Page 93 of The Auction
“Jaxon Thomas Kane,” I point at him like that’ll stop him.
He grins. “Oh, using my full government name. That gets me hard.”
I’m trapped between him and a chair. He rubs his hands together slowly, deliberately, the dessert squishing between his fingers.
“Jaxon?”
“Cassidy?”
And then slow, almost sensual, he smears the tiramisu down both sides of my face, slathering me in espresso cream. I squeeze my eyes shut at the chill, the squish as he trails it down my neck, over my collarbone, and wipes the rest across my chest.
His hands slide down past my hips, over my ass, and grip the backs of my thighs. It’s the only warning I get before he lifts me like I weigh nothing.
I yelp, scrambling to hook my arms around his neck, but he doesn’t take me far—just pivots and sits me on the table beside us, plates and cutlery rattling under the sudden shift.
Then his hand fists gently at the base of my hair, tilting my head to the side. His tongue is hot against my skin, dragging a slow, deliberate path up my neck, tasting the tiramisu he just smeared all over me.
“Now for the fun part,” he mutters against my skin.
The next kiss isn’t sweet at all—it’s greedy, messy, open-mouthed. He leans me back so he can grind into me, and I feel just how turned on he is. My pulse is hammering, my body already responding, arching into him.
He sits me up again but doesn’t break the kiss. His fingers skim the hem of my shirt, and I know exactly what he’s asking. I lift my arms without hesitation.
The shirt hits the floor a second later.
His thumbs brush over the thin cups of my bra, and my nipples pebble instantly under the touch.
“Beautiful,” he whispers, pressing his mouth to my cleavage, right where my breasts spill just enough from the cups.
A quick flick of his fingers behind me, and the clasp comes undone like it’s nothing to him. He slides the straps off my shoulders slowly, almost reverently, until the bra is gone and I’m bare in front of him.
Heat floods my cheeks under the intensity of his stare. He doesn’t look at my face—he’s entirely focused on my breasts like he’s committing them to memory.
“We’re going to be such good friends,” he says, leaning in to press kisses to the soft skin before fixing his mouth over one nipple, sucking it into his heat and making me arch with a gasp.
I’m not sure this is normal. To feel so aroused by his mouth on my nipples because I swear I could come from this alone.
“Were you just… talking to my breast?” I ask, breathless.
He moves to the other one without missing a beat. “Shhh. We’re getting very well acquainted.”
The second nipple is worse—so much worse—and I swear I feel the ache deep between my legs. My clit throbs, and before I even realize I’m doing it, I start moving my hips against him, desperate for friction.
He pulls back just enough to look at me. “Do you want me to stop?”
“Don’t you dare.” The words snap out of me before I can think, sharp and needy. I fist the front of his shirt and drag him closer until his mouth is on me again. He smiles against my skin like he knows exactly how undone I am, his tongue circling my nipple while his fingers tease the other, pinching and rolling until I’m shivering.
Then his free hand drifts lower, to the button of my jean shorts. A deft flick, and it’s open. The slow rasp of the zipper follows, and my whole body goes tight.
“Can I taste you?” he whispers, his lips trailing kisses along the side of my breast, lower to the soft skin beneath, then down to my ribs.
I nod, my breath catching.
I lift my hips, and his hands—big, warm, sure—hook into the waistband of my shorts. He eases them down, slow and deliberate, until they’re off and forgotten on the floor. I’m perched on the table, legs parted on either side of him, wearing nothing but my panties.
Thin, damp panties.
He freezes for a moment, his eyes on me, and something primal darkens his expression. “Fuck, Cricket… look at you.”
