Page 308 of Summer Heat
Apparently this is the cue Damon needs to stop pretending it’s my intellect they’re interested in. He begins describing my physical characteristics with a bluntness that steals my breath.
“Her skin is pale milky perfection, her hair’s a mix of gold and copper. She also has very large…eyes, as you can see. And she narrows most delectably…on the bridge of her nose. Then flares again…on her wide mouth.”
He isn’t talking about my face. He’s talking about my body. My hands are clenched at my sides, my entire body strumming with the urge to flee. I can’t forget the rouge on my nipples. Everyone will see them before this auction ends.
“Take it off,” one of the men yells, his voice slurred.
“Do you want to see more?” Damon asks, his tone solicitous, as if this is a polite affair. Instead it feels like a bullfight. I’m the animal, made to run and run while my body bleeds.
“Yes,” they shout, stomping their feet. It feels like a riot. “Take it off!”
Damon doesn’t look worried, though, merely pleased. He touches the small hidden clasp on my shoulder and the top of the dress falls away, revealing the downy slopes of my breasts, the white lace of the bra.
“Almost there,” he murmurs.
Another flick of his fingers at my back, and the bra slides forward. He nudges gently, moving the straps down my arms, tickling my skin with lace, making me prick with shame. My arms cling to the material until it hangs nearly at my wrists.
Painfully, almost against my will, I unclench my fists. The bra falls to the floor.
My pink nipples tighten in the exposed air, and the crowd roars their approval.
“They would fill a man’s hands, don’t you think?” he calls over the crowd.
There’s more shouting, more salacious speculation about the rest of me. What color would my pussy lips be? How tight is my cunt? I stand very still, unable to glance at Uncle Landon—to see the condemnation in his eyes. Or worse, the lust. I can’t even look for Gabriel. Is he shouting with the rest of the men? Is his voice demanding that I be passed around for inspection? I can’t bear to know, so I stare straight ahead, the yellow glow of the lamps blurring as my eyes sheen with tears. A deep breath. I won’t cry in front of them. They paid for my body, not for my despair.
“Let’s start the bidding at twenty thousand,” Damon says, and almost every placard rises in the air. The sea of red paddles, each with a black engraved number, makes my stomach churn.
Damon turns into a master auctioneer, speaking faster and faster.
“Can I get twenty-five, twenty-five? I have twenty-five. Thirty! What about thirty-five? You’ll have this girl for thirty days and thirty nights, yours to do as you please, surely that’s worth—thirty-five! Do I have forty-five?”
My gaze darts around the room, trying to keep up with the bids. The number goes higher and higher, and as if we’re climbing a mountain, the atmosphere seems to thin. I have to breathe twice as fast to get enough oxygen.
Fifty thousand dollars. What will they expect me to do for that much money? What will I have to endure? I almost wish it had stopped lower.
I look at Candy, who has her hands curled up like a child, her head tucked under Ivan Tabakov’s chin. He looks hard and foreboding above her, like he’s carved out of stone—but I know from her contentedness that she’s completely safe in his arms. I’m longing for that security, standing on a pedestal, my pride ripped to shreds.
“Fifty,” Damon says sadly. “That’s all for this ripe peach?”
He grasps the fabric at my hips and pulls, leaving my legs bare. I’m only wearing the plain white panties in a roomful of people. I can’t help it—I cover myself, my hands cupping between my legs. This seems to delight Damon, who laughs. The rest of the room stomps their approval, raising their glasses and toasting one another.
Beautiful find, one of them says, like I’m an archeological dig.
Perfect rack. Look at those hips. I’m too busy looking at her mouth. I’d keep those lips busy, that’s for fucking sure. More laughter.
My gaze snaps to Gabriel Miller. He leans against the back of the wall, arms crossed. He isn’t even holding a placard, but that doesn’t surprise me. He’s here to see me humiliated, not because he wants me. No, the surprising part is the faint whisper of disappointment. I should know better than that, because if anyone would take my father’s debt out of my skin, it would be him.
“Imagine tasting her,” Damon says. “Imagine pressing her sweet flesh between your fingertips.”
There are a few men in the audience who haven’t raised their placards yet.
Maybe they don’t like what they see—my body or my family name. Or maybe they only paid the entrance fee to watch the spectacle. But now they lean forward and begin bidding. I realize that they were waiting for the preliminary bids to get out of the way.
These are the serious bidders.
They mean to win.
“Do I have seventy-five, seventy-five, seventy-five?”
