I CAN DO THIS ALL DAY 🎀 21+

A government vehicle brought you there when you left your apartment, not allowing you to ask questions or decline. The room they had you in was small and cold. It felt like an interrogation room thanks to the chairs, tables, and cement walls, minus one wall of mirrors. The woman sitting across from you smiled, but it didn’t put you at ease.

Not when she was wearing a pin with the symbol of the new world.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” she said, taking a tablet from her bag and sliding it over. “You’ve been chosen.”

You couldn’t believe it.

The planet was dying. A new planet was the only hope for survival. But there was a catch.

Only a small percentage of the world population could go to the new planet to rebuild and repopulate.

Those with wealth and power were chosen, of course. People like doctors and those with skills needed to help the new world thrive were selected, too. And the protectors.

The Avengers.

So, no, you didn’t expect to be chosen.

“I don’t understand,” you said, looking at the screen. “Why me? And why are you showing me a picture of Bucky Barnes?”

Everyone knew who he was.

Her smile widened. “Because he chose you to be his wife,” she said like she was telling you about a dinner special. “Congratulations!”

Your stomach dropped.

“Bucky chose me?” you whispered.

It didn’t make any sense. Why you? You had only met him once.

“Isn’t there someone else?” you added softly.

“No, I couldn’t ask for another.”

You jumped at the deep male voice filling the room. Where did that come from?

“Oh, he’s watching,” she said, nodding to the mirror. “And it’s best not to resist.”

You didn’t have a choice.

Uh-oh! Love and thanks for reading. ❤️

The auctioneer welcomes you out onto the stage, and you tentatively step out into the spotlight. All told, you’re nothing necessarily special. You’re wearing a relatively simple sundress, which, even though it only comes down to mid-thigh, is much more modest than the more scantily dressed women being auctioned off. 

There’s an innocence about you even as you straighten your spine and stand tall, refusing to be cowed by the men hooting and hollering in the crowd, calling for you to take your dress off. You don’t do any such thing, raising your chin higher and looking down on the club like a queen overlooking her court.

And big, bad Steve Rogers, the leader of Brooklyn’s most feared mafia organization, is struck dumb. He’s unable to respond when Bucky makes some comment about you causing a riot because the mafia boss has been rendered speechless. It would’ve been funny, if it had happened to anyone else but him.

Steve only snaps back to reality when it’s announced that you’re selling your freedom for a whole year, and the mafia boss knows he has to have you. He’s already thinking about the ways he can put your body to good use, fucking you in that pretty little sundress in the filthy back alley behind his club. He knows, deep in his bones, that you’re going to be so fucking pretty when you cum on his cock. 

It strikes Steve that even a whole year with you might not be enough. But that’s a problem for future Steve. For now, he needs to focus on winning you, buying your freedom, and then he can worry later about keeping you beyond the year. 

Thankfully, Steve regains enough of his senses not to jump in too early in the bidding. His life is one long power play, and he knows how to win an auction. Compared to negotiating peace with Tony Stark’s Manhattan organization, this should be like child’s play. 

So Steve feigns disinterest, sipping on his whiskey and watching as the price of your freedom racks up. He ignores Bucky’s low whistles and mocking scoffs, his best friend eventually realizing what’s going on and that the mafia boss is going to make a play for you. Steve doesn’t need to say that you’re worth every penny, Bucky figures it out.

When the bidding slows down at $1.5 million, Steve knows it’s time to strike.

“Two million dollars,” he calls across the club, the sheer authority in his voice ringing through the space. He watches with a sense of predatory satisfaction when your attention turns to him, your eyes widening almost imperceptibly as you take him in. It takes everything in Steve not to puff up like some peacock. 

The other men who’ve been bidding on you look around uneasily, still trying to discern where the offer came from. Deciding to reveal himself, Steve rises from his seat, taking one last drink from his glass before he shoves his hands in the pockets of his slacks and begins prowling up toward the stage.

Recognition ripples through the room, uneasy whispers circling the tables of the gentlemen’s club. A few obstinate men look like they’re gathering the courage to try to outbid the mafia boss, but before they can open their mouths, the auctioneer saves them from making the mistake of trying to cross Steve Rogers.

“Sold! To the proprietor of the club,” the auctioneer crows, ushering Steve up onto the stage, even though it’s clear to anyone watching that the imposing mafia boss is going to do as he pleases anyway. “Happy birthday, sir,” the other man simpers.

Steve stalks across the stage while the auctioneer leads the club in a motley rendition of “Happy Birthday,” but the intimidating mafia boss ignores the crowd. He only has eyes for you, the birthday present he’s gifting to himself.

You try to swallow past the lump in your throat, your eyes wide as you stare up at the tall, blond man, using all your strength to keep the steel in your spine and not wilt beneath the intensity in his bright, blue eyes. 

He exudes an aura of danger and violence that has nothing to do with the way his broad shoulders and thick biceps fill out the suit he wears. Instead, it has everything to do with who he is. 

You may not know much about the underworld of New York City, but you know enough to recognize—and be intimidated by—the Brooklyn mafia boss, Steve Rogers. 

It had never been your intention to catch the attention of someone so notorious, so infamous for bloodshed, and now not only are you in his sights, you’ve officially sold your freedom to him for an entire year. 

If that’s not bad enough, you can already read the mafia boss’s depraved intentions all over his face. It’s clear in the way he’s staring at you like a starving predator whose set his sights on his prey—and that prey is you. 

The truth solidifies in your gut, Steve Rogers is going to eat you alive.

Tears prick at the back of your eyes, but you blink them quickly away, cursing yourself for being so stupidly naive. You’d just wanted to help your boyfriend. He’d gotten himself deep into some gambling debts, and you hadn’t even known he’d borrowed money from some seriously scary people until it was almost too late.

He’d been the one to suggest the auction at the gentlemen’s club. The two of you had concocted a plan for you to sell your freedom for a year, both so that you’d earn enough money to clear your boyfriend’s debts, and because the length of time might mean someone would buy you to be a glorified house maid. 

Now that it’s done, though, you can’t help but realize you’d deluded yourself. The look in Steve Rogers’ eyes, filled with hunger and promise, makes it clear that the mafia boss has plans for you—and those plans include using your body in every filthy depraved way he can think of. For a whole year. 

However, when you expect to feel fear at that realization, you feel only…a tentative thrill. A thrumming kind of…excitement. You tell yourself you’ll do anything the mafia boss asks of you so that you can help your boyfriend, but a not-so-small part of you is intrigued about what exactly he’ll do with you…

Only a few seconds have passed since Steve came to a stop in front of you, the echoing refrain of “Happy Birthday” only just tapering off in the club. As you watch him, Steve holds out his big hand to you, and for a moment all you can do is stare at it. 

You know the hand he’s presented to you has been stained with blood on more than one occasion, but it’s also a lifeline. It’s an escape from the mess your boyfriend created, the one that could’ve easily led to you being kidnapped and hurt in order to make him pay back his debts. 

When you continue to hesitate, Steve speaks, and his tone is so soft, so gentle, that it wraps around your heart and soul like a blanket. 

“My diamond,” he says, his voice low like the rumbling purr of a lion. “I believe you’re mine now.”

There’s a question in his words, so subtle you barely notice it, but it’s there. He’s giving you a chance to back out, to rebuff his offer of $2 million and try your luck elsewhere. But your only other options are less money or leaving your fate in the hands of the men your boyfriend owes money to.

Even with the depraved promise in Steve’s eyes, you know he’s your best option. So you slip your hand into his. You’re instantly struck by the warmth of his palm, and the electric sparks that have your body lighting up for him even before his calloused fingers close around your hand.

“Yes, sir, I belong to you,” you murmur, almost forgetting to tack on, “For one year.”

A slow smile spreads across Steve’s handsome face, sharp as the edge of a knife, and far more dangerous if the way your heart flutters is any indication. Quick as a shot, Steve bends over your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles, the promise of depravity in the ostensibly modest gesture.

“Right, for one year,” he repeats, and there’s a dark kind of humor sparkling in his eyes before he blinks it away, like he finds something about that statement funny. He draws you in closer, securing you against his side and leading you off the stage. 

When you enter the VIP section on the arm of the mafia boss, a man with brown, messy hair and a scowl on his pouty mouth greets Steve with a question of, “What the fuck, boss?”

Steve smirks, unruffled by the rude question, and squeezes your hip possessively. You only realize he’s not going to explain himself to this man when the mafia boss lowers himself onto one of the leather couches, sprawling out like a king on his throne.

You don’t move until Steve grabs your hand and guides you to sit on his lap, your body leaning against his broad chest while he snags a fresh glass of whiskey off a server’s tray. He asks what you’d like to drink, and you’re grateful for the consideration, asking for something strong, which makes him chuckle, the sound vibrating through your body to settle heavily between your thighs. 

Relaxing into Steve’s big body, you’re distracted by the thick muscle of his leg beneath your ass, and the weight and warmth of his hand where it’s settled on your hip. His thumb rubs maddening circles into your skin through your sundress, the gesture both teasing and comforting. 

You don’t know how you’re going to deal with Steve’s closeness for a whole year—especially when you know he has every intention of stripping you bare and having his way with you. But you’re brought back into the moment when the mafia boss speaks to his friend. 

“It’s my birthday, Buck,” Steve is saying to the other man, hiding a smug smile behind his glass as he takes a sip. “I deserve to get myself something nice—like a little diamond doll.”

Steve turns his smile on you, stealing the breath from your lungs with how handsome he is. It’s ridiculous how good it feels to have him look at you like you’re something precious to him, and you can already tell you’re greedy for more of his attention.

It strikes you all over again that you’re in way over your head. If you’re not careful, you’ll enjoy being Steve Rogers’ diamond doll a little too much and forget the entire reason you sold your freedom in the first place. But would that be so bad?

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