If this fucker thought he was winning Beatrix, he was in for a lot of fucking disappointment.
I made a counterbid, and then he spouted off a higher amount as I glowered. The interest in his eyes for my woman was pretty damn clear. And it infuriated me.
And yes, Beatrix was mine whether she knew it or not.
I did another counterbid. I wanted to look at Beatrix, stare at her, even though I knew she couldn’t see me, but I focused on Antonio instead. I wanted the fucker to know who he’d lose to.
And when he did glance my way, I saw the smug look on his face falter as our gazes locked. Antonio was rich, but he wasn’t richer than me. My pockets went fucking deep, and I’d pay any amount to have Beatrix.
But he held steady with that damn expression as he said another bid. While staring him right in the eye, I said, “Ten thousand dollars.” It wasn’t nearly as high as I’d go. But I wanted Antonio to understand money was no object when it came to me getting what I wanted.
Beatrix.
I was prepared to pay twenty, fifty, hell, one million fucking dollars for her.
But Antonio wasn’t stupid. He could have outbid me again, making me go even higher, but he didn’t. He lost the fucking smirk, took a step back, and surrendered.
Good, because I had no issues playing dirty in the game of winning Beatrix’s heart.
Chapter Eight
Logan
One week later: The date
I’d booked out an entire Italian restaurant for ourselves, something I’d never done, something I would’ve never thought of doing before. But I wanted to impress Beatrix, even if the core part of me knew she probably didn’t give a shit about money being flashed around.
But it wasn’t just to impress her, to see the surprise and wonder on her face, but because I wanted her all to myself. And taking her back to my place to cook her a meal so we’d have that intimate experience might have been something too fast for her.
We’d been here for the last hour, and in that time, I hadn’t been able to take my gaze off her. Hell, the way she’d eaten her spaghetti, one noodle at a time, how she’d slowly sucked it between her teeth, had my cock so fucking hard I should have been ashamed.
I watched her as the minutes went by and she drink one, then two, then three glasses of wine. I could tell the alcohol was starting to get to her by the way her voice became more animated, her blush deepening. She was nervous. She was so damn nervous, and I hated that. I didn’t want her to feel anxious around me, but now that she was on her fourth glass on Pinot, her easiness coming more naturally, her cheeks flushing even more from the alcohol, I felt myself falling deeper into her.
“I’m sorry,” she said, her cheeks still that pretty shade of pink, her lips red and slightly glossy from the sip of wine she’d just taken. “I keep talking, going on and on.” She glanced up at me shyly from underneath her dark lashes. “The wine is getting to me. You’re probably sick of hearing me talk.” She laughed softly, and that sound had my heart racing.
“Never,” I said instantly. I picked up my own glass of bourbon, the same one I had for the past hour, and took a sip. I’d been nursing it, seeing as I’d be driving home, and although I didn’t care much for the flavor of alcohol, it did warm me. It gave me something to focus on. Because if I didn’t focus on the square-cut glass in my hand, or the way the flavors from the alcohol laced my tongue, or the way it slightly burned as it moved smoothly down my throat, I’d keep thinking about kissing Beatrix.
And that’s what I really wanted to do.
“I like hearing you talk.” I like hearing your voice. I kept that last part to myself. I saw her cheeks become a little bit redder at my words, and I knew it wasn’t from the alcohol but because of my words. I like that I affected her, that I could say something sweet, a compliment that was every bit the truth as I’d ever spoken in my life, and she reacted to it. “Tell me more about yourself.”
She stared at me with this innocence, this vulnerability that called to my basic, primal male urges. “What do you want to know?”
“Everything. Anything.” I hadn’t meant to say it like that. But it was the truth nonetheless.
Again, her cheeks turn a deeper shade of pink.
And so for the next half hour, I listened to her tell me about her family, that she was raised by her single mother, that she had no siblings. I listened to her time at the community college, how she secretly hated it.
“Tell me about your love of reading.”
She could tell me about folding laundry and I’d be transfixed, mesmerized. I just wanted to hear her speak, to let her voice travel through me and further cement my need to claim her.
She told me about her love of Shakespeare, how she’d fallen in love with Poe at a young age. She enjoyed romances, historicals, and all nonfiction books.
Beatrix fascinated me to no end, and I knew without a shadow of a doubt that letting her go was not an option.
Chapter Nine
Beatrix
My mouth was dry as Logan helped me down the steps of the restaurant. It was strange to be the only ones here, and even weirder that Logan had all but bought the place for the night so we could be alone. He’d gone above and beyond for one night. Did he always go to these extremes for a date, or maybe he was just really making this night memorable, because he could sense what a homebody I really was, and because this was for charity?
Or maybe I’m just overthinking things.
I’d seen the way he watched me the entire time, tracking my movements as I ate and drank. His eyes had been locked on my mouth, this hungry look in his expression. And I’d been so nervous that I’d consumed far more wine than I should have. A nice buzz swam through my body, the alcohol moving swiftly through my veins.
Logan had hung onto every word I’d spoken, and the fact that he seemed so genuinely interested in what I said had me telling him more, far more than I’d ever told anyone. We stayed at the restaurant for over two hours, and most of it had been me talking, running on and on, because that’s what happened when I drank. And the truth was, I was so nervous, because of my attraction to him, this connection and pull I felt as I looked into his eyes. Even now, I remembered just last week when he’d been the winning bidder. Ten thousand dollars he’d spent on me, for two hours of dinner and me gorging myself on spaghetti and wine.
I forced myself to shut up during part of the meal, wanting to know more about him, what he liked, his dislikes. I knew the gist of him, his professional life, his advertising company, that he was wealthy, that he was smart. Of course, he went to an Ivy league school. Of course, he’d grown up in this lifestyle. But he didn’t fit the mold of the rich I’d also come across. He wasn’t snobby or pretentious. He was kind and genuine, and the looks he gave me had my core heating.
I glanced at him, his profile showing a square-cut jaw, clean-shaven skin. His nose was masculine, his lips full. He was brutal in his beauty, yet I wouldn’t call him classically handsome. I couldn’t explain why I felt this attraction to him. It was instant, powerful. I’d never felt anything like it before. It scared me but excited me, and although I should be hesitant with this arousal, with the fact that a simple touch from him felt like an electrical current shooting up and down my body, I didn’t want to push it aside. I wanted to explore it, see how far I could take it, how good it could feel.