Auctioned to the Billionaire

A new message alert stops me just before I start for the shower. It’s from Conquer&Please with the subject line: Bed Her Now? How About Another Proposition? My fingers shake as I open the message, but I’m quickly disappointed to find there’s no message. Unable to stop myself, I fire off a quick note. Did you forget to attach the dick pic?

I’ve already seen at least five, and it’s the only reason I can think of for him to forward me an empty message. I hit send, then hold my breath because he’s already typing a response.

Conquer&Please: I don’t need to send you a dick pic to make myself feel better, sweet. I wanted to make sure you messaged back. Obviously, it worked.

Snorting, I answer: Do you always get what you want?

Conquer&Please: If I tell you yes, will you be disappointed?

Something about his words launches a shot of adrenaline to my heart, but I brush off the strange feeling once he replies.

Conquer&Please: I want to push that button so I can have you now because I don’t like knowing there are other men just as eager to fuck your sweet little pussy. I want that privilege, and I intend to have it. You want to give up your virginity, but I want to teach you how to fuck the right way. I want to make sure you come—on my cock, my tongue, and anywhere else I see fit. I want more than one night, though.

Thirty days.

I want you to agree to spend the next thirty days with me, and I’ll end this now.

Dizzy from a handful of sexy sentences, I leave the laptop. Several times during my long shower, though, I have to grip the wall to keep myself upright because Conquer&Please’s words are wedged beneath my skin. There’s a chance the auction might reach the Bed Her Now amount on its own, but I’m intrigued. No, I’m dripping wet with my sex throbbing. It’s the second time that’s happened today—only this time, it’s thanks to a man I’ve never seen.

As I dry off and get dressed, my brain sorts through all the things that might go wrong if I accept his terms, but I always come back to one thought: I’m running out of time and this is a fix that will take care of everything.

I’m flushed and a little breathless when I return to the computer half an hour later to answer him with only one word. Yes.

His response comes through so quickly; I almost get the feeling he already had it written.

Conquer&Please: Good. I want to see you tomorrow night. The representative from V-Bay will be in touch to give you the details.

My breath hitches. So soon? My fingers quiver as I ask him if he’ll be able to make it to me—or if I’ll have time to get to him—but I receive two notifications. The first is that username Conquer&Please has logged off the V-Bay server, and the second alert speeds my pulse:

BIDDING IS NOW CLOSED AT $200,000

By the next afternoon, I’ve sent all my documents to V-Bay and they get back to me lightning fast with instructions for my first evening with Conquer&Please. I’m to meet him here in Chicago at The Brighton, a swanky hotel close to the business and financial district. He’ll send a car to pick me up at the location of my choice. I’m to wear white.

When I show Wendy my outfit—a pair of strappy white wedges and the only white dress I own—she gives me two thumbs up and a look that borders admiration.

“You’re looking very … virginal,” she says. I cover my face with both hands and breathe a dry moan into my palms. My best friend is by my side instantly, dragging my hands off my face and giving me a stern look.

“I shouldn’t have said that. You look beautiful. You’ve saved your family’s business, Flick. You’ve just put yourself through the rest of school and paid off your student loans. You look like a woman who’s making shit happen. Relax and breathe.”

Since the driver who picks me up from the coffee shop six blocks over doesn’t say a word on the way to The Brighton, I mentally repeat Wendy’s words like a mantra.

When we arrive, the driver opens my door, hands me a keycard, and tells me which floor to go to. Nothing else—not even when I ask the room number. “Thanks, I guess,” I mutter. He smiles and tips his head.

A few minutes later, I stand outside a door with a Do Not Disturb hanger already in place. It didn’t take me long to figure out there’s only one unit on the ninety-second floor—The Royale Penthouse—and part of me is desperate to run in the other direction. I’m seconds away from entering a room that easily costs several thousand dollars a night to meet a man who’s just bought me for 200 grand, and it’s all too much.