Page 66 of The Auction
The sound of footsteps pulls my head up just in time to see him walk in.
Black leather pants.
Helmet in hand.
I tense my jaw.Of course.More thirst trap videos for his motorcycle crowd, no doubt. Not that it bothers me. Not that I care where he goes or who he tries to impress.
I grab another jar and try again. Still nothing.
He reaches past me, opens the fridge, and pulls out a jar of fruit. He pops the lid without a hint of effort—no struggle, no grunt, just that easy twist of his wrist.
Then he starts making a smoothie.
And watching me.
I try a potholder for better grip. Then another jar. Nothing.
It’s not until I attempt a jar of fruit that I realize what’s happened—every lid in this fridge is sealed like it’s been locked by the gods themselves. The pickles? Same.
He’s tightened them. Every single one.
I glance at him from the corner of my eye. He’s leaning against the counter now, drinking his smoothie straight from the blender container because, of course, there are no cups. His eyes never leave me.
Daring me.
Daring me to ask for help.
To be the one to break the silence.
I don’t.
I slam the last jar down a little harder than necessary, straighten, and pull open the drawer where he keeps the takeout menus. Inside are a few leftover fortune cookies and random chopstick packets. I grab three cookies, hold them tight in my hand like they’re a prize, and walk toward my room.
Right back to that fucking closet.
But it didn’t fucking help.
If anything, it only made me more strung out.
I kept going until my thighs shook, until my hips couldn’t stop moving. Twice in a row—my knuckles shoved between my teeth to muffle the sounds, the vibrator never once leaving my clit until I couldn’t tell if I was still coming or just trembling from the effort.
When it’s over, I’m flushed, sweaty, and somehow evenmorewound up.
I need air.
I change into actual clothes and head for the elevator, already imagining the quiet of the ride down to the lobby, maybe a walk outside—anything to put distance between me and him.
But just as I’m about to press the button, he’s suddenly there.
Jaxon steps into my space like he owns it, reaching right across me to hit the panel before I can.
He’s close. Too close. His body brushes mine, forcing me to turn slightly to the side.
God, he smells good. Clean and warm, with something darker under it. The heat of him seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt. His shirt strains across his shoulders, every line of him designed to make me swallow hard.
I turn my head—just to look away. Just to breathe.
But it only gives him better access.
