The Russian's Christmas Present

I watch her pout and sniff, dropping her paddle to the floor and crossing her arms.

“Once, twice…” The tuxedoed auctioneer waves his hand toward the crowd before knocking the wooden mallet on the podium. “Sold. The winner! With the highest bid of the evening, fifty thousand dollars for Mr. Martel Kozlov!”

The crowd erupts in applause, the people sitting around me nod in acknowledgment in my direction while they clap, and finally the woman with the jet-black hair turns around as a spotlight ignites above my head, showing the audience the winner.

I shrug at her glare with a half-grin, but she rolls her eyes, snapping her tongue in her cheek, then pushes her chair back and stomps down the aisle and out of the hall.

I win, I win, I win. There’s a lot of gloating going on inside my head.

Until…

I realize, I don’t know what to do now. I’ve won the date, but this was all supposed to be tit for tat. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours.

But, that was before the hallway. Before the fingers and the lips and…

I flush, excusing myself as I work my way down the row of seats and into the aisle, making my way in haste toward the ladies’ room.

Once inside, I sequester myself in a stall, my heart racing, wondering how I got myself here. All the confidence I managed earlier seems to fall away. I’m out of my depth. This morning, I was scraping together change to make sure I had enough gas to get here.

Now, I’ve been paid ten grand to bid on a stranger and I’m not even sure what to do next. All of a sudden, I don’t want the date. I just want out.

At least, that’s what I’m telling myself as I slink back toward the event hall, planning to pay my bid and disappear back into the night. After all, Martel told me I had to win the date, not go on the date…so technically, I’m still keeping my word.

There’s a tightness in my center as I come around the corner and make my way toward the table where there’s a short line for bidders to settle up.

As I approach, my throat tightens, and a cold chill covers me. There at the table is Elvira, leaning down talking to an older woman with a perfectly-cut onyx-black bob and a sparkling-silver gown, both of them giving me the stink eye as I approach.

When I get to the table, the woman who bid for Martel stands, her arms crossed again, eyeing me up and down as the older woman meets my eye.

“You’re here to pay your bid?” Her eyes are flat, her brows higher than should be possible as I step forward, retrieving the black debit card Martel gave me from my clutch.

“Yes. My bidder number was 43. I won lot 12,” I answer, handing her the card. She takes it, her eyes not leaving my face.

“Lot twelve!” The girl cackles.

“And your name, dear?” The woman’s voice hints at a forced friendliness. Like she’s waiting to hear my name before she decides if she loves or hates me.

“Bria Driscoll,” I answer, pressing my lips together as I look at the woman’s perfect red lipstick. She and the other girl have the most vivid green eyes, and the shape of their faces hint at a maternal connection.

“May I see your invitation?” She looks down at the card in her hand.

Heat rises in my cheeks. “Invitation? I don’t have…” My eyes dance between the two women.

“I’ll need your invitation. As well, I’ll need the zip code associated with the card in order to put it through.” The woman seems to have made her decision and it’s clear, she doesn’t love me.

“I..I—” My eyes flick between them, then toward the people around me, who now all seem to be watching.

“We should call security,” the girl standing behind her chirps, holding her lips in a thin smile.

“You’re not calling security.” A deep voice from my left makes me jump. “And you know you don’t need a fucking invitation or a zip code to run that card.”

My mouth opens but no sound comes out as I glance between the three of them. I came into this evening with my head held high and I intend to leave the same way. With Martel standing next to me, I cinch my brows together and lean forward, connecting my eyes with the woman holding the card.

“Just run it. I believe the winning bid was fifty thousand dollars. There is no problem with that card.” She gives me a hard stare but doesn’t move, so I slap my hand on the table. “I said run it!”

“Fine,” she bites back, swiping the card through the little machine in front of her.

Emboldened by Martel standing next to me, there’s a flicker between my legs. I remember how he pressed himself into my hip. How his erection felt thick, pulsing like it had its own heartbeat.