Page 62 of The Auction
My gaze drops—just for a second—to her chest. Pebbled nipples pressing through that scrap of a cami like they’re waving goodnight.
Then right when I look back into those green eyes, she slams the fucking door.
Right in my goddamn face.
I jerk my head back just in time to avoid taking it to the nose.
And all I can do is stand there, hard as a fucking rock, wondering how long we can keep this game going before I kick this fucking door down and take what I paid for.
Once again I’m about to make myself right at home in my closet—well,Jaxon’sguest room closet.
The bedroom door is locked. Music’s playing low from my tablet, something upbeat enough to sound like I’m just getting ready for the day.
I slip into the closet and close that door too.
And then I strip out of the cami and shorts. My panties are soaked, and they join the pile on the floor in an instant.
The vibrator is already in my hand and turned on before I’m on my knees.
I don’t waste a second pressing it straight to my clit.
Relief crashes through me instantly, sharp and almost painful, tangled with the sweet, unbearable tension of knowing I’m seconds away from falling apart.
My hips start rocking against it without permission, like they’ve been waiting for this.
And of course—just like last night—my thoughts go straight to Jaxon.
The same man I’ve hated and wanted in equal measure for more years than I’m ready to admit.
The same man who’s dominated every fantasy I’ve had for two straight days.
In my head, he’s everywhere—his mouth between my legs, looking up at me with that smug, infuriating smirk before diving back down. His chest against my back, lips at my neck, hands everywhere.
My free hand drifts up my stomach, cupping my breast through nothing but bare skin. I pinch my nipple and my hips jerk against the vibrator, my pelvis finding a steady rhythm that has heat coiling low and tight inside me.
It’s too easy to imagine his mouth there instead. His tongue circling. His teeth catching.
The pinch makes the pleasure spike so sharp I almost cry out.
Almost.
But I bite it back.
I can’t make a sound. I can’t let him know how close I’ve been to breaking. How wet I’ve been for him. How many times I’ve come in this closet, imagining him.
The thought should embarrass me—the slick, wet sounds of my own fingers brushing against myself while the vibrator hums against my clit—but it doesn’t.
It turns me on even more.
Because I can imagine exactly how much it would turnhimon.
Last night’s grey sweatpants flash into my mind. The outline of him thick and heavy beneath the thin cotton. In this fantasy, I hook my fingers into the waistband, drag him down in the hallway, and sink onto him right there—mounting him, bouncing on his cock until I can’t breathe.
I know he’s big.
Really fucking big.
I got a glimpse of his dick once. Something I try to forget but never can.
