Page 58 of The Auction
It wasn’t subtle.
I entered the gym like I was walking into a battlefield and chose my weapons carefully—specifically, the weights directly in front of her.
Started with squats. Deep, heavy, slow. Made a show of adjusting my stance. Of rolling my neck. Flexing just a little harder than necessary when I stood.
She held her ground until I transitioned to hip thrusts.
I adjusted my slutty little shorts a bit to get more of my V on display. Definitely saw that quick side-eye she tried to hide.
The bar and heavy weights across my pelvis. A deep dip down and thrust up. Flexing my stomach. The grunts. Mm, the grunts. Some of my best work.
I have to be honest; it was even giving me a semi.
And, that’s when she left.
No eye contact. Nofuck you Jaxon.
Just powered down the treadmill, grabbed her water, and walked out like the room had caught fire.
In my opinion, that was a win.
But today… today she’s out for fucking blood.
I step out onto the back patio with a protein shake in hand, fully prepared to act like she’s invisible.
What I’mnotprepared for is the bikini.
Correction: The whisper of fabric tied together with string and very questionable engineering. The kind of suit that doesn’t really say“I’m here to relax,”so much as“I dare you not to look.”
And damn it, I’m looking.
How could I not?
She’s stretched out on one of the loungers by the pool, sunglasses on, legs just barely spread like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing to me.
Like she doesn’t know that every inch of her is driving me absolutely fucking insane.
I take a slow sip of my shake and sit down at the patio table like her tits aren’t beaconing to me through that little white scrap of nothing she dares to call swimwear.
I didn’t come out here to engage.
I came out here to enjoy the newSports Illustratedspread—front and center in their tech and finance feature.
“The Sex Tech King of Silicon Valley.”
Their words. Not mine.
But I didn’t exactly fight them on the phrasing.
The cover is glossy and indecent. Shirtless. Oiled up. One hand gripping the back of my neck, abs flexed, every tattoo on display.
And I make sure she sees it.
I position the magazine just right, pages open on the table, angled perfectly in her line of sight. I lean back in the chair, slowly flipping through the spread like I’m admiring the lighting. Like I’m not watching her watchingmewatchmyself.
That’s when she starts to move.
It’s subtle at first. Just a shift of her shoulders, a tiny adjustment in her lounge chair that makes her breasts bounce behind the thin stretch of white bikini top. My eyes drop before I can stop them, catching the way the fabric doesn’t fully cover her, showing a bit of skin under her breast.
