The Auction (Club Indulgence Duet, #1)(12)

She claps her hands and then leans into my ear, whispering, "I can't wait to see you back here with him."

Once again, I'm clueless about what she's referring to, but I definitely won't be returning. Everyone's treated me well here, but I'm pretty sure this isn't my scene.

Plus, I can't live with a stranger for a month and definitely not a year. Especially one who wants me to sleep with him.

Nope. I'll hitch a ride to wherever this secret hideaway is, then go on my way.

The auctioneer pulls a black satin scarf out of his pocket, and I have a flashback of less than a few hours ago.

I wince, asking, "Why do I need the blindfold?"

"Like I said, the Dom is extremely private. He doesn't allow anyone at his house. To be honest, I'm surprised he's allowing you," the auctioneer claims.

My stomach flips again, but I allow him to blindfold me.

I'm led to an SUV. I know because I have to step up to get into the back seat. The door shuts, and the sound of the engine starting fills my ears.

I spend the long ride tugging on my fingers or tapping my thigh, trying not to freak out. When the car finally stops, the driver says, "We're here."

I wait, and he opens my door, reaches in for me, and leads me over a driveway and into a house.

A man orders, "You'll wait outside."

Goose bumps break out on my skin. Why does that voice sound familiar?

The sound of the front door shutting hits my ears. The man steps forward and a woody-spicy scent laced with orange peels flares in my nostrils. My skin prickles with electricity. There's only one man who's ever smelled like that.

But it can't be.

His hot breath hits my ear, and I shudder as his tongue touches my lobe. He purrs, "Blakely, it's been a long time."

I gasp, holding my breath, my insides quivering with too many emotions.

For years, I've thought of him. I've wondered what he's doing, what it would be like to be with him, and if he remembered me.

He removes the blindfold, and my mouth turns dry.

I whisper, "Riggs."

His dirty-blond surfer locks are exactly how I remember, with one side curling close to his crystal-clear blue eyes. He's more filled out than I recall. He must have removed his suit jacket because the white designer shirt strains against his pecs. Several buttons are undone, and his cuffs are rolled to the middle of his thick forearms, displaying his arm sleeve tattoos I never knew existed. Thinking back, he always wore buttoned-up, long-sleeve shirts like my father and his friends. I gape at the inked artwork, sprawling across him. And it all makes him sexier than I remember.

"Sit down, Blakely," he orders.

A new fear hits me as I get over my shock of seeing him. I beg, "Don't take me to my father."

His lips twitch, and he claims, "It'll be a cold day in Hell when I turn you over to Hugh Gallow."

His statement doesn't make any sense. My father and Riggs have always been tight. I've never seen him have anything but respect for my father, yet now, all I see is disgust in Riggs's expression. So my gut says he isn't lying.

"Sit down," he repeats, pointing to a chair.

I obey, unsure what else to do.

He sits next to me, and his scent teases my nostrils. I barely notice the stack of papers until he slides them toward me and demands, "You have to sign if you want to stay with me. And there's only one way this goes, Blakely, and that's my way."

My butterflies flutter so strong I put my hand on my stomach. I glance between him and the contract, then swallow hard. I inquire, "What does that mean?"

He doesn't hesitate, answering, "It means for a year, I own you. Your body. At times, your mind. And all the breaths you take."

A shiver runs down my spine. I wonder if this is a dream. Riggs Madden has haunted enough of them ever since I turned eighteen.

He drags his knuckles over my cheek, studying me.

I close my eyes, trembling, trying to decipher what he means. I finally ask, "What do you want to do to me?"

"Whatever I feel like at the moment," he states in his normal, confident tone.

I lock eyes with him until my gaze drifts to his lips, a tad puffy from all the sea salt only a hardcore surfer would have. They're the same lips that I couldn't shake. I even wrote a song about those lips and what it would be like to have them on mine and other parts of my body.

He continues, "A year, Blakely. You live here with me. No one knows about this place, not even your father. You only leave when I'm with you and allow you. I'll take care of you." His hand slides between my thighs, and tingles explode in every cell of my body.

My breath turns ragged. I gaze between his hand and mouth, debating if his lips could possibly come near creating the buzz his palm currently is bestowing on me.

He adds, "I'll fulfill all the deep-rooted desires that made you step on that stage tonight."

He thinks I went on the stage knowing what all this is about?

Just sign the contract and let him do whatever he wants.

What am I talking about? I can't do this.

Why not?

"Wh—"

He puts his fingers over my lips. "You want to focus on your music?"

I stay quiet.

"Answer me," he demands. "Isn't that what you love? Or is that no longer your dream?"