Page 16 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

O nce again I’m about to make myself right at home in my closet—well, Jaxon’s guest room closet.

The bedroom door is locked. Music’s playing low from my tablet, something upbeat enough to sound like I’m just getting ready for the day.

I slip into the closet and close that door too.

And then I strip out of the cami and shorts. My panties are soaked, and they join the pile on the floor in an instant.

The vibrator is already in my hand and turned on before I’m on my knees.

I don’t waste a second pressing it straight to my clit.

Relief crashes through me instantly, sharp and almost painful, tangled with the sweet, unbearable tension of knowing I’m seconds away from falling apart.

My hips start rocking against it without permission, like they’ve been waiting for this.

And of course—just like last night—my thoughts go straight to Jaxon.

The same man I’ve hated and wanted in equal measure for more years than I’m ready to admit.

The same man who’s dominated every fantasy I’ve had for two straight days.

In my head, he’s everywhere—his mouth between my legs, looking up at me with that smug, infuriating smirk before diving back down. His chest against my back, lips at my neck, hands everywhere.

My free hand drifts up my stomach, cupping my breast through nothing but bare skin. I pinch my nipple and my hips jerk against the vibrator, my pelvis finding a steady rhythm that has heat coiling low and tight inside me.

It’s too easy to imagine his mouth there instead. His tongue circling. His teeth catching.

The pinch makes the pleasure spike so sharp I almost cry out.

Almost.

But I bite it back.

I can’t make a sound. I can’t let him know how close I’ve been to breaking. How wet I’ve been for him. How many times I’ve come in this closet, imagining him.

The thought should embarrass me—the slick, wet sounds of my own fingers brushing against myself while the vibrator hums against my clit—but it doesn’t.

It turns me on even more.

Because I can imagine exactly how much it would turn him on.

Last night’s grey sweatpants flash into my mind. The outline of him thick and heavy beneath the thin cotton. In this fantasy, I hook my fingers into the waistband, drag him down in the hallway, and sink onto him right there—mounting him, bouncing on his cock until I can’t breathe.

I know he’s big.

Really fucking big.

I got a glimpse of his dick once. Something I try to forget but never can.

Feeling him inside me would be the kind of stretch that would hurt at first, then ruin me for anyone else.

I imagine his hands gripping my hips, his mouth open in pleasure as I take every inch. That mouth… always that mouth. Smirking. Teasing. Pushing me to the edge just to watch me fall.

And I want it on me. Sucking my nipple?—

I pinch harder, and the orgasm slams into me so fast I almost lose my grip on the toy.

Keeping quiet is a war. Every muscle trembles with the effort not to moan too loud, my head tipping back as I bounce in place, working the vibrator over my clit in tight circles, pinching at my nipple in time with each pulse.

My moan is barely a whisper, my breaths ragged and broken as the climax rolls through me in hot, relentless waves.

I keep going until my thighs tremble and my clit’s too sensitive to touch.

The toy slows, my hips settle, and I finally switch it off.

The aftershocks are enough to make my legs twitch, my pelvis still pulsing as I breathe deep and try to come back down.

The satisfaction will probably hold me over until lunch.

Probably.

And if it doesn’t?

Well… I know exactly where I’ll be.

I feel lighter now. Relaxed. Or at least… enough to fake it for the next few hours.

I clean myself up, slip into fresh clothes, and start planning my next move.

The pool’s on the agenda again, so I pull out a new bikini—black, with a tan lining under the mesh that makes it look sheer but really isn’t. It’s a trick of the light, like one of those magic-eye puzzles. You’ll stare because you think you’re seeing something you’re not.

I tie a black mesh wrap low around my hips, knotting it to the side so it slants just enough to give the illusion I’m constantly about to lose it.

I know my body’s good. Hourglass curves, a waist narrow enough that I’ve been accused of Photoshopping in pictures, hips that have their own opinions about denim sizing. I’ve always had more up top than my friends—full breasts that barely fit into anything made “for my size.”

And Jax? Yesterday, he had a hell of a time not staring.

Today’s top is smaller. Triangle cut. A little more skin. Definitely more under-breast—just enough that I can imagine his thumbs slipping underneath, right where no one’s ever touched me before.

The thought alone makes me grin.

Since pancakes are his favorite, I decide they’re going to be my breakfast. Just enough for me. I find a “pancakes for one” recipe on Pinterest, swipe my phone off the charger, and head into the kitchen.

The first cabinet I open? Empty.

Weird.

I check the next one. Also empty.

I know this kitchen was fully stocked yesterday— I cooked in here. So unless the pots and pans decided to grow legs overnight, I’m being messed with.

I check the dishwasher, just in case. Bone dry. Not a single plate or pan.

Fine. Cereal it is.

Except when I open the dish cabinet, there’s nothing. Not a single bowl. Not even a chipped mug.

Fine.

I grab the cereal box from the pantry, a gallon of milk from the fridge, and march to the table. No bowl, no spoon—just me, dry cereal straight from the box, chased with a swig of milk from the jug.

It’s absurd. It’s petty.

And I’m committed.

That’s when Jax walks in.

His eyes flick to me as I tip a handful of cereal into my mouth, then lift the gallon and drink.

I know exactly how ridiculous it looks, and I make no move to hide it. If anything, I double down.

The sight must catch him off guard because for a split second, I swear he’s about to laugh. His lips twitch, the corners lifting in something dangerously close to a smile before he shuts it down.

All I get is a faint smirk as he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and walks out.

It’s not a win.

But it’s not a loss either.

I head toward the linen cabinet by the pool door, humming to myself, determined to keep my mind on the mission—bikini, towel, pool, win the day.

Except when I open the cabinet, I freeze.

The towels— all of them—are stacked neatly on the very top shelf. Too high for me to grab without a chair or a step stool. Which I’m sure is exactly why they’re there now.

I stretch anyway, fingers grazing the edge of the lowest one, but it’s no use.

And of course, this is the moment Jaxon chooses to walk in.

He doesn’t say a word—just steps up behind me. Close. Too close. The heat of his body slides in against my back like a shadow, his chest just shy of brushing my shoulder blades.

I tell myself I should move, but instead I keep reaching.

Because I can feel him there.

And because I know damn well what kind of picture I’m making in this bikini—the bottoms sitting low on my hips, the wrap tied to the side barely keeping anything modest, the top cut just small enough to keep him wondering.

He leans forward, arm lifting to the cabinet above mine. Of course he’s not actually helping me.

No towel is being passed down. No space is being made.

Instead, he’s taking his time, rifling through whatever’s up there like he’s searching for buried treasure, all while his hips stay perfectly aligned with mine.

Every time I push up onto my toes, my ass grazes his crotch.

And every time, he doesn’t move away.

If anything, I think—no, I know —he presses in that tiniest fraction more. Enough that I can feel him starting to harden. Enough that my own thighs clench and my pulse trips over itself.

I should turn around. I should end this right here—grab the back of his neck, pull his mouth to mine, and finally know what he tastes like.

But the idea of making him snap?

Of seeing him lose every ounce of control he’s been holding onto these last two days?

That’s a far better reward.

So I keep stretching. Keep reaching. Keep brushing up against him like it’s all part of the effort.

When I finally “give up,” I huff a little laugh and head toward his room instead.

His bathroom has towels. And no witnesses.

I step inside, grab one from the neatly folded stack, and turn to leave—just in time for him to walk right past me.

He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t even glance at me.

He just hooks his thumbs into the waistband of those grey sweatpants and strips them off in one smooth motion.

And there’s… nothing underneath.

Nothing.

My face goes instantly hot, like I’ve stepped into a sauna.

I make a noise—something between a choke and a cough—that I try to disguise as clearing my throat, but it’s useless.

I keep my eyes glued to the floor, willing my legs to move, but my traitorous gaze flicks up at the exact wrong time.

He steps into the shower. Completely bare-assed.

It’s firm. Perfect. And I hate myself for looking.

Except I don’t stop there.

Because when he turns slightly, I catch a flash of the front.

Hard. Really hard.

And yes—really big.

I spin out of the doorway before I make a bigger fool of myself, clutching the towel to my chest like it’s some kind of shield, but my face is still burning as I head for the pool.

It’s too cloudy for tanning.

Not that it matters—he’s not even out here.

So instead of lying in the sun, I’ve spent almost an hour on the pool deck doing yoga poses in my tiniest bikini. Deep stretches, slow bends, every pose I can think of that shows off the way my body moves.

I know he has cameras out here.

I know he’s watching me.

And yes… I like it.

It’s the same way he found me in the gym yesterday—already a little winded, his skin damp with sweat. He’d joined me like it was a coincidence, but I know better.

I hope he’s in his office right now, eyes locked on the monitor, one hand under the desk, making himself come to the sight of me.

By the time I’m done, I’m starving for lunch.

I pad into the kitchen, still in my bikini, hair messy from the humidity. I go straight for the fridge, already prepared to eat a jarred salad with my fingers… or chopsticks… or hell, maybe a fork if I can find one, though I doubt it.

The fridge is just as annoyingly neat as it’s always been—labels facing forward, jars in perfect rows like soldiers. I grab one and twist the lid.

Nothing.

I try again. No luck.

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 even more wound 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.

He moves in, close enough that his chest presses into mine, his breath warm against the side of my neck. I feel him inhale, slow and deliberate, and it’s like being pinned in place by something I can’t see.

The heat in my chest spikes, running lower, heavier.

His lips hover near my skin. I feel him part them, and for one reckless second, I think— he’s going to kiss me .

The thought hits me so hard it makes my sensitive clip pulse and I flex my thighs. A sharp, high-pitched moan escapes me before I can stop it. My hand flies to my mouth, my eyes wide.

He pauses.

The entire penthouse feels like it goes silent with him.

And then I feel the curve of his mouth against my skin. The smug, quiet smirk.

He leans back just enough to press the elevator button.

But before the doors slide open, he dips in again, close enough for his lips to brush the shell of my ear. His voice is low, steady, and annoyingly happy with himself.

“I won.”

The doors part, and he steps inside. I stay right where I am, arms crossed over my chest, scowl on my face aimed at him.

“I’ll bring back takeout,” he says, glancing back at me while he leans casually against the elevator wall.

I flip him off as the doors close, catching the sound of his laugh just before they seal shut.