Page 20 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

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 says everything .

“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.”

“Were you dreaming about me?”

“No.”

“Liar. Was I good?”

“Wouldn’t know.”

“I’m happy to do a reenactment if you like.”

I smack him on the arm with the spatula, trying not to smile. “Get out of my kitchen.”

He grins like he’s already won, and I get back to flipping pancakes, pretending my face isn’t hot.

He slides off the counter and comes up behind me.

My pulse kicks instantly. I’ve imagined this exact scenario— him behind me—more times than I’ll ever admit.

“What are you doing?” I ask without turning, spatula still in my hand.

“Just keep cooking.”

He moves my hair over one shoulder, and when he leans in to breathe me in, my knees almost give. “You’ve never had sex before.”

I smirk to cover the fact that my stomach is in free fall. “A quick one, ladies and gentlemen.”

He chuckles low against my skin, and it sends a shiver all the way down my spine. Both of his hands glide slowly down my arms, unhurried, like he’s learning every inch.

“Have you fooled around any?” His lips brush the side of my neck.

God, if he only knew how many nights I’ve thought about his mouth there. “A little,” I admit, the words coming out breathier than I’d like.

His grip tightens, like the answer matters more than it should. Another kiss, lower. “Tell me what you’ve done, Cricket.” His palms skim my hips, moving forward and down toward my pelvis—closing the last bit of space between us until I feel the unmistakable hardness pressed into my lower back.

“I’ve kissed,” I say, barely above a whisper.

He hums against my skin, lips finding the bend of my neck and shoulder. “What else?”

One hand slides under my shirt, stopping just beneath my breast. My breath catches when his thumb trails lightly across the soft skin under my breast. The other drifts down my thigh, his fingers slow, purposeful, and I swear my heart might burst through my ribs.

“I’ve been fingered before.”

“Mmm,” he murmurs, mouth warm on my skin again. “Who, Cricket?”

“Who?”

“Who did you let touch you?”

I swallow hard and hope he remembers. “I’m sure you remember Matt, from that party?”

His hands tense on my body.

“We dated for a while.”

“I see.”

Do you Jaxon? Do you see you rejected me and pushed me into his arms?

“And did you come?”

I swallow, embarrassed at the truth. “No.”

“What a shame.” His palm covers my breast now, thumb rolling my nipple. I moan, leaning my head back against his chest without thinking. I want more. God help me, I’ve always wanted more from him.

“I can show you how good it can feel, baby.” His lips graze my ear, making every hair on my body stand on end.

His other hand moves between my legs, slipping inside one of the legs of the boxers I slept in.

His fingers rubbing over my pussy like he already owns it.

“Fuck, Cricket. You’re soaking your panties. ”

He rubs his fingers over my panties and my mouth drops open. His mouth is on my neck, kissing. Licking.

“And you’re burning our breakfast,”

“Shit.” I snap forward, sliding the pancake onto a plate before I forget entirely. My hands aren’t steady, and the pan feels heavier than it should.

“Keep cooking, beautiful,” he says, voice low and thick, like a promise. “Let me make you come.”

It doesn’t sound like a question—but it is.

I nod, pouring more batter onto the pan with shaking hands, my mind spinning with the reality that this isn’t a dream anymore. He’s actually touching me. Talking to me like this. And I know we’re crossing a barrier that we’ll never return from.

His hand slides under the waistband of my panties, and he groans the second his fingers meet me.

“Christ, Cricket… you’re soaked.”

I grip the edge of the counter like it’s the only thing holding me up. I’ve dreamed about this man—about this exact touch—for years. But nothing in my imagination comes close to the heat in his voice right now.

He doesn’t rush. His fingers slide between my pussy lips, stroking slow, deliberate lines over my clit. My hips jerk forward involuntarily, the spatula clattering onto the counter.

“Uh, Jaxon.” I grit out, closing my eyes and biting my lip.

“That’s it,” he murmurs, his mouth near my ear, his tone a mix of praise and command. “Just feel me.”

My breath comes faster, shallow and uneven. Every stroke is maddeningly controlled, like he’s reading my body and holding me right on the edge of something I’ve never felt before.

“You’re already trembling for me,” he says, his lips brushing my neck. “That’s good, baby. I want you just like this for me, every time.”

I don’t even have the sense to answer. I just nod, sucking in a breath as his touch circles and glides, pressure alternating until I’m gasping.

He keeps talking, voice low and steady, anchoring me in the intensity. “Let me take care of you. You just stay right here and come for me.”

My legs are weak, thighs pressing together, but his free hand grips my hip firmly, holding me exactly where he wants me. I can feel the restraint in his movements—how easy it would be for him to push harder, faster—but instead he controls it, keeps it steady, winding me tighter.

“Breathe, Cricket,” he reminds me when my chest locks. “That’s it. Just like that. You’re beautiful with my fingers in this sweet cunt.” He licks up the column of my neck, sucking the sensitive skin just under my ear.

“Oh, my God.”

I moan and groan, losing it. I’ve been touched before, a little. But never like this—never with someone completely focused on me , coaxing every reaction out of me like it’s the only thing that matters.

“Jaxon.” I breathe out, my hand clamping around his wrist as he works my pussy.

“That’s it baby.” His other hand slides under my shirt again, squeezing my breast, pinching and twisting my nipple in time with the movements of his fingers on my clit. “Give it to me.”

“Yes.” I sound like I’m both begging him and worshiping him. “God, please, just like that.”

“Keep—”

The tension builds sharp and hot until it bursts stealing the rest of my plea. My knees almost buckle, my body rocking against his hand as I come, breathless and completely undone.

He slows but doesn’t pull away right away, easing me through it, stroking me softly until the aftershocks fade and I’m leaning all my weight into him.

“Good girl,” he says against my ear, and the praise makes my stomach flip all over again.

I’m not even pretending to finish the pancakes. My arms feel heavy, my chest still rising and falling too fast.

He finally pulls his hand free, turning me around and I watch in dazed disbelief as he slips his fingers into his mouth, eyes locked on mine. He moans like I’m the best thing he’s ever tasted. “So sweet,” he murmurs. “Just like I knew you’d be.”

He leans down like he’s about to kiss me. My pulse jumps so hard I swear he can hear it.

I tilt my head without thinking, eyes heavy-lidded from the orgasm still humming through me. My mouth parts, my breath catches. God, I want him to.

But he pauses there—close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell the faint mix of coffee and soap and him . His eyes flick down to my mouth, linger there, and then… he pulls back. Slowly. Smirking like the devil.

“Thanks for breakfast,” he teases, reaching past me to grab a plate. He piles on pancakes, drizzling syrup like I wasn’t just moaning out his name seconds ago.

I grab a hand towel and snap it against his arm. “Wash your hands first.”

“Not a fucking chance,” he says, eyes glinting with wicked amusement. “I’m going to smell your sweet pussy on my fingers all day, Cricket. Because you were delicious.”

My jaw drops, my whole body lighting up all over again.

He just winks and strolls toward his office, leaving me standing there—burning just like the forgotten pancake still smoking on the stove.