Sold to the Billionaire: A Virgin Auction Romance

  Copyright

  © 2017 Lila Younger

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Prologue: Spencer

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Epilogue: Spencer

  Enjoy a bonus chapter of my book Daddy’s Boss!

  Other books by Lila Younger

  About Lila Younger

  Prologue: Spencer

  There’s that old saying: What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.

  Most people take it to mean that if you do stupid shit in this town, it’s okay, it’s expected. Nobody’s going to hold it against you, nobody’s going to bring it back to your life back home. It’s Vegas. There’s something in the air that can make even your most uptight friend let loose. I should know. I’ve made a fortune here based off just that, investing in a string of hotels and clubs dedicated to debauchery and whatever sort of sin one wants to indulge in.

  But there’s more to that saying. For the discerning, for those who have particular tastes and are willing to pay for them, Vegas can provide that too. Quietly, discreetly, so that nobody back home has to know. No paper trails to find, no skeletons to be dug up down the road. Absolute privacy, the one thing I care about. The one lesson I’ve learned that stays with me to this day. And there’s no other company that does as fine a job as this one. There’s never been a leak, and believe me, some of the assholes in the other boxes around me have some messed up kinks they’re into. Kinks that could ruin a lot of lives if it came out, and yet, to this day, not a whisper.

  The private box I’m in is large and comfortable. There’s a mini fridge, well stocked, and crystal cut glasses above it for drinks. The window before me is tinted, again, to protect my privacy. I know that on either side of me, and above and below, there are others like me, billionaires who wish to have what they want, when they want. It’s the perfect setup, for both sides. Because the women who come here also need something from us, something that only we can give: money, pleasure, a glamorous escape from a dull life that only we can provide. Whatever it is that drives them to come and sign up. I hear that often they come back again, wanting another round, though it’s rare for that to happen. Most of the time, should the billionaire wish to continue, they sign on for another contract.

  I’ve never found the urge to re-up a contract. I’ve never found the need. Intimacy invites only betrayal and pain, and once was more than enough of that crap for me.

  I put down my drink on the side table, my fingers drumming impatiently on the dashboard in front of me. Three women have already come and gone. And despite my throbbing cock, straining against my pants, I haven’t made a single bid yet. I ignore it, because like any man, my cock reacts when it sees a beautiful woman, a sexy body strutting on the stage. That doesn’t mean I want her. Tonight, I need something more.

  The voice on the PA announces that the fourth woman has come on the stage, and I look up from the screen. There are the relevant details, what she’s willing to do, what she can’t, but I’m not reading it. My eyes are locked onto her instead. Her blue eyes are wide and nervous, her blonde hair curled into ringlets framing her face. It’s almost angelic. Something about her face pulls me in, makes me want to look more. She’s wearing a tiny white bikini, and I can see her pink nipples poking through the fabric. The bottoms are at least a size too small, and they cling to her pussy lips. Heavy breasts, small waist, wide hips-she’s the perfect hourglass shape. A sensuality that contradicts that naive expression on her face. Most of the women who get up on the stage are coy and practiced. They pose, giving every angle they can, or dance, hips gyrating as though they’re in a cheap strip club. Some even take off their clothes, exposing themselves in the hopes that they’ll get a higher price.

  But she does none of that. In fact, her shoulders are slightly hunched forward, arms crossing and quickly uncrossing multiple times. It’s almost like she’s trying to remember not to hide herself. I can see her easily with glasses, thick sweaters, nose in a book. She looks out of her element here, and honestly, I’m not sure why the company would choose her. Despite all this though, I lean forward in my chair, my thick length pulsing in response to the sight of her. She steps forward gingerly in a pair of high fuck-me stilettos, as if she’s never walked in heels before. She probably hasn’t, I guess. A girl like her wouldn’t be that type. She’s nothing like the usual women I pick when I’m here, that’s for damn sure.

  “Number four is nineteen, standing five feet four inches, measurements 36-29-38,” the announcer declares in a sterile voice. “She is a virgin.”

  I hardly hear the words except for the last. Virgin. Unsullied by any man. I picture those ripe curves underneath me, my hands exploring every inch of that creamy skin. My tongue tasting her, dipping into places no man has ever gone before. I wonder what that tight virgin cunt would feel like, wrapping around my shaft, pulling me in. I think about her screaming my name as I make her come for the very first time. Unbidden, my hand cups my erection, strokes it. My hand slaps down on the button to bid, and I see that I’m not alone. The number is flying up, climbing higher as a frenzy takes place. I keep pressing the button, almost nonstop. There’s no way in hell I’m letting anyone else have her. When I set my sights on something, I get it, no matter the cost.

  She’s looking up at the number on the screen, surprise on her face as it ticks upwards and upwards. Her eyes scan the boxes, stops on mine. There’s no way that she can see me, I know that much, but her eyes don’t stray.

  You’re mine, I think. And somehow, it’s like she knows it, her head bending down, pink fanning across her cheeks.

  Mine. I press the button to bid again.

  Chapter 1

  “I don’t want whatever it is you’re selling!! You people need to stop calling me!”

  The line goes dead, and I sit back in the crappy office chair they’ve given me, stunned. I’m used to some pretty annoyed people who hate being cold-called, but this was on another level. I hadn’t even started in on my spiel and the woman went off on me. There are times when I feel like crap on the bottom of a shoe, but this time at least, I’m sure that it wasn’t because of me. It takes tough skin to stay at this job. They told me that when I first applied for it. I thought I could handle it, distance myself, but I’ve discovered that I can’t. I’ve been dreading coming to work now for the past few weeks, but until I find something better, I have to stick to this. Even the fact that my stomach starts twisting up as soon as I walk through the doors doesn’t change that fact.

  “Shitty call Tessa?” my friend Michelle asks, pulling the headset down around her neck.

  She’s got tattoos all over both of her arms, at least five facial piercings and more all over her ears, and her hair’s dyed a shocking orange and red. She buzzed off
half of it on a whim a week ago, but she pulls it off somehow. In comparison, my hair’s never been dyed, and I only have simple silver studs. We couldn’t be more different. I’m positive that if it wasn’t for this job, we wouldn’t be friends. She’s loud and bossy, whereas I tend to follow the rules. But we bonded over our mutual hatred of the job.

  “Yeah,” I tell her. “Really bad. I didn’t even get to the part where I’m selling her anything.”

  “It happens,” she says, making her gum snap. “Don’t think too much about it.”

  “Yeah.”

  She pulls her headset back on, gives me a thumbs up, and presses the button for the next call. I do the same. Our boss, Scooter (yeah, that’s his name), hates it when we chat in between calls. The last thing I need is for him to rag on me for the rest of my shift about it, hanging around me like a bad smell. The call rings, and my mind drifts. I have this melody stuck in my head, but it’s not quite right. I can’t seem to find a way to bridge it to anything else. My fingers absentmindedly move along an invisible fret, trying to come up with ideas.

  “Hello?”

  A young voice this time, like that of a kid. Usually those are bust calls, because kids can’t open credit cards, and when they tell their parents who it is, the call never goes anywhere. But I know that I have to try regardless. Scooter has a phone, and he likes to listen in randomly on calls. If I get caught trying to cut the call, I get, you guessed it, another lecture. So I take a deep breath, and ask if Karen Applegate is home.

  “That’s me,” she says.

  I’m caught by surprise, but I quickly launch into my spiel. Surprisingly, she doesn’t try to cut me off right away. I sell credit cards for a living. It’s not my dream job, that’s for sure. I’m not sure it’s anyone’s dream job really. Most of us here are here because we need to pay bills, or we’re going to school, or whatever else. It’s a temporary stop in life. At least, I hope it is for me. Although considering my situation, it might not be soon. The thought is almost too depressing for words. I have to make an effort to pump some cheer into my pitch.

  “It only takes a few minutes to sign up. Can I get your full name?”

  I’m expecting a rejection here, but Karen Louise Applegate gives it to me, as well as her address, and everything else. I pump my hand. I definitely needed this today. I haven’t signed even one person up yet. At least now I’ll be on the board. Quota’s been insane these last few days, but having one is infinitely better than having none. Once I’ve got everything filled out and completed, I thank Karen Applegate for her time, and end the call. My next two are no answers, and then it’s time for a break.

  “Fifteen minutes,” Scooter yells, as if we don’t already all know it. “Fifteen minutes.”

  Michelle and I get up and head outside with the smokers. Neither of us like to smoke at all, but both of us hate the idea of staying inside. There are no windows, and the fluorescent lighting is too bright. The walls are painted grey, as are the cubicles, and the tables, and the carpet. Literally everything is grey, which is a pretty accurate reflection of the job, but someone should tell the company that it really kills any desire to work when you’re in that room for any length of time.

  We walk outside the building’s doors, and turn left, away from the smokers. Today the wind is blowing it away from us, which is lucky. I hate it when the wind blows the smoke towards us, because then we have to walk all the way around the building. We lean against the wall of the building. Michelle’s got a chocolate bar she’s brought from home, and I’ve brought a banana. Even though we live in Las Vegas, this is the boring side of town. The buildings here are boxy and plain. Across from us is a pizza shop and a Laundromat. Sometimes in the winter when it gets dark early, we can see the glow of the strip towards the horizon, but other than that, there’s no indication that we live in Sin City.

  “You’re way too healthy,” she remarks as she breaks off a chunk of chocolate. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat something sweet.”

  “Bananas are sweet,” I point out, peeling the skin off.

  “Not really. They aren’t bad for you,” she counters. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you do anything bad. Ever. You’re just good all over.”

  I push my glasses up on my face.

  “That’s not true,” I tell her, but my protests are weak, even to me.

  In all honesty, it’s an accurate description. Unlike Michelle, I finished off high school, and I used to sing in choir. I don’t go out late at night, and I’ve never even touched alcohol. It’s not that I have anything against those things, I just never really had a chance to do any of it. My mom drilled into me that school was the only way to get out of our situation, to better ourselves, so I always focused on my studies instead of going out and having fun. And then the label of goody-goody sort of stuck to me, and I never really broke out of it. Add to that the fact that I always felt I was chubbier, rounder than the popular girls, and I just gave up on boys altogether in high school. Once I got to college, I just kept going the way I was. I didn’t know how to change. Don’t get me wrong, I know my way around a vibrator, and I’m not completely ignorant on what happens. I’ve just never actually done it with a man before.

  “So tell me the latest in the Will saga,” I say to change the subject. “Did you go to wing night with him after all?”

  Will is some guy she’s been talking to on and off. She met him on Tindr, a hookup app. Michelle’s been trying to get me to join for ages, but I refuse. If the conversations she shows me are anything to go by, I’m not missing out on much. It seems like it’s all about the hookup, and that’s something that I’ve never been confident in. Especially since I’m a virgin. It used to be seen as a good thing to have your virginity, but these days, if it isn’t gone by sixteen, it’s like an anchor around the neck. I’m always scared that if I do hookup, the guy will be so disgusted at the idea of a bad lay that he’d just leave. And that’s just embarrassing. The thought has psyched me out so much that I sort of freeze up when I even see someone cute. It’s all I can think about, and then I don’t even bother trying.

  “I did,” Michelle says, popping another square of chocolate into her mouth. “And it was great. Makeup sex always is you know.”

  “Even after the tenth time?” I tease.

  “Definitely. Sometimes I think we break up so often because it’s that great. I mean, we spent all weekend in bed. We ate maybe once? The rest of the time we were just too busy or tired, if you know what I mean.”

  “Oh believe me, I know,” I say drily. “You tell me all about it every other weekend remember?”

  “Don’t you miss it?” Michelle notices my puzzled face and adds, “The sex, I mean. It’s been weeks since you’ve done anything, unless you’re holding out on me here.”

  I shake my head, tossing the leftover banana peel into the garbage bin a few feet away from us.

  “I’m not, I promise,” I tell her. “I just don’t need it as much as you do.”

  “How long has it been, really?” she probes.

  I shift, trying to remember if I ever made up anything, because I’ve never told anyone I’m a virgin. I don’t think I did.

  “A year maybe?” I throw out.

  “A year? You know that makes you a born again virgin right?” Michelle’s gaping at me, as if I just told her that I went without food, not sex.

  “That sounds ridiculous,” I say stiffly, hoping that she doesn’t realize the real reason why my cheeks are burning up. “You made that up.”

  “Nope, it’s a real thing. There’s a whole thing surrounding that too on Tindr you know. Guys think that it makes you tighter or something like that. Which is complete shit, but I guess there’s some guys who’ll believe anything.”

  “Seriously?”

  It goes against everything I thought I knew about sex, which honestly isn’t much.

  “Yeah. And some guys will pay big bucks for the real thing too. They come to Vegas because they can get r
eal virgins and nobody will frown on it. You know how it is-Sin city and all that. I’m not talking about a few hundred either. I’m talking about thousands. Thousands. Makes me wish that I hadn’t given it up to Robbie Lowe in his parent’s basement.”

  It sounds ridiculous, like an urban legend or something. I mean, I know that there’s a lot of things people can do here, all sorts of strange and twisted desires, but buying someone’s virginity? That just doesn’t make sense. Surely if these men had enough money to pay thousands, they’d have women who’d be chasing after them already? Before I could say more though, Michelle’s pushing off from the wall.

  “The smokers are heading in,” she says. “We better hurry too.”

  She’s right. Break’s over. We jog to catch up, and the guy holds the door open. I don’t know his name, but I’ve seen him glance at Michelle once or twice with interest. She’s batted her eyes back a few times too, but she’s far too wrapped up in Will to do anything. At least for now.

  As soon as we head in, Scooter calls my name.

  “Theresa,” he says. He’s the only one who calls me that, and I hate it. I’m named after a saint, back when my mom was still a practicing Catholic. “Your numbers are slipping.”

  I give half a shrug. What can I say? It’s not like I get to pick who I call, since the computer does it for me.

  “I’m on the board.”

  “At the bottom,” he says, just to really drill it in. “It’s not enough, you hear me?”

  “I hear you,” I say, and move towards my station as fast as I can.

  Mercifully, there’s someone who’s doing worse than me, and he turns to them next. I’m off the hook for now. Michelle gives me a sympathetic look, but I just pull on my headphones. I don’t know how she does it, but Michelle always seems to clinch her calls. She’s never not been in the top 5. It’s her personality. She’s aggressive, and not afraid to push people into signing up. Me, I’m not that way. I guess I see their point of view too much, so when they tell me they’re busy or they don’t want to, I understand. I get annoyed when people cold call me too.