Chapter 9
Scarletta
I'm standing in the middle of the preparation suite, thighs pressed together so hard they're shaking, silk robe sticking to my oiled skin, trying—trying—not to come just from the memory of their hands on me.
This is who I am. This is what I've become.
A girl who almost came in the middle of a room, being held up by strangers, while one of them touched her like she was livestock being checked for market.
Because that's exactly what you are. Livestock. Product. A thing being sold.
My clit is throbbing. Actually throbbing. I can feel my pulse between my legs, this awful desperate ache that won't go away no matter how still I stand.
I should be horrified. I should be disgusted with myself.
But all I can think about is how close I was. How badly I wanted to let go. How much Istillwant to let go.
Pathetic. You're pathetic.
The three attendants circle me. Like I'm prey. Like they know exactly what I'm feeling and they're enjoying it.
The blonde one leans in first. His lips brush my cheek—gentle, almost affectionate—and he whispers, "It's okay if you come next time. We're paid to fluff you up."
Fluff you up.
Like I'm a pillow. Like I'm a product that needs to be presented at peak condition.
My face burns. Shame floods through me so hot I think I might actually combust right here on this eucalyptus-scented floor.
The second attendant—dark hair, the one who had his fingers on my clit, kisses my other cheek. "The buyers like the girls ready and wanting."
Ready and wanting.
I am. God help me, I am.
The third one, the quiet one who worked my legs, kisses my forehead this time. His voice is softer. Almost kind. "See you next month."
He moves away before I can process what he said.
Next month?
Next month?
What does that?—
"Thank you, gentlemen. That will be all." Mr. Fitzwilliam appears in the doorway, clapping his hands twice. Sharp. Efficient.
They file out past him without looking back.
Mr. Fitzwilliam turns to me, adjusting his perfect cuffs. "Miss Desmond. It's nearly your turn at the auction. If you'll follow me, please."
I stare at him. My brain isn't working. Nothing is computing.
"I—four hours? It's been four hours already?" How the hell could four hours have passed? Did I fall asleep in the tub and not realize it?
"Slightly over four hours, yes." Fitzwilliams says, checking his watch. "The bidding is running behind due to an unforeseen circumstance, but we should move you into position regardless."
Unforeseen circumstance.
