Page 78 of The Auction
I’m having the most amazing dream.
Of course it’s about Jax.
That mouth of his—God, it’s sinful. Wicked. Devious in every possible way. In my dream, he’s between my legs, his tongue sliding over me like he knows exactly what I need before I even know it myself. His hands are holding me still, but I can’t stop moving, can’t stop chasing the heat building in me.
My face is buried in the pillow, muffling the broken sounds slipping out of me as he works me over. He takes his time—slow enough to make me beg in my head—until I’m riding the waves he gives me, hips rolling helplessly, falling apart just for him.
And then?—
I wake up.
The pleasure still clings to me, my thighs tight around the pillow I’m hugging between my legs. My chest is rising fast, breaths uneven, skin warm all over.
I blink, and my stomach drops.
Jax is right there on his side. Head propped up on his hand.
Staring straight at me.
That smirk on his face sayseverything.
“That,” he drawls, eyes glittering, “sounded like an amazing dream.”
I groan, dragging the pillow over my face. “I wasn’t dreaming.”
His smirk deepens. “And you tore down the great wall of chastity.”
“You’re annoying.”
“And you’re horny, Miss‘ugh, right there.’” He mimics my high, breathy, moaning voice with such obnoxious accuracy I want to throw something at him.
So I do. The pillow smacks him in the chest, and I sit up. “Grow up.”
I stomp to the bathroom and slam the door, because I’m pretty sure if I stay out there another second, he’ll find a way to make me combust just from that smug look.
When I come back out, he’s not in his room. Thank God.
But my victory is short lived because he’s sitting on the kitchen counter, shirtless, coffee in hand. Another mug—already made the way I like it—sits waiting for me.
He’s got pancake ingredients spread across the counter like he actually knows what to do with them.
I eye him. “Presumptuous of you.”
He shrugs, taking another sip. “I’m happy to make you pancakes… if you want to go ahead and get the fire marshal on the phone.”
I roll my eyes but push past him to start measuring. I’ve got my mom’s pancake recipe memorized—though really, it’s Jaxon’s mom’s recipe. She’d taught it to my mom years ago, back when she came to the house on weekends to cook, always bringing Jaxon with her.
I can still see it clear as day—Saturday mornings, the three of us at the table, the air warm with the smell of syrup and butter. One of my earliest memories.
“Why do you like pancakes so much, anyhow?” I ask, cracking eggs into the bowl.
He leans back on his hands watching me. “You know we were poor. Had to make food stretch sometimes. But pancakes…” He shrugs. “I could have as many as I wanted.”
Something twists in my chest, hot and sharp. I knew his childhood was rough until his mom, Sandy, came to work for us, but I never knew the details. I want to ask, but before I can, he changes the subject.
“But I have more important questions.”
I narrow my eyes. “I know where this is going.”
