Page 49 of The Auction
Not the penthouse.
The penthouse is… breathtaking.
Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the entire far wall, flooding the space with sunlight and a panoramic view of the city skyline. The furniture is modern but somehow comfortable—sleek lines, deep colors, oversized pillows arranged in curated chaos.
It smells like him.
Like cedar and bergamot and sinful confidence. Like he bottles his cologne and pumps it through the air vents. Or lights candles made from his ego and masculine rage.
Everything is warm wood and polished steel. There’s a living wall of greenery in one corner, an open kitchen that looks like it belongs on the cover of a magazine, and—of course—a breathtaking infinity pool on a private balcony.
Because what self-respecting man-child billionaire doesn’t need a pool for an endless rotation of bikini-clad houseguests?
Then I hear footsteps. That lazy gait I know better than I should. He comes out from the hallway wearing absolutely nothing but black jeans and a motorcycle helmet.
Tattoos crawl over his chest and arms like inked temptation. His skin gleams with a light sheen of sweat, his abs tight.
I lift my eyes back up and find he’s removed the helmet. His smug mouth halfway to a smirk.
I swear my ovaries try to claw their way out of my body.
“You shower in that thing?” I manage, proud I got the words out without openly drooling.
“Aww,” he teases, pulling his wallet from his back pocket. “You trying to see me naked already, Crick?”
I narrow my eyes as he tips the valet a crisp hundred without breaking stride.
“Please. Don’t make me vomit.” We both know I’m a fucking liar. He’s gorgeous.
His smirk widens. “You’re just mad you liked the view.”
“I’ve seen better,” I lie.
Jaxon starts the tour like he’s hosting a real estate show.
“This is the living room. The balcony doors open fully. Whole indoor-outdoor thing. This”—he points to the glass-walled room filled with gym equipment—“is where I pretend to work through my daddy issues instead of going to actual therapy.”
“Impressive,” I say, dry. “Do you have a spreadsheet for emotional suppression, or is that just muscle memory by now?”
He leads me to the kitchen with the reverence of a man showing off a Lamborghini.
“I’m a danger in the kitchen so a chef keeps this stocked a few times a week,” he says, opening the fridge.
Glass jars line the shelves—layered salads with vibrant vegetables, little containers of dressing on the side. More glass containers with prepared meals, ready to heat and eat.
Every shelf is perfectly aligned, color-coordinated, and terrifyingly organized.
“You’re actually a serial killer, aren’t you?” I ask picking up a jar and inspecting it. “You even have OCD salads.”
He grins. “And yet you’re still here.”
“Under duress.”
Jaxon grabs my suitcase and duffel like they weigh nothing and heads toward a bedroom that’s on the other side of the penthouse to his.
The moment the door swings open, my breath catches.
All my stuff is already here.
