Auctioned to Him 7: The Contract

by Charlotte Byrd

  “I have to go.”

  “Noooooo.” She pulls me closer.

  “I know, I’m sorry,” I push away. Shit. Why did this have to happen today of all days?

  “Where do you have to go? You don’t have a job!”

  “I do have a job. An obligation. It’s a pretty serious one too,” I look down at my watch. I’m late. Really late. He hates lateness. Doesn’t tolerate it.

  “What is it?” she asks, jumping off the counter. She crosses her arms across her chest. She pouts her lips. If only I didn’t have to leave right away. I have a few ideas of how I could make that pout disappear.

  “It’s difficult to explain,” I say. I don’t want to lie to her – wow, that’s a first – but I can’t tell the truth either.

  “I’m going on a very important business trip tomorrow. I won’t be able to stay in contact. Not constant contact.”

  “Why are you telling me this?” Avery turns away from me and pretends to work on a centerpiece.

  I turn her around.

  “Because I don’t want you to think that I’m ignoring you. I like you Avery. A lot. But I can’t stay. I have to go. I have a meeting with my director, and I’m running late. Tomorrow I have to leave. I’m not sure when I’ll be in touch again, but I will pick you up for the wedding. I promise.”

  She shakes her head, as if she understands. In today’s age of constant contact and almost infinite technology, it’s a little hard to explain why I’m going to go pretty much underground for a month, but this is the best explanation that I can offer.

  I bend down to her ear. I move hair off her shoulders and kiss the back of her neck. She moans a little. I want her to remember these words.

  “I like you, Avery. A lot.”

  * * *

  I race through Topanga Canyon, breaking all speeding records. Here, the problem is not so much the police hiding behind curves, but the curves themselves. The road is windy and steep.

  It’s not advisable to go faster than 50 miles per hour. I’m meeting Franklin Truman on a park bench on the Santa Monica Pier. I’m late, of course. It’s only by fifteen minutes, but fifteen minutes is like two hours in Truman time.

  “I was about to leave,” he says, looking straight at me. I don’t apologize. That would be admitting a mistake, and that’s a big no-no with Truman. To him, an apology is a sign of regret, and regrets are unprofessional.

  Santa Monica Pier is swirling with happy families and pets. Everyone around us is having fun and smiling.

  “This isn’t the best place to meet if you wanted to fit in,” I say. “Given your propensity to stare ahead with a serious expression on your face.”

  He turns to me. I know better than to expect a sarcastic smile from him. Franklin Truman has no sense of humor. I’ve never seen him smile or even make a joke. Perhaps that’s one of the requirements of being the director of Daffodil, but I have the feeling that I’d run it completely differently. Daffodil is the name of the secret organization within the CIA I made the terrible mistake of joining all those years ago. Part-time work, my ass.

  “Augusto Sanchez has already started to consolidate power,” Truman says. “He’s had at least five ministers who helped him conduct the military coup arrested. Many have disappeared. None of our operatives on the ground know how many civilians have vanished. He has completely taken over the newspapers and the media. Analysts are saying that he’s well on his way to becoming the next Kim Jong-Il.”

  I nod.

  “We have intelligence that suggests that he’s going to be on his yacht on the night of the 18th. Are you still going to your brother’s wedding?”

  “I’m the best man.”

  “Fine, that will do. It might actually be a good cover as to why you’re there.”

  “A convenient cover is not really what I’m looking for that weekend,” I say. Truman ignores me. My wisecracks used to get under his skin. He used to take them very personally. Over the years, he has learned to pay them no attention.

  Truman is in his late 50’s, but his body looks like it belongs to a 70 year old. He doesn’t take care of himself - he eats too much and drinks too much. He has no sense of style or fashion. He’s wearing a relatively new suit, but the collar is open and the shirt is crumpled. The pants look like he has slept in them for three days straight. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that he’s some put upon traveling salesman, a Willy Loman type.

  “They are expecting you in D.C. tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be there. Of course, I have nothing better to do than to go through more useless tests.”

  Testing and training is very important in the CIA, and it’s especially important in Daffodil. What they conveniently forgot to mention to me when I signed my contract with them is that, though I’m only obliged to complete a certain number of missions a year, each mission also comes with extensive training, planning and testing components. There are tests on stress and concentration, fatigue and general physical discomfort. There are tests on conventional firearms and tactical training and, of course, analytical training. The training and testing vary depending on the depth and the scope of the mission, but they do have one thing in common: they are all a major pain in the ass.

  “Don’t forget the bag,” Truman says, getting up.

  “Now, when have I ever forgotten the bag?” I hiss back. That one was just to irritate him. I’ve never met any other agents from Daffodil – it’s not like we have conventions every year to discuss our career paths – but I really hope that I’m the most annoying one that Truman has to work with. Anything short of that, and I’d be disappointed in myself.

  Chapter 16 - Avery

  Logan’s appearance is a breath of fresh air this afternoon. After he leaves, all the air seems to have been sucked out of the room. I’m just about to close up shop. Cynthia is off today, and I am left all alone for what seems like the two longest hours of my life. I can’t concentrate on anything. It requires all of my effort just to arrange the one bouquet that I’ve already designed. And I actually consider closing early. Wow. He must’ve really made an impression because I never close early. Ever.

  I want him back. I want him to come right back here, put his arms around me and press his lips onto mine. I want him to take me upstairs and to do all sorts of bad things to me. If I had known that he was leaving on a business trip for a month – a whole month! – I would’ve demanded that we go on our second date sooner. I would’ve closed the shop earlier so that we didn’t just make out like teenagers, but actually took off our clothes and got serious. Shit. Why did he have to be such a gentleman? Does he not think that I can hold my own? Does he not see me that way? Does he not want me?

  No. He wants me. If there’s one thing I know, I know that. I could feel how much he wanted me while we were making out on the counter. I brush my hand over the counter wistfully. I felt it pressing against me through his shorts. And I liked what I felt. It felt big and strong.

  “I need to take a shower,” I say out loud.

  “Mind if I join you?”

  Shivers run up my spine. Could it be? No, it couldn’t. He had left.

  “Hi,” Logan walks out of the shadows.

  “Hi,” I whisper. “I thought you had to go.”

  “I did. But I thought I’d stop by before my flight. Just to say hi.”

  He comes behind the counter. He stands so close to me, I can see strands of his hair move as he breathes.

  “Just to say hi?” I ask.

  “I wanted to see if you’d want to go on a second date with me now.”

  “Instead of waiting a month?” I ask.

  He nods, playing with the ends of my hair.

  “What do you have in mind?” I ask, not moving an inch. Slowly, he puts one arm around me, pulling me closer to him. The fingers of his other hand softly trace the outline of my face. His thumb brushes along my lower lip. At that moment, something takes ahold of me, and I lick him. I don’t even really know what I’m doing, and half expect
him to push me away and walk out. His breathing pauses for a moment. I look up at him, my eyes searching his. Perhaps that was a step too far, but instead of shock and awe, a wide grin spreads from the corner of his lips to his whole face. His eyes light up with excitement.

  Logan stares into my eyes. It feels like he can see right through me. The moment lasts both for a second and forever. I shift my eyes to his mouth. I want to feel it on me.

  He’s breathing harder than usual. I stop breathing altogether.

  Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, I say silently over and over. Why is he taking so long? Is he asking my permission? He didn’t need it before.

  As if it were possible, he takes another step closer to me. I close my eyes. He leans down and kisses my lips. Gently. He brushes his tongue along my lower lip. Our tongues intertwine, and become one. He pushes me against the counter, and I push back. I love running my hands along his fit, strong body. I love feeling his arms all around my body. He grabs my butt, squeezes, sending shivers through me. I bury my hands in his soft hair. I’m making it a total mess, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Wait,” I mumble. I’m getting tossed by passion as if it’s an ocean wave. I’m only vaguely aware of the fact that we’re still in my shop. And the front door is still unlocked.

  “What?” he moans, nibbling on my earlobe.

  I moan along with him. I want to tear off his clothes. But not here.

  “Logan,” I whisper. Finally, he pulls away. Looks directly into my eyes.

  “I’m sorry. You’re right. We should stop.”

  A pang of anger flashes through me.

  “I don’t want to stop, silly,” I say kissing his neck. Who is this person? It’s as if confidence is oozing out of me.

  “You don’t?” He smiles with his eyes.

  “I just want to go upstairs. We can’t do it here, a customer might come in.”

  Logan holds me by my waist as I lock up and head upstairs. He drapes his hot, tan body on mine, grabbing at all of my bits.

  “Okay,” I turn around to face him, “but before we go in, you have to promise not to make fun of my place.”

  “What are you talking about?” he asks, kissing my neck.

  “It’s a studio. A very small studio. I don’t know the last time you were in a place like this, but it’s not one of those large, spacious studios that poor people always have in the movies or in television shows. I don’t pay much rent and it looks it.”

  “I don’t care,” he whispers. “I don’t care if we do it outside by the trashcans, I just want you.”

  I stare at him. Kind of insulted. He catches himself.

  “Okay, that’s not what I meant,” he says. “I just meant that I totally understand. I used to live in a one-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood. I know that money doesn’t go very far in this town.”

  I sigh. He wraps his arms around me again.

  “I’m not going to laugh, Avery. You don’t have to be embarrassed. About anything. Not with me.”

  Reluctantly, I open the door to my place. I don’t know why I’m so self-conscious about this place. Luckily, I was feeling a little bored last night and cleaned the whole place top to bottom. The apartment is basically a large rectangle of about 300 square feet. My bed is against the left, directly across from the kitchenette. I have a mini-fridge, which is about a few cubic feet bigger than the one I had in college, and a hot plate. The hot plate is technically illegal, but there is no stove, making the whole apartment basically illegal, so my landlord and I have an understanding. He doesn’t report me, and I don’t report him.

  “Will you excuse me for a second?” I ask and head toward the bathroom. “Make yourself comfortable. There’s some water and orange juice in the fridge.”

  In the bathroom, I flip on the lights and take a deep breath. The only thing I really hate about this place, and I mean really hate about it, is that there’s no bathtub. I love taking baths. As a child, I spent hours and hours in the bathtub – reading and playing and listening to music. Here, I only have a crammed stand up shower, with low ceiling, which barely fits one person. On more than one occasion, it made me feel so claustrophobic that I had to hurry up and wash the conditioner out of my hair before I was really ready, because my heart started to beat so fast that I felt like I was going to have a heart attack. After brushing my teeth, I walk back outside.

  Logan is sitting on my bed, with his back to the headboard.

  “You know, I like what you’ve done with the place,” he says looking around. “It’s cozy.”

  I smile, roll my eyes.

  “I’m serious,” he says. “I particularly like these lights.”

  He’s referring to my paper lantern string lights, which I have strung along the top of my curtains. The sole window in my apartment makes the place more than a little dark and I needed a way to bring more color and life into the place.

  “Thanks,” I nod. “So, do you want to go to your place instead?”

  Logan shakes his head and takes my hand in his. He pulls me down onto the bed next to him.

  “Thanks for inviting me here.”

  “Against my better judgment.”

  “I know, and that’s why I appreciate it,” he says, looking around. “And I really do love what you’ve done with the place. It has so much color and light, despite…everything.”

  Despite how small it is. Despite the fact that it has only one window, and the front door opens directly into my bedroom. But I really do appreciate him saying that. From the tone in his voice, I know that he means it.

  “Now, let’s take off this sweater, shall we?” he says quietly. It’s lightweight and sheer, and it falls off my shoulders with just one tug. He tosses it on the chair next to the bed.

  He leans over and kisses the top of my shoulders. I tilt my head back.

  “I want you,” he whispers. My heart skips a beat. He runs his fingers down my neck and over the top of my breasts.

  The muscles within me clench and don’t let go. Then he leans over and pulls me toward him. I expect him to kiss my lips, but he doesn’t. Instead, he kisses the top of my head, gently. I close my eyes, and he kisses my eyelids. They flutter underneath his lips, and I shiver. And then slowly, he grazes his lips with mine. I kiss him back, but he pulls away and kisses my neck. Slowly. Lingering over each kiss. Then he took a deep breath, inhaling me.

  “I love the way you smell,” Logan whispers.

  “What do I smell like?” I ask.

  “The perfect combination of sweetness and sex,” he says looking straight at me.

  My heart drops. I don’t know how to respond.

  Holding my gaze and refusing to let me go, Logan unclasps the front of my bra. My breasts rejoice in their newfound freedom, and he catches one with his hand. He kisses the top of it and then the nipple. He stays there for a while, getting to know each curve. He is gentle at first. My body throbs for his, and he quickly realizes that I’m not very interested in him being gentle.

  “I want to spend a weekend with your body,” he whispers. “So I can know every detail of it. Love each inch of it. Find out how every part of you works.”

  I take a big gulp.

  A moment later, our clothes disappear and we’re both naked.

  He plays with me before he enters me. He pulls me against his hips and he pushes himself inside of me. I moan into his mouth. I brace myself against his biceps, which pump with each thrust. I bury my hand in his hair – it’s soft and messy, and I make it even messier. He pulls my hair gently as he rocks inside of me. We fuck until we are both so intensely fevered that the world outside of us becomes a blur.

  * * *

  I don’t hear back from Logan for a few days after that one afternoon together. He warned me that he would be out of touch. I assume it’ll be okay, but I didn’t realize just how much I would crave more contact. I want to see him. I want him to put his arms around me. I want to kiss him. I want him inside of me.

  Get it together, I say
to myself, checking my phone for the millionth time today. He said he can’t text or call for a while. Why are you freaking out?

  I just need a distraction. I arrange a few bouquets, go out for some coffee, eat a muffin.

  “Carbs and sugar are not a solution, Avery,” I say out loud as I toss the last of the crumbs into my mouth. And then, suddenly, my phone beeps.

  I miss you, Logan texts. I hate it here and I want your mouth.

  I want you too, I text back. I miss you, too.

  Tulum can’t come soon enough, he texts.

  How’s it going? How’s work?

  Fine. Boring. How’s your cunt?

  I drop my phone and feel my cheeks get flushed. Shivers run down my spine. I smile. He’s being coy. Cocky. More cocky than usual. Space and distance would do that.

  Avery? I’m just joking, he writes after I don’t respond for a minute. Are you offended?

  No, I’m not offended. I just don’t know what to say. I’ve never sexted before.

  Wet. How’s your dick? I text.

  Hard, he writes. I want to smell you. Inhale you. Eat you up.

  I want to ride you, I text.

  Shit. So so sorry for cutting this short. But I have to go. Rain check? he texts.

  Sure.

  I put down my phone. The door opens and Cynthia comes in, startling me. I take a deep breath. I’m covered in sweat. I have large stains under my arms and along the bottom of my breasts.

  “Oh my God, Avery,” Cynthia says. “Why don’t you just turn up the air conditioner if you’re that hot?”

  Chapter 17 - Logan

  I wait for Avery on my plane. I sent a car for her so that she doesn’t have to drive. We haven’t seen each other since that one earth-shattering afternoon in her tiny apartment. I’ve never felt this drawn to anyone before. My mind keeps swirling back to her. What she tastes like. How she laughs. The way her lips curl upward, as if in a smile when she gets upset. I crave her. I need her. I’m not someone who’s used to needing anymore.