Page 14 of Auctioned to the Cowboys

5

TAYLOR

FROM THE FRYING PAN, INTO THE FIRE

Clint shuts the door with a click, and I’m instantly swamped by uncertainty and loneliness. Scooping down to retrieve my underwear from the floor, it takes a while for me to come to my senses. The pulsing between my legs isn’t the only trace of the intense pleasure left in his wake. My nipples tingle with a lingering sensation still rippling its unfamiliar presence. Clint’s parting words hang heavily in the air, and not for the first time this weekend, I can’t make sense of what someone has told me.

Does he mean that I’ll have to have sex with all three of them?

Clint’s intense gaze floods my mind. His eyes are warm in color, like aged whiskey, but they’re cool in emotion, shuttered almost as though they’re concealing things he doesn’t want me to see. His rugged, toned body bears a scattering of faded tattoos like windows to his past. I can’t help but wonder what they mean. The rich darkness of his hair has not yet started to gray and frames his chiseled face, making him seem even more brooding and cloaked. But the lines etched into his skin put him somewhere close to forty, so much older than I am. I can’t figure out the heaviness that hangs in the air around him, but I’m not scared, just cautious, maybe. That can’t be a bad thing. And what he did to my body causes me to flush even though I’m alone now, embarrassed at the intensity of my physical urges as well as my stupid purple underwear. I refocus on Clint’s words and the fact that he may not be the only one of them who will see every inch of me.

Maverick. His charm is worn on his sleeve and oozes from his warm hazel eyes. I’m sure he’s the youngest, maybe in his early thirties, and his lighthearted energy seems to irritate the other two. They’re all healthy, well-honed men, but Maverick is leaner and longer-limbed. I like how he tries to put me at ease and lightens tense situations. He’s the easiest to be around.

Jesse’s the boss and the oldest of the three. His dark hair is peppered with flecks of white and gray, which could put him in his forties, but he is carefully turned out with a body that seems harder and a posture that’s straighter than most younger men. His eyes are so pale and blue that they remind me of a husky dog whose startled stare seems to pierce right through you. He seems ornery and gruff but straightforward. He’ll tell me what he wants and that’s a good thing. There’s nothing more unsettling than having to guess another person’s expectations. I’ve never been attracted to a man so much older than me before, but Jesse has classically attractive features and an intensity that makes him magnetic.

They’re all handsome men, rugged and dominant. And significantly older than me.

But there are three of them, and they expect me to be a wife to them all.

I look down at the plain band on my left hand that feels new and strange. I’m a wife now—Clint’s wife—just like that, literally in an afternoon. Mrs. Taylor Lawson. It has a nice ring to it but feels foreign, like I’ve put on a ball gown and tried to wear it to the bakery.

Surely, I can’t be married to him but be expected to be in a relationship with all three of them?

Molly is spending her first night alone without me and this is what I’m thinking about. I told myself I’d do whatever it takes to survive and thrive, but the fact that I’ve allowed myself to give into my body’s cravings and get drawn into what my life is going to be like here, has left behind guilt like an uncomfortable barb beneath my diaphragm. My heart tightens, a spring retracting.

Attempting to suppress the sensation, I shuffle to stand in the window, where the drapes are still open, and the windows feel like silent witnesses to the act that just took place. Traces of daylight are fading as I open the window a fraction, allowing the warm breeze inside. A scattering of wildflowers in the nearest meadow catches my attention—a haze of pastel and vibrant shades blended in perfect harmony—nature’s floral rainbow. It’s so pretty, and I imagine Molly running through the long grass, gathering a pretty posy, tucking flowers behind her ears, and laughing.

Maybe it’ll be possible, but these cowboys are expecting something from me that’s forbidden, and that won’t work with a kid as part of the bargain.

My stomach growls. I haven’t eaten a proper meal since last night. A stale doughnut and a couple of cookies, no matter how calorific, aren’t enough to keep my appetite at bay.

Fixing dinner is something Jesse stressed as essential; all meals, actually. What the hell have I agreed to? Cooking is one thing, but having sex with three total strangers seems like a push too far. Is that even legal? Surely, it’s adultery, at the very least.

I pull on the white dress and hurriedly cross the landing to the room that Maverick had taken me to earlier and said would be mine.

I’m struck by the need to wash between my legs, so I make my way to the small bathroom accessible from my bedroom. I’m relieved to have privacy and stand in front of the small mirror gazing at my haunted reflection, seeking answers. Who are you? Free from the clutches of my tormentor, I’m not sure I really know. The fading bruise jumps out at me. Whatever Dixie covered it with has long since blended in with my sweat and faded to nothing. Running the hot tap reveals that I may no longer have to heat pans of water on a stovetop to wash. A small win. A new sponge is hanging from a rope on one of the bathtub taps, and I unloop it and create a lather of foam using some hand soap.

The bath is like something from a homestyle magazine, with its rolling top and brass gothic-style legs standing on dark wooden floorboards. It’s quaint. I’ve never seen anything like it in real life before.

Dabbing at my throbbing place, I wince at how sore it now feels, bruised, and stretched from the movement of Clint’s masculine body inside mine. It’s like he is still there. His presence and scent linger. The way he made me feel, too.

He is the biggest man I have ever been with. Only the second so I don’t have a lot to compare him to. How am I going to manage three of them? What if they’re all as big and strong as Clint is? I splash my face with water from the cold tap. All I can do now is follow the rules, keep my head down and remember why I am here.

Maverick isn’t so bad. He’s quite funny. The other two may be stern in ways, but compared to what I’m used to, I don’t feel in danger. But I can’t be complacent. To the outside world, my dad came across as relatively normal. People laughed with him. If they knew what he was really like behind closed doors, they wouldn’t want to pass him on the street.

Reaching for the white towel, I dab my face and then between my legs, allowing the softness to brush over my still-sensitive flesh. I sidestep to the pale pink rug next to the bathtub, and my feet sink into the plush softness. Another tinge of guilt creeps over me.

I want to unpack but know that getting down to the kitchen is my next duty, and I want to ensure that I do nothing to rile any of these men. Maverick brought my bag in here after I changed into the wedding dress. I empty the bag’s contents onto the bed, reaching for clean underwear, another plain t-shirt, and loose pants. I’m careful not to crease the photo and place the book shielding it into the bedside cabinet. I’ll make sure that it’s the last thing I set my eyes on before I go to sleep tonight. Hastily, I throw on my chosen outfit, and as I reach for the door handle, I whisper into the silence. “I won’t forget you, Molly.”

Emerging onto the landing, I quietly shut my door and pad along the floorboards towards the top of the staircase. To my left is a window out onto the rear paddocks, framed with yellowing sheers. To my right stands a grandfather clock, beating its tick-tock calmly and confidently. The glossy Maplewood needs a polish, as do the framed portraits that line the stairs. Generations of smiles on well-dressed people stare out at me as I cling to the handrail. Each step down threatens to throw me off balance as my heart rate intensifies, my pulse pounding in my ears. I almost miss the bottom step entirely and fall straight into Maverick.

“Shit, sorry!”

“Excuse you, ma’am!”

“Sorry.”

“Do you say sorry for everything?” His smile is wide and white, my eyes are transfixed, and it strikes me that actually I do. Sometimes I feel sorry for existing.

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