The Auction (Audiobook)

AMAZON TOP 15 BESTSELLER

★★★★★ "Five ‘I need more’ stars!" Shain Rose, USA Today Bestselling Author of Corrupt Chaos and Fractured Freedom

Dominant and twisted Riggs Maddon has one thing on his mind. Revenge. When his partner's daughter steps into the line of fire, he’ll stop at nothing to obliterate her father and turn her into the pet she’s craving to become.

Destroying my partner became sweeter when his daughter stepped on stage at a charity auction.

But I don’t want her for a month.

I’m upping my bid to make her sign for a year.

Her strong will, independence, and defiant attitude toward her family indulges my carnal desires and need for revenge.

I’ll break her, train her, and turn her into the compliant woman she didn't know existed within her.

Every second, she’ll be my pawn in the secret game of retaliation I’m going to win.

Then I’ll present my pet to all of L.A., including her father.

After our year is up, the damage will be done.

She’ll be free to go, and I’ll move forward with my life without her father, or anyone associated with him in it—including her.

Riggs Madden

Seven Years Ago

"Riggs?" Hugh Gallow nudges me, pulling me out of my trance. I've barely heard a word of my business partner's stifling conversation for the last few minutes.

It's his daughter Blakely's fault. She stepped into the garden wearing a nude slip dress and matching four-inch designer stilettos. Her blonde hair cascades along her shoulders in long curls, and when her blue eyes met mine, she quickly broke our stare as if she were caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Since then, I've been too captivated to tear my eyes off her, pleased every time I catch her gazing my way and trying to pretend she's not looking at me.

The attraction between us started three years ago. She turned eighteen and was no longer Hugh's little girl. It didn’t take long for me to notice the little flush in her cheeks when she glanced at me or her nervous finger tapping on whatever she could find to torment. Her usual victims consist of a table or her thighs, the latter of which I'm dying to get between. Right now, her champagne flute is taking a beating.

Hugh demands, "Riggs, confirm my numbers."

I clear my throat, recover from my absence, and answer, "That's right. We're up over thirty percent." I down the rest of my scotch and add, "Excuse me. The men's room is calling." I escape Hugh and the circle of his stuck-up friends he's always trying to impress, hightailing it to the restroom, glad to exit their presence.

Blakely's father and I have been partners for over a decade, and while his mentorship influenced many things in my life, there's one thing he couldn't change about me—I just don't care about impressing people like Hugh does. I couldn't give a shit about what anyone thinks unless I need to impress them to sell one of our companies for a huge profit.

After growing up on food stamps in Compton, where most adults didn't have a job and addiction was rampant, you'd think anyone with business acumen would have impressed me. I'd escaped the gangs and pitfalls of poverty in the absence of anyone molding me into a successful young man. Yet most of the entrepreneurs I came across didn't strike me as anything special.

Then I met Hugh. I was in my late twenties and he was in his forties. Our first discussion led to a six-hour meeting. I impressed him for my age, and I was craving a business mentor even though I didn't realize it at the time.

Hugh was different. He would speak of things I hadn't heard of or show me new ways to manipulate others to get deals done. When I told him the story of how I got scholarships and put myself through school to get my MBA in finance, he instructed me to never speak of it again. He claimed successful people—rich people—wanted to know you were born with money. So I listened to him, and he created a backstory about me growing up in Northern California, which was just far enough away that no one ever questioned it.

Within a few months, we created an investment capital firm. Hugh had money and I had grit, along with an unquenchable work ethic. Slowly, I've earned my shares and we're now fifty-fifty partners. And even though I've always done more work than Hugh, including finding and closing almost all the deals over the last five years, I wouldn't be here without him. You have to have money to make more, and Hugh had plenty at a time when I had none. The combination of his start-up resources and my overzealous determination to be the best allowed us to create a dynamic partnership. Our start-up firm is now the largest in the country and a global name.

It's the exact reason why nothing can happen between Blakely and me. I'll forever be loyal to Hugh for giving me the chance and knowledge to create my life. So she's off-limits. And the last thing I need is to have daddy's little girl run to him, crying about how I broke her into submission and didn't marry her afterward.

Plus, she's sixteen years younger than me. I don't normally even think about women who aren't at least thirty years old. The things that quench my appetite are considered a bit taboo. Full consent is required, and I don't need a woman claiming she didn't know what she was getting into. You go below thirty, and you're asking for a wishy-washy woman who's still trying to find herself and can't be relied on to understand what she's dipping her toes into.

But my rules aren't helping my predicament every time I see Blakely. The desire to have her at my fingertips only gets harder to ignore. Hell, I knew before I arrived at the party and laid eyes on her that I would be in agony the entire time. And every time she sneaks a glance at me only reiterates that I should have given Hugh an excuse about why I couldn't attend tonight. So my time here is up and I need to go before my partner realizes his daughter is giving me a hard-on.

I do my business in the bathroom and make my way through the mansion, determined to return to the backyard and say my goodbyes. Halfway there, I turn the corner and run into Blakely.

Her champagne splashes on my shirt, and she frets, "Oh my gosh! Riggs, I'm so sorry!" A pink flush crawls up her cheeks, her doe-eyes widen, and she swipes at my shirt.

I grab her hand, and she freezes, her palm an inch from my pecs. My heart pounds harder in my chest and I curse myself for reacting like a teenager. It's another thing that's been happening when I'm with her, and it makes me feel exposed, instead of my normal controlled self. I state, "It's okay. It's only champagne. It'll dry."

She stays silent, her cheeks growing hotter, and I can only wonder if her ass would turn the same color after a good slapping.

I have to stop these thoughts.

Blakely lifts her chin, and the remaining room in my pants disappears. My cock painfully strains against my zipper. I scold myself again, but it's pointless. Her expression is another reminder how different she is, yet exactly what I look for in my conquests.

She doesn't have the snotty Beverly Hills air about her that most women at this party have. Her little gesture is a confident stance. It indulges my cravings further. I love nothing better than dominating a woman with a backbone, and Blakely's always had one. It drives Hugh and his wife Madelyn nuts. I'm one of the few they don't put on a show for when it comes to their daughter. Over the years, I've heard them complain too many times to count about their daughter's stubbornness, or how she forged ahead with something they forbade her to do.

Attempting to regain some control of this situation, I nod to her half-empty glass, questioning, "So you're legal now?"

She glances at it, then locks eyes with me again. Her lips curve into a small smile. She answers in a low voice, "Yes. Totally legal as of today." She inhales deeply then licks her lips, and her cheeks turn redder.

I clench my jaw, keeping my breathing controlled, trying to convince myself she doesn't mean anything by that admission, but I can't. There's a tornado of lust and hope swirling in her blues, and no matter what lie I tell myself, it's impossible to ignore.

Christ, she's young.

I bet she's tighter than any woman I've been with in years.

She'd look good on her knees, with her hands bound and those plump lips around my cock.

She opens her mouth, then snaps it shut. She glances behind her, then refocuses on me.

More visions of her in positions I can never have her in assault my brain. Several moments pass before I state, "Happy birthday."

Her face lights up even more as her lips curve into a bigger smile. She shifts on her feet. "Thanks."

"Twenty-one is a big occasion. I assume you're going out and getting crazy with your boyfriend later?" I question, prying for information.

It doesn't matter. She's Hugh's daughter.

She shakes her head, and a blonde curly tendril falls over her eyes. She replies, "I don't have a boyfriend."

Thank God for that.

Not that he'd have anything over me.

Mesmerized, not thinking clearly, and unable to stop myself, I reach for the lock. She holds her breath as I slowly drag my fingers over her forehead, then even slower over the side of her head, pushing her strands behind her ear. Just as I suspected, her hair's soft, unlike the typical overprocessed blondes roaming all of L.A. I've always known she's a natural blonde, but finally feeling it only adds fuel to my thoughts. I have to stop myself from wrapping all of it around my fist.

She arches her eyebrows, waiting for me to answer, the heat from her cheeks radiating past the inch of air between her skin and my hand.

We've never been this close, nor have I touched her before. Now that I breached my self-control, I step closer, studying the flecks of blues in her eyes. I admit, "Your eyes remind me of the favorite part of my morning surf."

Her voice falters as she inquires, "How so?" She swallows hard but doesn't flinch or retreat.

Her ability to stand in front of me and not break our heated gaze challenges me. It stokes a deep-seated craving I can't seem to shake. I contemplate taking her to my house—not the club—which is another surprise. I don't bring my play things home. They stay at the club and out of my private life. Yet the thought of breaking her into submission in my personal environment, somewhere she can't come and go from, with no one else around, takes root.

I trace the edge of her ear, and she shakily inhales, her lips parting enough I could slip my tongue between them if I attempted. My blood heats to the point I might sweat, and I curse myself for putting myself in this position. Yet I can't stop. Now that I have her attention, I need to keep going. I answer, "When the sun rises over the water, and the light hits it just right, there's calm chaos."

She furrows her brows. "Calm chaos? That's an oxymoron. It doesn't make sense."

I clench my jaw, trying to contain my pleasure that she's not just a pretty face. She has a brain and uses it, which is another thing I don't often see with many beautiful women in L.A. I flip my hand and lightly graze my fingertip over her chin, enjoying how her eyes quickly shut then reopen. I answer, "When the tide's rolling away, barely giving way to any waves, and the water looks like it's full of sparkles trying to jump into the air, that's calm chaos."

She ponders my statement for a moment, her expression morphing into a soft smile I assume she'd make after I wore her out with my demands. She asserts in approval, "I suppose your oxymoron works."

It's all too much. I might as well be a reckless teenager unable to control his urges instead of a sexually experienced, normally always in control thirty-seven-year-old man. I reach behind her, grab a fistful of her hair, and firmly tug her head backward. It's nothing like what I've done to women in the past, but it's enough to make her gasp and get an idea of what I'd do to her if I had the chance.

Whatever her perfume is flares in my nostrils. It reminds me of the surf, along with something else I can't put my finger on besides the combination of sea salt and driftwood. I lick my lips, studying hers, then pin my gaze to her widened one, murmuring, "There are many things I do that perception would claim don't work but do."

Her bottom lip quivers, but she catches it and takes a deep breath. Her chest rises higher, and I give it a lewd glance, then pin my most challenging stare on her. She opens her mouth, tries to speak, but nothing comes out.

I tug her head farther back, leaning so dangerously close to her mouth her breath hits mine.

She whispers, "What kinds of things?"

I don't hesitate, taunting, "Things that would make your father despise me."

Her plump lips part again, but her mother's voice calls out, "Blakely!"

Goddamn it!

I release her and step back just as Madelyn turns the corner.

She beams. "There you are! We're about to cut the cake." Then she turns to me, bats her eyes, and puts her hand on my bicep. Vodka overpowers Blakely's sea salt and driftwood scent, and Madelyn coos, "Riggs. I didn't know you'd arrived."

I groan inside. Madelyn and Hugh are no saints. They both fuck whatever walks, and for years, she's made it clear she's into me. But I'd never do her for two reasons.

One, she's my partner's wife. I don't need that kind of drama in my life.

Two, I'm not interested. She's another product of Beverly Hills, overindulging in alcohol and prescription pills, and void of anything interesting. The only difference between her and the people I grew up with is she has money. She's as predictable as they come and might as well be a junkie on the corner.

All of it bores me.

I step out of her grasp and nod. "Madelyn. Good seeing you. Please give my regards to Hugh. Something's come up." I hightail it down the hallway, ignoring her questioning calls after me. I move to the front door, step outside, and get into my Porsche, racing out of the subdivision and driving directly to Club Indulgence in L.A.

Something has definitely come up.

Yet it's not anything the Gallows would expect.

As I pull into the club's secret parking garage, I already know I'll be here well into the night, trying to get Blakely out of my head. It won't be the first time I've dealt with my frustration here, but this time, I curse myself for stepping over the line that I know I can never cross.