Chapter 5
SEBASTIAN
Lennox sits in the passenger seat of my Aston Martin, staring out the window at the dark California coastline as we drive north toward The Drake Hotel.
The streetlights cast intermittent shadows across her face: light, dark, light, dark, highlighting the tension in her jaw.
She pulls the silk robe tighter around herself, her arms crossed over her chest like she can create a barrier between us with fabric and body language.
It won’t work. She is mine now. Legally, completely, irrevocably mine for the next twenty-four months.
Mrs. Sebastian Drake.
The satisfaction of that settles deep in my chest, warm and possessive. I went to that auction expecting nothing, the same parade of women I’ve seen a hundred times before. Instead, I found Kathryn Lennox Briggs. A woman who signed away two years of her life to save a friend.
That kind of loyalty is rare. That kind of strength is rarer.
And now she belongs to me.
I let my right hand drop from the steering wheel and place it on her thigh. She stiffens immediately, every muscle tensing beneath the silk. But she doesn’t push me away. Doesn’t say anything. Just stares harder out the window like she can will herself somewhere else.
I squeeze gently, feeling the firm muscle beneath smooth skin. Ranch work built that kind of strength, hours in the saddle, hauling hay, working cattle. She isn’t some gym-sculpted California girl. This is real, functional power.
“We’re almost there,” I say quietly, but she doesn’t respond.
I pull into the private garage beneath The Drake, my reserved spot closest to the executive elevator.
The Aston Martin’s engine purrs into silence, and the sudden quiet feels oppressive.
Lennox doesn’t move or look at me. She just sits there with her arms still crossed and her breathing carefully controlled.
“Come on,” I say, opening my door. The interior light floods the car, and I catch the way her knuckles have gone white from gripping her own arms. “We’re home.”
“This isn’t home, this is my workplace.” Her voice is flat, emotionless. “This is a prison with better amenities.”
I walk around to her side, my footsteps echoing in the concrete garage, and open her door. She still doesn’t move. I reach in, grip her elbow gently but firmly, and pull her to standing.
“Would you prefer I take you to an actual prison?” I let my thumb stroke the inside of her elbow, feeling her pulse racing beneath the skin. “Because that’s where your friend would have ended up if you’d refused to sign those papers. If she was lucky.”
She jerks her arm from my grip and moves away from the car, the robe falling open to reveal the black lace underneath.
Candlelight from the club’s preparation room was one thing; the harsh LED lighting of the garage is something else entirely.
I can see every detail now. How the lace hugs her breasts, barely containing them.
The shadow of her nipples through sheer fabric.
The delicate strip of fabric that constitutes the waistband of the thong riding low on her hips.
My body responds immediately, heat pooling low in my gut, my cock hardening at the sight of what I now possess.
I place my hand on the small of her back, feeling her spine go rigid at the contact, and guide her toward the elevator. Each step she takes is deliberate and controlled.
The elevator doors open with a soft chime.
I press my palm against the biometric scanner, which requires fingerprint authorization for penthouse access, and the car begins its ascent.
Twenty floors. Two minutes of silence except for a mechanical hum and the sound of Lennox’s breathing, slightly too fast, slightly too shallow.
I lean against the brass railing and watch her. It is almost laughable; she is standing as far from me as the elevator will allow, staring at the floor indicator as it climbs: 5… 10… 15…
“Nervous?” I ask.
Her eyes cut to me, sharp and angry. “What do you think?”
“I think you’re trying to figure out how to play this.” I push off the railing and cross to her in two strides. She has nowhere to go, her back against the elevator wall. I brace my hands on either side of her head, caging her in. “How to protect yourself from what’s coming.”
“Aren’t I right to?” She lifts her chin defiantly, even though I can see the pulse hammering in her throat.
“Maybe.” I lean in, my lips nearly brushing her ear. “But you’re not the scared type, are you, Lennox? You’re the planning type. And you’re already thinking three steps ahead.”
Her breath hitches when my mouth grazes her earlobe.
The elevator dings at the penthouse level. The doors slide open directly into my suite.
I move aside, giving her space to exit first.
Three thousand square feet of space is spread out before us.
Floor-to-ceiling windows that currently show nothing but darkness and the Pacific Ocean beyond, waves invisible but present in the constant sound of surf, audible even from up here.
The lighting is low; I prefer it that way, giving everything a soft, intimate glow.
Recessed lights highlight the custom furniture, the art on the walls and the sleek kitchen island made of Italian marble.
Lennox stops just inside and kicks off the heels she’s wearing, her now bare feet silent on the polished hardwood.
She takes it all in slowly, the living area with its leather sectional, the workspace with three monitors still glowing from when I checked resort occupancy numbers that afternoon, and beyond that, visible through an open doorway, my bedroom.
“This is where you live?” she asks.
“When I’m in Monterey Cove. I have properties in San Francisco, Los Angeles and San Diego.
You’ll see them all eventually.” I shrug out of my suit jacket and drape it over a chair, then work the buttons of my cufflinks free.
The small metallic clicks seem loud in the quiet space. “But tonight, we’re here.”
She doesn’t move from her spot near the elevator. I can see her shoulders rising and falling with each breath and can practically hear her calculating. The elevator is right there. One button press and she can escape to the lobby, run out into the Monterey Cove night.
“Don’t,” I say quietly.
“Don’t what?” But her hand drifts toward the elevator panel.
“Don’t try to run. You signed the papers, Lennox. You’re my wife.” I roll up my sleeves slowly, methodically, watching her watch me. “Running would be a very poor way to start our marriage.”
“This isn’t a marriage.” She turns to face me fully, and those eyes are now electric blue like the hottest center of a flame. Anger replacing resignation. “This is ownership. You bought me.”
“I paid off debts. They might not have been yours, but they’re taken care of nonetheless.
” I close the distance between us slowly, deliberately, with each footstep.
Her eyes track my movement like a small animal watching a predator approach.
“For two million dollars. Do you know what that makes you?”
I stop directly in front of her, close enough that the silk of her robe brushes against my shirt.
“A whore?”
“The only woman I’ll ever call my wife.” I reach up and trail one finger down the center of her chest, from the hollow of her throat, between her breasts, stopping at her sternum where I can feel her heart hammering. “And worth every fucking penny.”
Her breath catches, her lips parting slightly before she bites the corner of her mouth and her gaze travels down my body. As if she’s realized what she’s done, her eyes snap back up to mine and I’m pleased to see lust. I don’t need love, but I want this woman to want me.
“I need a drink,” she says, her voice rough, breathy almost, breaking the intensity between us.
“Wine? I have an excellent pinot noir—”
“Whiskey.” She cuts me off, her eyes not leaving mine. “Wine isn’t nearly strong enough to deal with you.”
I laugh, the sound genuine and surprising. Even scared and trapped, she is in control. “Whiskey it is.”
I go to the bar, custom walnut cabinetry, stocked with enough bottles of liquor that would make most bars envious.
I have something for everyone that might come through this suite.
Tonight is calling for something special; it isn’t every day I bring home a wife.
I select the signature run of Devil’s Ridge whiskey.
The exclusive vintage that in certain circles is whispered about and coveted.
The crystal tumblers are heavy, expensive, the kind that makes each pour feel significant. Two fingers in each glass. Neat.
She takes the glass from me with a trembling hand, the first real sign of nerves I’ve seen, and downs half of it in one gulp. Her throat works as she swallows, barely flinching at the burn. The alcohol leaves a sheen on her lips that catches the light.
Good whiskey deserves to be savored, but I understand the impulse. Liquid courage before the inevitable.
“How long have you been doing this?” she asks, gesturing vaguely with her glass. Some of the amber liquid sloshes against the crystal. “The auctions.”
“They’ve been happening for five generations.” I take a slow sip of my drink, letting it sit on my tongue before swallowing. “Tonight is the first time I’ve ever considered participating.”
Her eyes widen slightly, surprise breaking through the careful control. “You’ve never bought a woman before?”
“Never wanted to.” I set my glass down on the side table with a soft clink, then reach for hers. She lets me take it, her fingers brushing mine as I pull it away. I place it beside mine. “But you were different.”
“Because I come from money?” Her tone is bitter, defensive. She wraps her arms around herself again, the robe pulling tight across her shoulders.