Bought: Highest Bidder(43)

"Sure I do," Mindy says, her eyes flashing.

"No. You don't," I say firmly. "Trust me."

"Tell me!"

"No."

"You suck."

"Let me just put it this way. I had to call Jimmy and his team to handle it."

Mindy makes a face. "Oh, it was one of those, huh?"

"Yeah. One of those."

"I bet it smelled like toe jam and ass crack." Mindy grins.

"Actually, it was worse." I laugh, remembering the acrid stench that  made my eyes water. "There were like stains . . . everywhere. It was so  gross!" I don't even think about bringing up the used condoms.

Mindy grimaces. "Good lord, what the hell were they doing in there? Having a golden showers competition?"

I snort, nearly gagging on my coffee, and then I start coughing so hard I nearly choke.

Mindy stares at me with concern, half-rising out of her seat. "Jesus, you okay, Bri?"

I motion her to sit back down. "Don't do that!" I gasp when I'm able to recover.

"Do what?" Mindy asks innocently.

I wipe at my eyes. "Make me laugh when I'm drinking coffee. I nearly gagged to death."

Mindy grins impishly. "Wouldn't be the first thing you gagged on."

I scowl at her. "You're disgusting, you know that?"

"Oh c'mon, Bri, don't be such a prude." She pauses, nodding at the supply room. "So, what's left on your schedule?"

"Too much," I reply. "But at least the penthouses should be easy. One of  the suites is being used by some film crew, so they don't want us in  there. One is empty until a guest arrives tonight. So, that leaves just  one."

"Then perhaps, Miss Sayles," a stern voice says from behind me, "you  should look at making sure you have that room prepared for our VIP  guest." I turn to see Mr. Vandenburgh, all five foot four inches and  about two hundred plus pounds of him, standing in the doorway. He's in  his tailored suit, of course, looking like a thousand bucks from the  neck down while looking like a grumpy ass disorderly from the neck up.  "That is, unless you want to pay for that coffee you're holding."

Oh, God, please save me.

I shake my head. "No, you're right, Mr. Vandenburgh." I glance over at Mindy, who is barely hiding a smirk.

"Well then, get on with your duties," he says acidly, his scowl hard enough to curdle milk.

Please let me find another job so I don't have to deal with this shit anymore.

Seriously, after that bullshit upstairs, I'd almost be ready to tender  my resignation if I were offered a job at McDonald's sweeping the  floors. I'm just so over this.

Vandenburgh opens his mouth as if to scold me further, but I hold up a finger as I drain the rest of my coffee.

"I'm going!"

I give Mindy a thankful nod as I pitch my empty cup into the trash. She  flashes me a sympathetic look as I turn and walk out, making my way to  the service elevators. I really can't stand Mr. Vandenburgh's presence  for more than a minute, and I just want to knock out the rest of my  shift and go home.

As I head up the hall, I can hear Mr. Van start in on Mindy.

"What the hell did you do to the machines, young lady? I got complaints about the coffee this morning . . ."

I crack a smile as I imagine the look of consternation on Mindy's face.

By the time I finish the regular rooms, I'm nearly about to pass out as I push my supply cart toward the service elevator.

"Just a little while longer," I tell myself, "and I'm free."

By some miracle, a lot of the rooms on the next floor aren't that bad.  In fact, I'm feeling like salvation is near when I make it to the  penthouse suites. My first stop is room 601. It's reserved so I skip it.

Room 602 is occupied, with the ‘do not disturb' sign on the doorknob.

So, that leaves Room 603, which should also be empty. The guest isn't  checking in until this evening. Before I step inside, I check the guest  list. It just has ‘ANACONDA' scribbled on the sheet. I frown at the name  as I stare at the big bold letters. What the hell kind of name is  Anaconda?         

     



 

Shaking my head, I open the door and hold back a jealous grumble at the  sight before me. Seriously, the living room of this penthouse is bigger  than my entire apartment. Two thousand square feet, a master bedroom and  a smaller bedroom-slash-office, and a sitting room. The damn thing even  has a chef's kitchen.

My grumble turns into a hiss of anger when I see that someone's been up here, and it sure as shit wasn't Goldilocks.

"None of this should be here," I mutter as I take in the mess, frowning  at a jacket that's been thrown over the Italian leather sofa and a bag  that looks like it was carelessly tossed into a chair and knocked it  over.

Puzzled, I check my sheet again. Nope. No one's supposed to be here. I step into the room, leaving my cart outside.

"Housekeeping?" I call tentatively. "Anyone here?"

Silence is my only answer.

"Hello?" I dare again. When I get no response, I walk over to pick up  the chair that's been knocked over. I figure that maybe someone has  checked in ahead of the guest and left in a hurry. I'll straighten  things up and just leave.

A sound behind me causes me to spin around, and my breath stills in my lungs.

Holy fuck!

My heart skips a beat as my eyes take in the naked . . . god standing  before me. Well, ok, he's not totally naked. He's got a towel over his  head and he's drying his hair.

But the way he's built . . . sweet Jesus. He looks like he's chiseled  out of granite, with big muscular arms, breathtaking broad shoulders, a  proud chest, an eight pack, and . . .

"Anaconda . . ." I whisper as I see what's hanging between his legs, my  pulse pounding in my ears. He's got to be at least seven inches long  already and he's not even hard. My skin prickles as I gaze at his thick  cock, my nipples hardening, my breath coming out in short pants.

The man freezes when his eyes fall on me, and I feel like I'm going to  melt into a puddle on the floor. I have no words for how hot this man  is. He's not just hung like a horse. He's fucking gorgeous too. Shaggy  blond hair hangs down over his forehead, with startling blue eyes that  seem to glow from the inside and a face that would make artists drool.  He's staring at me, his mouth, with full, sexy lips, hanging slack, the  towel dropping from his hand to the floor.

Neither of us says anything for what seems like an eternity but has to  be just a few seconds before he recovers and grins, his eyes boring into  me with an intensity that makes me weak at the knees. "Hi, I'm Gavin,"  he says easily, as if he's not standing in front of me with a  monster-sized dick dangling between his legs.

He's not doing anything to cover it up either. Given what he's packing, I  understand why. It's like he's proud of it as he stares at me with a  confidence that borders on gross arrogance.

Heat rises in my chest as he steps forward, a cocky smirk turning the  corner of his lips, and I take a half-step back, my pussy clenching  around nothing. It's an effort to keep my eyes on his face as my heart  hammers in my chest and my cheeks burn with embarrassment.

"You all right?" he asks. Even his voice is sexy, a low baritone that causes my pussy to clench again.

I open my mouth to reply, but my eyes stray back to it, and my heart  skips another beat. Shit. Shit. Shit. I can't deal with this right now. I  tear my gaze away from it, my eyes darting this way and that, looking  for a way out as he closes in on me.

I want to run away. But I can't move. It's like my legs have filled with stone. Against my will, my eyes flicker back to it.

Sweet Jesus! It's swaying with each step, swinging back and forth like a  giant pendulum, almost putting me into a hypnotic trance.

When he gets close enough to touch me, I'm suddenly free of my  paralysis. Heart pounding, I spring forward, nearly tripping on my way  to the door. I'm only able to mumble, "Sorry," as I run from the room  with a flaming red face, trying my damnedest to not glance back for one  last look.



Chapter 2

Gavin - 2 Years Ago . . .



"Anaconda! Anaconda!" the reporters yell in my face after a particularly  rough game, jamming microphones and cameras at me. "Do you have  anything to say about what happened?"

God, I hate that fucking nickname.

I blink several times as rapid flashes of lights go off in my eyes,  fighting down the exasperation that flares inside me. They're herding me  like a fucking zoo animal, each one of them fighting one another to  stick a mic in my face.

A fraudulent smile spreads across my chiseled jawline as I wink into the  cameras and prepare to formulate an answer. I'm trying to appear  unruffled by the question, though I want nothing more than to tell them  all to get the fuck out of my way. I know how they'll spin it if I do.  And I can already see the headlines now.         

     



 

Gavin Adams Flies into a Rage after a Bad Game Because of Scandal.

I know I should ignore the trolls, who are only looking for a rise out  of me or a soundbite to try and get another five minutes of story out of  what was a total mistake. But after dealing with the team, the league,  and all the drama that ensued, I'm pissed off. Losing 20-0 against our  biggest rival isn't helping much either.