Page 1 of Tell Me It’s Forever

prologue

GAVIN

A Few Days Earlier

The air inside the grand ballroom at The Whitmore is thick with the cloying scent of expensive perfume, alcohol, and desperate social climbing. Crystal chandeliers hang low from the ceiling, swags of fabric line the walls, and the floral arrangements are on the verge of ostentatious. Millions of dollars are floating around the room in the form of designer clothing, expensive diamonds, and whoever can outbid the other.

I’d be concerned about this being a guise for childhood cancer research, except I’ve worked with the family who holds this event. It’s rooted deeply in them to help others when their own child couldn’t be helped. They’re good people, and it’s a good cause, even if the event costs a ten grand, not including your bids during the auction.

I lean against the high-top table near the back of the room, adjusting my cufflinks in my Tom Ford tuxedo. I already wrote a check for half a million dollars before I even stepped through the doors tonight. I don’t need to be here. In fact, I hate these events—the fake smiles, the surface-level conversations, the endless parade of people trying to talk business.

Yet here I fucking am.

In my left hand, I hold a lowball crystal-cut glass filled with two fingers of Macallan 25, the amber liquid swirling lazily against the ice. In my right hand, I loosely grip an auction paddle with the number 15 in bold black color.

“You look like you’re about to execute someone, Gavin,” Nolan mutters, coming up beside me, a drink of his own in his hand. His eyes scan the crowd with practiced detachment of a man who deals in high-stakes corporate takeovers for a living. I would know considering we’re one and the same.

“I’d rather be executing a deal,” I grunt, taking a slow sip. The smooth burn of the alcohol hits the back of my throat. “Or sleeping.”

“Relax. It’s for the kids. Plus, my wife promised me if I stayed until the live auction, I’d be well rewarded,” Vik chimes in from the other side, crossing his arms over his chest barely contained by his massive size.

“And that’s a conversation I don’t want to hear about,” Nolan mumbles, tossing back the rest of his drink.

“You’ll get it. One day.” Vik is completely unbothered. “And right now, she’s helping direct the production on the stage.”

My eyes drift toward the elevated velvet-draped stage at the front of the ballroom. The first event the charity is running is an auction with a date for which men and women volunteer, a meeting of sorts type of package to raise funds. It’s frivolous, absurd, and entirely not for me. I have zero intention of participating. I’m just waiting for the main event to wrap up so I can take my private car back to my place and lose myself in work.

“Next up, ladies and gentlemen, we have package number seven!” The emcee’s voice booms over the speakers. Around us, people applaud, and I nearly scoff. Jesus, I’m a bear tonight. “Featuring a date with one of our very own volunteers.”

The curtains part, and she steps out on the raised polished wooden dais. The temperature in the room seems to drop by ten degrees, or maybe all the air is suddenly vacuumed out of my lungs. There stands a woman in a floor-length emerald-green silk gown that clings to every single curve of her body like a secret. The deep jewel tone makes her honey-bronzed skin practically glow beneath the stage lights. Her neckline dips tantalizingly low, revealing the elegant slope of her collarbones and the swells of her breasts. The damn dress has a thigh-high slit on the left side, teasing the length of a smooth, curvy thigh every time she takes a small, hesitant step forward. Her chestnut curls are swept up, leaving the long, delicate line of her neck completely exposed.

She looks breathless. Nervous. Stunning in every way possible.

“Ah,” Vik says, his tone shifting, noticing my intrigue. “That’s Gennie. Sweet girl. Busts her ass for this foundation. She worked for hours setting up the décor along with working at Sterling Capital.

“She works on another floor, not for him,” Nolan adds, his voice low, masculine, and approving as his eyes trace the line of her dress. “Focused. Doesn’t play the socialite games. Good girl.”

She’s young. The thought flashes through my mind, unexpected and sharp. Probably barely mid-twenties, a fresh, untouched contrast to the cynical, weary predators hanging around this room. She’s far too innocent for a room full of wolves like me. And I should definitely have my head examined.

Fuck, she’s young.

And then my brain clears the bullshit away, and I actually look at her. I see the flush spreading across her collarbones. A slight tremor catches on her bottom lip as she forces a polite, gorgeous smile for the crowd. My eyes lock on the tight cinch of her waist and the flare of her hips beneath the green silk.

Her being too young dies right there, instantly replaced by heavy heat that pools straight to my cock. My grip on the wooden handle of the paddle tightens until my knuckles turn white. My gaze notices the pulsing at the base of her throat, and in a spilt second, my mind is made up.

I want her.

I want her writhing beneath me, her back arching against my chest, her dress ripped down the middle or shoved up around her waist.

I want to feel her hands buried in my hair, gasping my name into the quiet dark of my bedroom while I drive myself into her over and over again until she can’t remember her own name.

I want her on top of me, taking control, flush and breathless, her hair falling wildly around her while my grip on her hips anchors her down.

I want her from behind, bent over the arm of my leather sofa, my hand hooked firmly around her hip, biting her shoulder while I take her slow and deep.

The possibilities are endless. The sheer, filthy variety of ways I can break her composure and tear a scream from her pretty throat makes my blood run hot, thick, and demanding.

“We’ll start the bidding at ten thousand dollars!” the auctioneer announces, and fuck me, paddles lift instantly around the room.