Page 9

Her fingers grazed my thigh under the table—just a brush. Not enough to mean anything. Or maybe just enough to mean everything.
I glanced at her.
She looked at the stage, utterly composed.
I adjusted in my seat.
Her hand returned. Higher this time. Her pinky circled lightly, then retreated like a dare she hadn’t quite finished.
I swallowed. “You’re playing with fire,” I murmured.
She didn't look at me. “Then burn.”
The next lot came up. José Diaz, the local favorite with the kind of buzz collectors took seriously. Miami-born. Graffiti roots. Now commanding five figures at curated auctions. The crowd leaned in.
Juliette leaned back.
“This one,” she said, her voice cool and sharp. “It’s the only piece that matters tonight.”
I reached under the table as the bidding started. My fingers slid beneath the hem of her dress—higher, warmer, smoother. My breath caught.
She wasn’t wearing panties.
I shot her a look, but she didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
I let my hand drift higher up her inner thigh, slowly. Deliberate. A light touch, nothing crass. Not yet. I curled my fingers and traced the crease where her leg met her hip.
Juliette shifted slightly in her seat, but her face? Pure calm.
“Six thousand,” someone called.
“Eight,” another bidder answered.
Juliette reached for my paddle like she had all the time in the world and raised it once. “Ten.”
I slid one finger between her folds, just barely. Enough to make her legs tense, not enough to break her expression.
“Twelve thousand,” came from the back of the room.
Juliette’s breath hitched, but she lifted the paddle again. “Fifteen.”
I stroked her slowly. A single, cruel glide of pressure.
She inhaled softly and adjusted her seat like nothing was happening. Like she didn’t have a man’s hand between her thighs at a charity auction surrounded by some of Miami’s most watchful eyes.
“Eighteen,” came another voice.
“Twenty,” she said—precise, unwavering.
I circled again—firmer now, deliberate. She shifted her hips just slightly, chasing the pressure like she couldn't help it. Her nails tapped the table. Her teeth pressed into her bottom lip.
She looked straight ahead, her eyes cool, and her voice calm. But beneath the table, her body betrayed her. Her thighs tightened. A soft tremor passed through her, subtle enough that no one else would notice.
I leaned in closer, let my thumb graze higher, slower—until she whispered under her breath, “Keep going, and I swear I’ll take the paddle and spank you with it.”
“Sold,” the auctioneer said. “To paddle two-two-nine.”
Juliette set the paddle down with a clink and gripped the edge of the table.