Bidding For Her Curves: An Instalove Possessive Age Gap Romance (A Man Who Knows What He Wants Book 208) Read online

  CONTENTS

  Bidding for Her Curves

  NEWSLETTER

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  NEWSLETTER

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS

  BRATVA BEAR SHIFTERS

  LAIRDS & LADIES

  RUSSIAN UNDERWORLD

  IRISH WOLF SHIFTERS

  About the Author

  BIDDING FOR HER CURVES

  AN OLDER MAN YOUNGER WOMAN ROMANCE

  _______________________

  A MAN WHO KNOWS WHAT HE WANTS, 208

  FLORA FERRARI

  Copyright © 2020 by Flora Ferrari

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The following story contains mature themes, strong language and sexual situations. It is intended for mature readers.

  BIDDING FOR HER CURVES

  MASON

  Another charity dinner? An auction? I think I’m gonna heave.

  “This is the last one,” I tell my personal assistant. After thousands of these things, a lifetime spent building an empire, and traveling the world, I still haven’t found what I’m looking for.

  Who I’m looking for.

  What I really want.

  I need someone to share all this with.

  Not just anyone. The one.

  I’ve searched, I’ve waited. If it doesn’t happen tonight, which I highly doubt it will, I’m finished.

  Done.

  One more stupid dinner. Then maybe I’ll just buy a mountain, go live in a cave.

  JULES

  Two words strike a morbid fear into my anti-social, awkward, very single, and lonely existence: Charity Auction.

  Did I sign up for this?

  My time in exchange for a charity donation, my wages paid by the owner of the company I work for. Every dollar donated matched by the man himself.

  Mason Thorne.

  The only two words that actually get me to said Charity auction.

  Once I find out he’ll be there… once I find out I might even get to see him in person… Maybe even meet him…

  But nothing’s ever that easy, I know that.

  My boss from hell seems determined to make not only my day off miserable but goes out of her way to make sure I might not even make it at all.

  That is until I meet the man himself.

  Way before the bidding starts. Long before the hammer falls, I know I’m in deep and we both might just end up with a lot more than we bargained for.

  For better or for worse.

  *Bidding for Her Curves is an insta-everything standalone instalove romance with a HEA, no cheating, and no cliffhanger.

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  CHAPTER ONE

  Jules

  “I know I signed up for it, but I really do feel sick. I’m burning up.”

  There’s a cold silence from the other end of the line.

  If there’s one person I can’t bullshit, it’s my boss, Karen. It’s why she’s the boss.

  That and whoever her Malibu Barbie ass blew to get the job.

  “Jules,” she finally sighs. “I heard you snorting like a pig, laughing with that other thick one. What’s her name?” she muses, talking about us as if she isn’t even talking to me.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter the charity gala is at six. I’ll need you in the office way before then to run out the last of the programs. Plus I’ll need you to get my new gown pressed at the dry cleaners. If you can be trusted to do that.”

  I roll my eyes and stifle a groan. I can see my eyes in my bedroom mirror. They’re narrowed to slits, and not from illness.

  It’s Saturday for God’s sake, and this woman is still treating me like her personal slave.

  But it’s a job, and it’s the only one I’ve managed to hold down for more than a few months. Plus, like I said, the witch can see and hear right through me.

  Why, oh why did I sign up for some stupid charity auction? Maybe I should have started my fake illness back then, might’ve been more credible.

  Karen is still talking, and once I finally come back to earth, I hear her listing off anything else that pops into her stupid, dumb bimbo head.

  “...There’s the week’s accounts too. I need that formatted… Maybe I should run those programs up myself… they’ll be going straight to Mr. Thorne after all…”

  A low animal sound escapes my lips, as my mouth goes dry and I feel myself needing to sit down on the edge of my bed.

  I shiver a breath in, feeling suddenly weak and very, very wet in the downstairs panty department.

  Mason Thorne.

  “It’s no use trying to sound sick Jules, moaning, and groaning won’t save you now.”

  I swallow hard, feeling the dry lump in my throat as a result of my entire body’s moisture draining south.

  “Did you just say…Mason Thorne?” I croak.

  Karen huffs out an impatient breath. “No. I said Mr. Thorne and I’ve already decided I’ll take those programs over to him. You can do the week’s account and clean my office bathroom. You’re not the only one who’s been ill this morning y’ know.”

  I struggle to listen to her.

  I’m already gone. Done.

  The mere mention of Mason Thorne is enough to have me, have any woman with an ounce of hormonal activity drenched in seconds, swooning just at the thought of him.

  “But it is Mason Thorn?” I ask again, still in shock. “Is he coming to the charity gala?” I ask innocently.

  Excitedly, feeling butterflies multiplying in my stomach, which I absently run a hand across.

  Wishing there wasn’t so much of it when I imagine Mr. Thorne and me…

  “Coming? He’s the guest of honor!” Karen spits. “Look. Just get your ass over to the office by lunch, alright?” she says, commanding me more than asking me before she slams her phone down.

  I let my own phone drop, along with myself, falling back onto my bed.

  My nervous excitement turns to terror in an instant. I want to worry about what I’ll wear, how I’ll look but the only thing I can really think of is Mason Thorne.

  Mr. Thorne.

  Mr. and Mrs. Jules Thorne.

  Pressing my legs together, I picture him. It makes s
ense he’s hosting a charity gala. He is the richest man in the state.

  The most eligible bachelor in the country.

  How the hell did I not know he would be there?

  I don’t really have a hobby, just work.

  If I was to list any interests Mason Thorne would be top of my list. Ever since I can remember before I even knew what that tingle was every time I saw his picture or heard his name.

  He gave a speech at our college once. I actually fainted, had to be taken to the sickbay where the nurse thought I’d had a seizure because the back of my dress was so wet. She thought I’d wet myself.

  No. It was Mason Thorne who wet me, still does to this day, this very minute.

  Crap!

  Bolting upright, and I shudder again. My throat feels red raw and my joints feel suddenly tender. My head’s pounding and I wonder if I’m really…

  No. Oh no, you don’t!

  Ugh!

  I’m not sick. I can’t be. Karen just told me so.

  Rushing to get up off the bed, I feel dizzy, black spots swirl in front of me and I feel my knees going out from under me.

  “I’ll feel better after a shower,” I tell myself aloud, brushing off the obvious.

  “All that talk of Mason Thorne’s gone and done it, that’s all.”

  Yes, that’s it. A nice warm shower. I’ll have to wash my hair and-

  What am I gonna wear!?

  I groan again, this time for real. I feel suddenly too tired to think of anything, but I need to figure out what to wear if I’m actually going to this thing. In the vain hope, I might actually see Mason. That he might actually…

  Leaning heavily on the closet door, I scan my wardrobe, flicking through what few dresses I have, counting the months, the years since I could even fit into any of them.

  The nicest one is from my graduation. Very formal but no way it would fit now. It barely fit then and I was the butt of every snide comment at that dinner.

  It is dark and hides most of my curves. The ones I don’t want to show and it does lift my chest.

  Sucking in my tummy, I unhook it from the rack and hold it against myself, studying my front and my profile in my full length mirror.

  I close my eyes, telling myself not to get upset, not to be so hard on myself.

  It was a year ago, maybe more.

  A part of me wants to go back to bed, gala, and even my job be damned.

  But feeling my hand on the fabric, I imagine another hand covering it.

  A stronger, much larger hand, lifting mine to his lips as he tells me how beautiful I look.

  How much he wants to…

  My phone rings loudly, startling me from my daydream.

  It’s Karen again.

  “Get moving chunk! I need my gown altered too, those idiots at the boutique sent me the wrong size.”

  I half smile at the thought, grateful I’m not the only one with a wardrobe malfunction.

  “Well?” she whines. “Move it!” she screeches and hangs up again.

  Dry cleaner.

  Alterations.

  Two birds, one stone.

  I smile at my own brilliance, then catch myself getting dizzy again, leaning on the wall for support.

  I’m not sick, just nerves. I’ll shower and eat, then I’ll feel better.

  After throwing up twice at the subway station, I’m grateful for only having eaten a small breakfast, and make my way to the office, my own gown in a cover.

  I must be sick, but there’s no way I’m missing a chance to see Mason Thorne up close.

  “Jesus!” Karen exclaims as I hang up my own gown behind the door, “You were right, you look like shit!”

  Thanks for the sympathy.

  Thrusting a stack of files into my chest, she announces the first of my tasks. “The week’s accounts,” before brushing past me to get to her own office.

  “I’m in here!” she calls, summoning me, letting me know I’m supposed to follow her around so she can give me my to-do list verbally.

  I swoon in the doorway, feeling giddy again. I thought I was feeling a bit better, but this thing is coming and going.

  I can see Karen’s gown laid out on her chair behind her desk. It looks a lot smaller than mine but probably cost ten times as much.

  She frowns when she notices me staring at it, snapping her fingers and using her other hand to hold the bathroom door open.

  I step over to her desk, meaning to set the pile of folders down, but feel dizzy again. The faint reek of Karen’s bathroom filling my nose, making me want to retch.

  I fall forward, tossing the files as I put my hands out, knocking over Karen’s huge coffee mug plus a tall vase of fresh flowers in the process.

  Drenching her brand new gown in a curious colored, floral latte splash, I feel the color drain from my face. And it’s not because I’m about to get sick again.

  For the first time, I see her speechless. She’s pale too, shaking with rage.

  After a moment of mutual shock, I leap into action, grabbing some seltzer and a cloth from her kitchenette and making for the gown to try and get some of the coffee out.

  “Oh no!” she screams. “You’ve done enough damage, you clumsy pig! Hands off!”

  She snatches up her gown, tumbling it into a ball, and presses her face a mere inch from mine.

  “I’ll have to take this to the cleaner’s myself! You stay here. I want those accounts done, my shitty toilet scrubbed, and then those boxes of programs taken over to Mr. Thorne’s office by the time I get back or you’re fired. D’ya hear me!” she screams again, her spit peppering my face as I smile at her screwed up face.

  Oh yes, I heard you perfectly Karen.

  Run those boxes of programs straight over to Mr. Thorne’s office.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Mason

  They say in the vacuum of space no one can hear you scream.

  What about the vacuum called my life?

  Standing at the window, looking out over a city I probably own half of, checking the time on the Rolex I’ve chosen for today I’ve just picked from a cabinet full of them, I wonder.

  I wonder how much of this I can take before I actually scream into the vacuum.

  Into the void of a life that is Mason Thorne’s existence.

  The watch keeps perfect time, but checking it gives me something to do. Something to distract me.

  The view, the palatial office and apartment beyond, my six thousand dollar suit and custom Italian leather shoes that don’t make a sound on the marbled floors.

  I’ve seen and done it all before.

  Alone.

  My direct line rings from the desk. I know who it is.

  Picking up with no real answer, I breathe in, wincing when he reminds me. Then I breathe out.

  Breathing is better than screaming.

  “Well, too bad if I signed up for it. I really do feel sick. I’m burning up,” I lie.

  There’s a cold silence from the other end of the line.

  If there’s one person I can’t bullshit, it’s my personal assistant, Nicholas.

  It’s why he’s my PA.

  More like my conscience most days, and old enough to be my damned father.

  Whatever that feels like.

  “It’s a charity auction gala you yourself arranged months ago,” Nicholas reminds me gently, almost sounding concerned.

  “What are they auctioning?” I ask absently looking again at my watch, wondering if I can just buy my way out. Just buy everything so I don’t have to make an appearance.

  “Employees and their bosses are auctioning their time to do work for good causes. The company’s paying their personal time and matching dollar for dollar all winning amounts from the winning bidders, with all the money going to the charity of the bidder’s choice,” he reminds me, making me wince again.

  “And it’s my company that arranged it?” I ask.

  “Yes, sir,” he says gently.

  Nope. No buying my way outta this one,
looks like I already tried.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be on holiday, Nick?” I ask dryly, wondering why he’d be calling me so early on a Saturday, even if he wasn’t on vacation.

  Still trying to change the subject too.

  “When was the last time I took a vacation?” he asks, and I know the answer because it’s the same as mine.

  Never.

  “I’m only calling because I forgot to remind whoever it is you have filling in for me.”

  No one.

  “Someone from the office who’s managing the event will be dropping off your personal programs, as well as some boxes of the regular ones for you to look over. Familiarize yourself with the event, see what’s on offer,” he says with a tone of encouragement I don’t like.

  I grunt a reply and look around the office, the gleaming light from what must be a half acre of marble, leading my eyes back out to the window.

  “I’ll look it over,” I tell him, not wanting to hurt Nick’s feelings.

  “But this is the last one,” I caution him. “If you catch me trying to commit myself to any more public appearances, just remind me I said no, okay?”

  “Very good, sir. Have a good night tonight and if you need anything, anything at all,” he starts to say, but I roll my eyes instead.

  “Nicholas. Go have your damned vacation will ya? I do remember paying for it,” I remind him, trying to turn the tables a little.

  Making him feel guilty for a change.

  He breathes through his nose and hangs up. I listen to the silence on the line for a moment, wondering maybe if I screamed now, would anyone actually hear me?

  The sound of boxes tumbling, and what sounds like a lot of expensive charity gala programs spilling across my reception area breaks my somber mood.

  I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in the window, adjusting my tie, and smoothing my hair back.

  Pity. All these years and Mrs. Right just hasn’t made herself known. Guess she misses out.

  I try to tell myself it’s her loss, whoever she is. But I know it’s slowly killing me inside.

  For twenty years I’ve waited and watched. Traveled the whole world on business, looking for her.

  I’m starting to think maybe she doesn’t exist. That this whole idea of waiting for the one is just wishful thinking.