Page 60 of The Auction
The memory punches back fast and brutal—Jonathan at the party six years ago, shoving me against the wall when he caught us coming in from the garden. His voice, low and threatening:
"She’s seventeen. You touch her, and I’ll end you."
I swallow the bitterness. The frustration. The throbbing need.
And I make a choice.
I stand up, toss the magazine onto the table, and dive headfirst into the pool like I’m escaping a fire.
The cold water hits my overheated skin with a jolt, but it’s not enough to cool me off. I push hard through the water, lap after lap, trying to outrun the image of her bent over and soaking wet.
When I finally climb out at the deep end, I grip the edge of the concrete and pull myself up in one smooth motion, letting the water roll off my body, every muscle flexed from restraint.
She’s still on her lounger, pretending not to watch.
So I takehertowel—the one folded neatly on the table beside her—and shake the water from my hair like a dog, making sure it sprays just enough to mist across her thighs and stomach.
She flinches, just barely, but I catch it.
And as I walk past her, dripping and silent, I don’t look back.
Because this war is far from over but right now, I have to jack my dick off before I pull her bikini fabric to the side and run my finger up her wet cunt.
Her bedroom door is open.
I tell myself that’s not a signal.
She’s on her bed, propped up on one elbow, tablet resting on her thighs while some show plays—low volume, no subtitles. Her attention stay on me, but she fights to keep it hidden.
I pace the corridor just outside her room, phone pressed to my ear, pretending this is just a casual late-night call.
But I make sure she hearswhoI’m talking to.
“Hey, man. How’s London?”
It’s her brother on the other end of the line.
The one who doesn’t know I’m doing so much more than keeping an eye on his little sister. The one who would lose his goddamn mind if he saw the way I looked at her. Wanted her. Fought the urge to smell her sweet cunt her every damn minute of the day.
I lean against the opposite wall, letting my voice stay steady while stick my hand just under the waistband of my sweatpants.
My grey ones. My thin—grey—sweats.
There are two things I know for sure:
One—these pants are like kryptonite for women.
Two—I wear the ever-loving fuck out of them.
And right now they’re doingexactlywhat they were made for.
They're clinging in all the right places—just thin enough that you can make out the shape of my dick. Even the head of my cock, which is slightly hard.
Just enough to tease.
To tempt.
To let herwonder.
