Strolling slowly toward the club, I can’t get my mind off Celine. I should have gotten her number. She might never call me. Not that I should care. I don’t get hung up on any one girl. In fact, I’m willing to pay the highest price to ensure that not only do the girls I’m with know there’s no chance of it being anything more than sex, but I also have a very particular kind of girl I like.

But my dick doesn’t seem to remember that. It’s completely focused on the memory of that sweet, shy girl on the train. I continue down the sidewalk, stepping to the side when a group of burly guys in western gear, complete with cowboy hats, passes by me going in the opposite direction. It barely registers, even though they should stand out like a sore thumb in this city. But that’s New York for you. A little bit of everything.

Instead of wondering about them, my mind goes straight back to Celine. Screenwriting. I smile. That was my dream once upon a time. Before I got dragged into the grittier, darker businesses that thrive in basements and old buildings. Before I headed up Pure, the most elite escort service in Manhattan. We specialize in auctions. Of the virgin variety.

I should be glad I didn’t get Celine’s number. Because pure is exactly what she seemed to me. And I have no business messing up yet another girl. I do that enough every day of the week.

Sighing, I push open the glass door of my destination, then follow a maze of hallways that lead to a stairwell that opens up to a giant ballroom. This is my life. Wishing it were different is pointless.

“Mr. Brightman,” my assistant greets me, clipboard in hand. “Everything is all set. The last girl just arrived. Ready to get started?”

I glance around the dim room, the white tablecloth tables scattered in front of a stage, wealthy men scattered around drinking cocktails and eating overpriced gourmet appetizers.

“Let’s do this,” I say, snagging a bottle of Scotch from the bar before settling into a table at the back of the room. I may or may not bid on a girl tonight, but I always come to the auctions, staking out the scene from the shadows, making sure my business is operating just how it should. When you deal in such delicate matters, you can’t trust it to just anyone.

I pour myself a finger of the amber liquid, then knock it back as Celine’s sweet face floats in my mind again. I have a feeling I’ll be going home alone tonight. If she does happen to call me, I don’t want some girl there in the way.

The emcee of the event makes his way onstage, going through his usual speech. But the men here know the drill. None of them are new to this. Still, part of the fun is the show. The experience.

When he’s done talking, a line of beautiful young girls parade out onto the stage, lining up in their evening dresses as if it’s a beauty pageant. Each one hoping to go home with the prize.

I shake my head and wonder for the millionth time how the fuck I got this deep in this shit. They have no clue what they’re doing. How this could mess them up, haunt them for the rest of their lives.

I pour another drink as the emcee begins to introduce the girls, barely paying attention. Until he gets to the end of the line.

“Celine,” he says smoothly. “Eighteen years old.”

My head snaps up from where I’m staring into my glass.

No fucking way.

But there she is. My sweet, shy girl from the 6 Train. Standing on my stage smiling out at the crowd of horny bastards just waiting for a chance to take her home.

I grind my teeth so hard I’m afraid they’ll be reduced to dust. What the hell is she doing here?

Auctioning her virginity?

I rake my hand through my hair, agitation taking over me as the crowd murmurs over her. Of course they fucking do. She’s gorgeous. Sweet. Innocent. Pure. Exactly what they come for.

She’s going to go to the highest bidder, and she’s going to command quite the price. I know this.

And it makes me come unhinged.

I sit on the edge of my seat for the next hour, trying to figure out how the hell I’m going to be okay with some bastard going home with this girl. Trying to understand why I care so much. This is what I do. It’s my job. It’s business. I never get involved emotionally. Or really think too hard about what I’m doing, if I’m honest.

But with her? I can’t handle it. I want her for myself. And not as a prize because I bid the highest. I’m not even sure why. I just know that I saw something in her eyes on the train. Something innocent and hopeful. Something that reminded me of myself once upon a time. And I don’t want to kill that.

By the time the emcee gets back down to the end of the line, nearly twenty girls have been sold to the highest bidder. He stops in front of Celine.

“And our lovely Celine. Quite the prize.”

I bristle at his choice of words, a surge of protectiveness rising in me. But what am I supposed to do? I can’t just go up on stage and pull her down, tell her she can’t do this. She signed up for it.

The bidding starts, climbing rapidly and shockingly high, and my agitation builds along with it.

When the bids slow, and it’s just down to two men, I can’t take it anymore. I stand up from my seat and call out, “Five hundred thousand dollars.”