Park after I had spent days alone in the wild without seeing another soul.

  But I’m forgetting something. Oh yeah, Gatsby Tristan Wild is also my boss.

  It’s our first date. I thought it was just going to be dinner, but he decided to take me to Yellowstone on his private plane for the weekend.

  The trip is an apology. It’s supposed to make up for his lies. It’s his way of showing me how sorry he is.

  I try not to be impressed. I’m trying to stay cool. I don’t want to forgive him just because of all of this. But I know that I would’ve forgiven him even if he had just given me flowers.

  Glancing over at Gatsby staring out of the window, I again see the hiker who I initially fell for deep in the woods, under the bright starry sky and away from all this civilization.

  He has kind eyes and a relaxed demeanor. His tan skin compliments the hair that’s falling into his face. It’s a little longer than customary for a man who makes his living wearing a $ 3,000 suit, but that’s what makes me want him even more.

  Gatsby’s breathing is steady. I wonder what he is thinking about. He brings his fingers to his nose and inhales as if he’s smelling an aromatic perfume. He gives me a wink.

  My cheeks get flush. He had just given me one of the most intense and pleasurable orgasms of my life. It drew me closer to him than I thought was possible, making me want him even more.

  Well, tonight, I will turn the tables. Tonight, as soon as the plane lands, I will make it about him. I will make him want me as much he has made me want him. I promise this to myself.

  Hundreds of contradictory thoughts swirl around in my head. Is this whole relationship appropriate? It’s like I’m sleeping my way to the top. Except that I’m not. I had already slept with him when I thought he was just a white water rafting instructor. It was he who hired me for this job without revealing that he’s actually the CEO of this company.

  Still, Gatsby is my boss. He hired me when I couldn’t find a job anywhere else. But after this weekend, he will go back to being my boss. He will go back to his glass office on the 67th floor of Wild International, and he will go back to dealing with the upcoming IPO offering that his pharmaceutical company is going through.

  And I will go back to being his assistant. Or rather, an assistant in his office, since technically my boss is the indifferent Ms. Greaves. First name unknown. She’s technically his personal assistant/secretary/everything else. And I just work for her.

  A startling thought suddenly pops into my head. What if I lose my job?

  Don’t worry about it, I say to myself. It doesn’t really matter because I shouldn’t even have this job in the first place, given that I never applied for it! Were it not for Gatsby, I wouldn’t even be working there!

  What would Ms. Greaves think if she ever found out about Gatsby and me? Who the hell cares what she would think? Who is she to judge me, anyway?

  * * *

  Gatsby leans closer to me. I can feel his breath on my face. He smells of mint and whiskey. He reaches down to the table and picks up the ornate silver spoon. The daintiness of the spoon makes his strong hand appear even more powerful. His fingers are long, but not delicate at all. He might not work with them for a living, but he works out, and his hands show it.

  With one swift motion, Gatsby breaks through the masterpiece that is this cheesecake and lifts the spoon up to my mouth.

  “Open wide,” he whispers. He places the cheesecake carefully onto my tongue, and I let it melt in my mouth. The aroma of real strawberries and the coolness of the cheesecake consume my senses, and I lay back in the recliner and disappear into another world.

  Gatsby takes a bite and looks out the window.

  “We’re landing soon.”

  * * *

  It is dark when we land, but through the lights of the runway, I can still make out the thick forests that surround us on all sides. The wilderness is so thick that it takes my breath away. It’s a different park and a completely different ecosystem than the one in which we met. But it reminds me of the first time we met anyway. It is in this kind of wildernes
s that I had first laid my eyes on this man who changed my life so much in only a few brief weeks.

  Gatsby helps me out of the plane by holding my hand and doesn’t let go until we get to the lodge.

  “Mr. Wild,” a pleasant young man greets, waving to us as soon as we step over the threshold.

  Gatsby walks directly to him while I take a moment to take everything in.

  The lodge is made of thick, whole pine trees, and the ceiling is at least twenty feet high, if not higher. It is pitch black outside, but there are windows lining one whole side of the lodge, looking over the wilderness outside.

  I am relieved that the décor inside isn’t lined with busts of taxidermic animals. There is just one ominous chandelier made of antlers. At each point of the antler, there is a large lit candle. The candles bathe the room in soothing candlelight and put me at ease.

  Gatsby makes small talk with the front desk attendant while I continue to explore. I have been to Yellowstone before, a long time ago, on a high school trip. But we stayed in a Motel 6 about twenty miles away from the entrance. I had no idea this place even existed.

  Gatsby waves me over and leads me down one of the hallways on the other side of the enormous stone fireplace. We walk to the end of the rustic hallway to two double doors.

  “This is our suite.”

  When he opens the door, I am greeted by another gigantic fireplace made of rounded stones. The fireplace extends all the way up to the ceiling, which is made of exposed beams. The suite is elegant and five-star yet comfy in design. Somehow, this unusually refined style manages to evoke feelings of solace and tranquility.

  “In the brochure, they call it rustic elegance,” Gatsby says. “What do you think?”

  I don’t know what to think. I stand in awe. The suite is made of multiple rooms, each grander than the last. The grandeur does not come from expensive chandeliers and wide open spaces and modern design like it does in Los Angeles. Here, grandeur is evoked by simplicity.

  “Rustic elegance is probably appropriate.” I nod. “I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  “All the walls were created from dead standing trees, and the fireplace was built of locally quarried stones, which were found on the property. They are local in the truest sense; they weren’t even brought over from a neighboring county.”

  I walk over to the fireplace and run my fingers over the smooth gray and tan stones that make up the fireplace. They have been polished and arranged so that the colors and sizes compliment their neighbors. There aren’t too many gray stones on one side. Instead, the gray and tan stones intertwine to make up a delightful tapestry.

  “I love how organic they look,” I say. “It’s almost as if they were alive and moving.”

  Gatsby smiles and puts his hand over mine. We run both of our hands together over the stones.

  “It’s like they are taking on lives of their own,” he says and moves my hair off my neck. When he kneels down to me, his hair tickles my ears. I feel his breath on my neck and his lips on my shoulder. I close my eyes and enjoy the moment.

  When I open them again, my gaze turns toward the floor-to-ceiling window. Millions of stars surround the full moon, and the path towards the suite is lit up. I spot something in the shadows near the pine trees.

  “What’s that?” I whisper, pulling away from Gatsby.

  “Oh c’mon.” He reaches for me, annoyed. But I run toward the window.

  “It’s a buffalo! It’s an actual buffalo right outside the window,” I whisper. And then I see the other two.

  17

  Gatsby and I stand in awe looking at the majestic creatures walking through the snow peppered valley in front of our window. Their enormous heads are pointed toward the earth, chomping on the grass in the alpine meadow, and they move slowly and without worry. My heart skips a beat. Under the moonlight, their thick fur looks like a shawl, and their horns look like a crown. Bathed in moonlight, they look like gods.

  I can’t believe that I am standing here watching these amazing animals graze only a few feet away from me.

  “Aren’t they beautiful?” Gatsby whispers.

  I nod.

  I cannot talk.

  I am speechless.

  We stand there in silence looking at the buffalo for a long time. Slowly, they start to move away from us, further and further into the grass prairie. Eventually, they are just dots on the horizon, dots that I still can’t take my eyes away from.

  * * *

  When they completely disappear behind the horizon, I turn back to Gatsby. He has lit the fireplace and is sitting on the bed.

  “Are you hungry? Do you want to get room service?” I ask. He shakes his hand waving me over. I smile and slowly walk across the room.

  “You don’t want dinner?” I ask again, already knowing the answer.

  His eyes are twinkling in that familiar way that I am already used to. I know what he wants.

  “No, I want you.”

  I want him too. Being that close to a wild buffalo awakened something within me. It was as if the wildness in his eyes penetrated me, infecting me with an unfamiliar kind of hunger.

  “I want you, too,” I whisper.

  Gatsby is sitting on the edge of the bed. When I get close to him, I spread his legs and foist my body in between them. My hair drapes around his head as if it were a curtain, and he takes a deep breath.

  “I love the way your hair smells,” he whispers as I move my lips down to his.

  Then he surprises me. Instead of taking things slow, building up tension through teasing and time, he grabs my head and presses his lips onto mine.

  With what seems to be one swift motion, he takes off my clothes. This time, however, I don’t give in. I push back against him.

  He smiles. “And what do you think you’re doing?”

  I loosen his tie and unbutton his shirt. “I’m not going to be the only one naked this time,” I say and let his pants drop to the floor.

  His body is chiseled, as if out of stone. The light from the fire dances across his pecks and hugs every curve of his six-pack. His shoulders seem broader now. I feel smaller.

  I look down. His hands are on his hips. The veins in his forearms stand out and lead my eyes further down to his beautiful cock. Large and erect, it stands before me with an invitation. I wrap my hands around it and put it in my mouth.

  Gatsby moans from pleasure and buries his hands in my hair. He pulls on it a little too tight, teeter totting on the border between pain and pleasure.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  Lost in a world of motion, I drift to another world until I hear someone say, “I’m so, so sorry, Mr. Wild.”

  Reality crashes into my world, and hatred and anger builds within me for the speaker of those words.

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Wild,” the man from the front desk keeps saying as two men barrel past him into the suite.

  Quickly, I scramble for my clothes. They are scattered all over the floor, and none of them are big enough to cover me up completely without me first figuring out how to put my arms through the arm sleeves.

  Dammit, dammit, dammit, I say to myself. Out of the corner of my eye, I see an open closet door. A brand new bathrobe is hanging inside. I grab it and wrap it around myself. I take a moment to enjoy the warmth and solace of the bathrobe before turning around and facing the men.

  Who the hell are they? What the hell are they doing here? How dare they interrupt us? I hate the front desk guy with all of my might for letting them inside, and I hate them even more for being here.

  * * *

  “What the fuck do you want?” I hear Gatsby say to them. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  I turn around and face them. The men look roughly Gatsby’s age, maybe a few years younger. One is taller and the other is shorter, but both have similar shaped eyes and lips. The taller one has darker hair than Gatsby’s, and the shorter one’s hair is blonder. But other than that, they look just
like Gatsby!

  The men say nothing. They just stare at me with a whimsical look in their eyes. I know that they like what they have seen, and I hate them for it. How dare they impose themselves on our private time together?

  “Well?” Gatsby crosses his arms. It is then that I look down at him and discover that he is still not dressed. I go to the closet and get the other bathrobe.

  “Here,” I say, handing it to him. He looks at me, confused.

  “No, Annabelle. I’m fine. If my brothers want to interrupt me in my own suite, then it’s their problem if they see me naked. I have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

  His words pinch my heart. I’m not embarrassed by my nudity. I hate them thinking that I was. I just don’t want them to see me naked. Gatsby must’ve sensed my discomfort because he quickly adds, “I didn’t mean it like that Annabelle.”

  Then he turns to his brother and repeats his initial questions.

  “What the fuck do you want? What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Oh c’mon, brother.” The blonder one comes forward. He’s just as lean and toned and tanned as Gatsby, and I hate how beautiful he is.

  “C’mon, now. Don’t be like that. We’re just here to talk.”

  “Oh yeah? Is that why you’re both barging into my room when I have company? Is that why you’re making this kind young man worry about his job?”

  We all look at the man from the front desk. He is responsible for letting them in, and he is covered in sweat from head to toe. A minute ago, I wanted him fired, but now I feel sorry for him. He and I are the same. We’re not rich and wealthy, and we need our jobs to pay our bills. This is all he has. My pity for his situation softens my disposition towards him, and instead I focus my anger and discontent on Gatsby’s brothers.