“No.” I step closer, close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in her eyes. “When I proposition you, Rayne Silva, there will be no mistaking it.”
Her breath catches, but she doesn’t back away. “You’re very sure of yourself.”
I shrug. “I know what I want. Whether I get it is entirely up to you.”
For a moment, we stand there, the air between us charged with possibilities. The tension is so thick I can cut it with a butter knife, but she doesn’t look away. Her slim throat flexes as she swallows hard, and she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth.
Fuck me. My body is already aching, and I’m dangerously close to acting on my filthy thoughts. But no. I won’t pounce on her the first night. Not until she gives herself to me.
With an internal groan, I sigh and step back, breaking the tension.
“You’ve had a long night,” I say. “You must be tired.”
“A little.”
I gesture toward the hallway. “I’ll show you to your room.”
“My room?” She can’t quite hide her surprise, her forehead scrunching.
“Did you think I’d expect you to share mine? Without even buying you dinner first?" I raise an eyebrow, the corner of my mouth lifting slightly.
A small smile touches her lips—the first I’ve seen from her. It transforms her face, softening it, revealing a glimpse of who she might be when she’s not afraid or when her defenses are down.
I want to see more of that woman. So much more.
But I need her to want me first.
2
RAYNE
Oh my God. What just happened? Am I dreaming? Is this real life? Is HE for real?
The heavy bedroom door closes with a soft click behind Ronan, leaving me alone in the most luxurious guest room I’ve ever seen. My heart hammers against my ribs so violently I’m certain he can hear it through the wall. I press my palm against my chest, trying to still the wild rhythm.
This night hasn’t turned out the way I expected, and I don’t even mind. Not one bit.
This isn’t fear. That’s what puzzles me. I expected to be terrified. I was terrified earlier tonight on that auction block, staring out at a sea of wealthy men and women eyeing me like merchandise.
But this? This hammering pulse, this electric current running beneath my skin? This is something else entirely.
I fall backward onto the king-sized bed, sinking into a mattress so plush it might as well be a cloud. Staring at the pristine white ceiling, I try to make sense of my reaction to Ronan Ward.My savior and currently the one occupying a good chunk of my mental real estate.
When I’d agreed to this auction, it had been out of pure desperation. Mom’s medical bills keep mounting, and after losing both my jobs in the same month (with promises of, “We’ll keep in touch if we need your services again”), I was drowning. Then I saw men like Gerhardt and Keller bidding—men with reputations that made my skin crawl—I nearly broke down right there. Money be damned.
But when Ronan’s voice cut through the room, something inside me stilled. Relief. That’s what I felt. Relief, when by all rights, I should have been even more terrified. Billionaire Ronan Ward is known for taking what he wants without apology.
Yes, I did my research and knew most of the attendees and bidders. I wanted to have an idea who I would potentially spend the next two days with. What can I say? It eased my anxiety. Not by much, but the information comforted me.
So why did Ronan’s presence calm me? Why, when he looks at me with those dark, intense eyes, do I feel like he’s seeing something worth looking at? The first time he looked at me, I didn’t know if I was about to melt into a puddle on the floor or climb his body like a tree.
God, he’s so hot it should be a crime. Those eyes that seem to see right through me, the stubble that darkens half his face, those big, veiny hands. Everything about him has my lady parts screaming.
I press my palms against my eyes. “Get it together, Rayne,” I say to myself. “It's just forty-eight hours. After that, Ronan will most likely forget about you.”
Forty-eight hours that will test every ounce of my willpower and self-control. Because the truth—the embarrassing, ridiculous truth—is that several times tonight, I nearly flung myself at him. In the car. In the foyer. Just now, standing outside this bedroom door.
With a groan, I roll off the bed and head for the en-suite bathroom. Maybe a shower will clear my head. Or maybe I will just drown myself. We’ll have to see.
