Page 17 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

T his is going great.

Better than great, actually.

I’ve had a hard-on for what feels like forty-eight hours straight, but I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun. She’s stubborn, petty, and absolutely incapable of backing down—and I’m enjoying every second of watching her try to beat me at my own game.

The Thai bags swing from my hand as I walk back toward the penthouse, the smell filling the elevator. I ordered enough for six people, all because I couldn’t decide between the curries or the noodles… and maybe because the idea of her rolling her eyes at the excess makes me want to smile.

Hell, I am smiling.

I hadn’t even planned on leaving today. But when I saw her dressed and heading for the elevator earlier, I knew I couldn’t let her get away without pushing things up another notch. And I did. The look on her face when those doors closed—priceless.

When I step inside, she’s in the kitchen, pretending not to watch me set the bags down.

“I didn’t know what you like,” I say casually, tearing open a container, “so I got a little of everything.”

“Thanks.”

One word. Bitter enough to curl at the edges.

I bite back a grin but knowing she’s a little salty, I turn on a cold case crime show. They’ve always been her favorites.

We eat in relative silence except when we chime in on the crime and who could have done it.

My mind keeps going back to her on that auction block.

The question she won’t answer.

Why?

I could push her. Ask why she’s going through with this like she’s got something to prove. But I already know I’m not going to get the truth—not yet.

Still, the thought nags at me.

Last night I remembered something—her brother’s set to get back in three weeks. Right at the end of our thirty-day agreement. I’d suggested ninety days at the start. She’s the one who blurted out a month.

I wonder if the two things are connected. Probably just wanted this over before he got home.

The show is over, and we put away the leftover food for later.

“Going to take a bath,” she says after putting the last of our dishes in the dishwasher. “Then turn in early.”

My pulse ticks up a notch, at the little treat I have in store, but I keep my expression neutral. “Sure. Enjoy.”

The infinity tub in her bathroom could fit three people comfortably, water pouring from a waterfall faucet. You let it run the entire time—it’s part of the design.

After she disappears into her room, I finish clearing the containers from the counter, stack the leftovers neatly in the fridge.

Every few minutes, my eyes drift back to her closed bedroom door.

I walk over once or twice, putting my ear to it and listening. Waiting.

To kill some time, and keep from going insane, I fix the jars in the fridge.

Yes, I tightened every single one, so she’d have to ask for help. Hid all the kitchen ware too. Everything. Right down to the last teaspoon.

Something was going to make her talk to me dammit.

It’s been about thirty minutes when it happens.

A sharp scream cuts through the penthouse, followed by her voice calling my name.

My pulse kicks and I go into acting mode.

I charge down the hall, throw open her door for water to come rushing past my shoes, flooding into the penthouse.

The bathroom floor glistens under the light, and I bite back a grin—this is already better than I expected.

“I don’t know what happened,” she says, panicked. “I thought the water was draining. Jax, I’m so sorry.”

I’m barely listening.

Because she’s standing in the tub, a thin robe clinging to every curve of her naked body. The fabric’s soaked through, nearly transparent. Her black hair is twisted into a messy bun, a few strands sticking to her damp neck.

She looks perfect.

I could pick her up and set her on the bathroom counter right now and sink into her until she’s screaming my name for a very different reason.

Her voice cuts through my thoughts. “Stop staring like a pervert.”

I force myself to blink, to breathe, to remember that this isn’t the moment to lose control.

She starts to step out of the tub, and instinct takes over. “Don’t.” I close the distance and slide my arms under her before she can argue.

Water sloshing with each step.

The tile is slick, and the last thing I need is her cracking her head open.

I lift her easily, bridal style, wading into the water without caring that my shoes are getting drenched, and carry her into my room.

Now she’s pressed against my chest, wet and warm, and every step makes it harder to think about anything except peeling that robe off and seeing if she’s as soft as she looks.

But instead, I set her down in my bathroom, grab one of my towels, and hand it to her.

“I’ll call maintenance,” I say, my voice lower than it should be.

And then I leave before I do something that’ll end this night in a way I can’t take back.

Maintenance gets here fast. Two guys with a shop vac have the water gone in no time, but the damage is already done—drywall’s saturated, cabinets warped. The head guy explains the drywall will take a couple days to replace, but the custom vanity? That’ll take weeks to get a new one in.

She’s sitting on the edge of my bed while they talk, looking smaller than she normally does, hands twisting in the towel like she’s bracing for me to be furious.

When I walk the crew out and close the door, she’s still sitting there, staring at the floor.

I lean against the frame. “Well… seems your room’s out of commission for a while.”

Her head snaps up.

“So you’re going to have to bunk in here with me.”

She blinks. Then narrows her eyes like she’s just solved a crime. “Jaxon Kane. Did you do this on purpose?”

I give her my best confused look, brow furrowing just enough to make it believable. “Why the hell would I flood my own penthouse?”

She doesn’t buy it for a second.

“I’ll take one of the other guest rooms,” she says, standing and marching for the hall.

“That’s the only one.”

“Bullshit.” She starts opening doors. Surely convinced a penthouse this size has more than two bedrooms.

It does.

But the second she opens the first extra room, she freezes.

“Is this… a server room?”

“Pretty much.”

She frowns at the wall-to-wall racks of hardware and blinking lights.

“Fine, I’ll sleep on an air mattress in another room,” she mutters, heading for the next door.

The second room? Same thing. Full of racks and cabling. And cold enough to see her breath.

“What the hell, do you have your own fucking data center in here?”

“Pretty much,” I repeat, leaning in the doorway.

She slams it closed and checks the last one.

Same setup. Same sub-zero temperature.

“And why is it so cold?” she asks, pulling her wrap tighter.

“Servers run hot. They need to be kept cool.”

She crosses her arms. “You’re single-handedly contributing to global warming.”

I press a hand to my chest in mock offense. “I’ll have you know I use only clean thermal energy, thank you very much.”

She rolls her eyes, but I catch the faintest twitch of a smile before she turns away.

I circle us back to the only thing that matters.

“Your room’s out of commission. You’re sleeping in my room.”

“No,” she says flatly.

“Yes,” I counter.

“I’ll take the couch.”

I shake my head. “Not happening.”

She plants her hands on her hips. “Why? Afraid I’ll get crumbs on your precious throw pillows?”

I step closer, lowering my voice. “Because if you sleep on the couch, I’ll just throw you over my shoulder and tie you to my bed.”

Her lip’s part like she’s not sure whether to be offended or flustered.

I lean in. “And between you and me, I’d fucking love to see what you look like tied to my bed.”

She fights it—puts up one of those stubborn little walls of hers—but it’s a losing battle. Eventually, she exhales through her nose like she’s conceding to a war crime.

“Fine,” she mutters. “But don’t try anything funny.”

She disappears into her damp room for clothes. When she comes back… well, I’ll be damned… I have to actually bite my lip to keep from whistling at her.

She’s wearing my old shirt again.

And… son of a bitch… my boxers.

She doesn’t look at me when she walks in, which is probably for the best, because I’m not hiding the way my eyes track her every step.

I’m already in bed, laying down with my hands behind my head, and watch as she starts building a wall of pillows between us.

It’s a process—stacking, adjusting, testing the distance like she’s drafting architectural plans for a fortress.

Then she crawls under the covers and makes a point to stretch as far to her side as humanly possible.

I cock a brow. “What is this… a purity fortress?”

“You can’t be trusted.” She barks back as she rolls onto her side so her back’s to me.

I hit the switch on the wall, killing the lights, and exhale a long, slow breath. The sound comes out part sigh, part moan. I feel her tense at it.

There’s a beat of silence that stretches out. Her tension basically radiating around the room.

After a moment, she says quietly, “I was at my studio.”

My brows pull together in the dark. “Huh?”

“Where I was when you asked.”

It takes me a second to process that. She’s finally giving up a piece of her stubborn resolve, and it makes me smile.

“I checked on Mom and the horses,” she continues, “and went to my art studio for a few hours.”

“I’ve never seen a studio at your house.”

“It’s in the barn.”

I think about that for a moment, then nod in the dark.

“Good night, Cricket,” I say, turning onto my side.

And I try—really try—not to think about tearing down that pillow wall and pulling her into my arms to see what her lips feel like on mine.