Page 22 of The Auction (The Black Ledger Billionaires #4)

I t’s been raining for days, the kind of steady, dreary gray that makes everything feel heavier.

I’ve been back to check on Mom once since those assholes tried to take the horses. She’s been doing well—Shanae keeps me updated almost daily—but I still can’t shake the image of her pale and shaking that day.

Yesterday, I got a text from Jonathan.

JONATHAN: We’ll talk about the horses when I get back.

I didn’t answer. Didn’t even tell Jaxon. I just walked into the art studio he made for me and poured everything onto the canvas until my arms ached.

But today… today’s different. Today I’m packing a bag because Jaxon’s taking me out on his bike.

I’ve always wanted to ride on one. Never drive—God, no—but sitting on the back, holding on tight? That’s always sounded fun.

The bike’s already loaded on a trailer hitched to his truck when I come down. He’s leaning against the hood, arms crossed, helmet sitting beside him like it’s waiting for me.

“You ready, Cricket?” he asks, one brow lifting.

“As I’ll ever be,” I say, sliding my bag over my shoulder. “You’re sure you’re not going to kill me, right?”

He smirks. “I like you too much for that. Plus, you still owe me pancakes.”

I roll my eyes, but my cheeks heat anyway.

We hit the road, and for the first hour, it’s easy—just back roads and stretches of highway, the sky breaking into patches of pale blue. I pepper him with questions about riding—how long he’s been doing it, the fastest he’s ever gone, whether or not he’s ever crashed.

He puts on music at some point, scrolling through his phone until something bouncy fills the cab. I recognize it in the first few notes and laugh. “Is this… the Glee soundtrack?”

He shoots me a quick sideways grin. “Of course it’s Glee.”

“Never would’ve pegged you for a man who enjoys musicals,” I counter.

He starts singing along anyway—badly, on purpose—and I can’t help joining in after a song or two. We’re both laughing by the time the next season’s soundtrack hits.

But somewhere in the last hour, my voice quiets. The closer we get, the more my nerves creep in.

He notices. Without a word, his hand finds mine on the center console. He threads our fingers together, warm and steady, and brings my knuckles to his lips for a quick kiss.

“Hey,” he says, his tone softer now. “You’re gonna love this. I promise.”

I nod, but my stomach flutters when he doesn’t let my hand go. He keeps holding it. Setting our joined hands on my thigh.

“Tell me about Dominion and Grace,” he adds. “What made you think to breed them?”

It’s easy to talk about them. About Grace’s stubborn streak, about how Dominion won’t let anyone else near her stall, about the way they run the pastures like they own them.

Jaxon listens, asking small questions here and there, and by the time we pull into the nearly empty lot in the Catskills, I’ve almost forgotten to be nervous at all.

When we finally pull into a nearly empty lot, the clouds are breaking, and the air smells like wet leaves.

We get geared up. I’m dressed. Nervous, but excited. And Jaxon… he looks happy . Not just his usual smug contentment—there’s an energy about him, like he’s genuinely excited to do this with me.

I hope so, because damn he looks good. All black gear, all black bike, and the two of us match like we planned it.

He helps me with my gloves, then my helmet, giving me a quick lesson on how to be a good “backpack”—how to lean with him, where to put my feet, when to hold tighter.

Then he swings a leg over the bike and starts it up, the low rumble sending a thrill straight through me. He reaches back, steadying me as I climb on behind him, and for a second, my heart’s pounding louder than the engine.

“Here, give me your hands,” his voice comes through the helmet’s Bluetooth, deep and warm in my ear. I have to work not to shudder at the sound—like it’s just for me.

I place my hands where I think they should go, but he reaches back, catching my wrists and pulling me flush against him. “Like this,” he says, fixing my grip tight around him so I know how hard to hold on. He explains where to put them when he’s not going fast.

Now I understand why they call it being a backpack. My legs are spread around his, his ass is in my crotch, and my chest is plastered to his back. Every inch of me is on him. The heat building inside me has nothing to do with the gear.

He eases us forward, taking slow loops around the lot so I can get used to the feel of the bike moving beneath us. Once I’m steady, he heads out onto the road.

We pass a storefront with wide windows, and I catch our reflection—him, all black leather and strength, me clinging to him like I belong there. He glances toward it, too, and I wonder if he likes what he sees. Because I do. I could make a habit of this… but I know it’s temporary.

My brother will be home in two weeks, and this little game of ours will have to end.

We stop at a red light, and he plants one boot on the pavement to steady us. Sitting taller, he tells me where we’re headed, one hand rubbing absently over my thigh as he does it—like it’s second nature. And I’m thankful he can’t see me smiling inside the helmet.

Because I am. He’s doing a great job of making me feel… well, a lot of things but…like I’m really his.

The light changes, his hands return to the handlebars, and I hold on tight.