Page 64 of The Auction
I grab the cereal box from the pantry, a gallon of milk from the fridge, and march to the table. No bowl, no spoon—just me, dry cereal straight from the box, chased with a swig of milk from the jug.
It’s absurd. It’s petty.
And I’m committed.
That’s when Jax walks in.
His eyes flick to me as I tip a handful of cereal into my mouth, then lift the gallon and drink.
I know exactly how ridiculous it looks, and I make no move to hide it. If anything, I double down.
The sight must catch him off guard because for a split second, I swear he’s about to laugh. His lips twitch, the corners lifting in something dangerously close to a smile before he shuts it down.
All I get is a faint smirk as he grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and walks out.
It’s not a win.
But it’s not a loss either.
I head toward the linen cabinet by the pool door, humming to myself, determined to keep my mind on the mission—bikini, towel, pool, win the day.
Except when I open the cabinet, I freeze.
The towels—allof them—are stacked neatly on the very top shelf. Too high for me to grab without a chair or a step stool. Which I’m sure isexactlywhy they’re there now.
I stretch anyway, fingers grazing the edge of the lowest one, but it’s no use.
And of course, this is the moment Jaxon chooses to walk in.
He doesn’t say a word—just steps up behind me. Close. Too close. The heat of his body slides in against my back like a shadow, his chest just shy of brushing my shoulder blades.
I tell myself I should move, but instead I keep reaching.
Because I can feel him there.
And because I know damn well what kind of picture I’m making in this bikini—the bottoms sitting low on my hips, the wrap tied to the side barely keeping anything modest, the top cut just small enough to keep him wondering.
He leans forward, arm lifting to the cabinet above mine. Of course he’s not actually helping me.
No towel is being passed down. No space is being made.
Instead, he’s taking his time, rifling through whatever’s up there like he’s searching for buried treasure, all while his hips stay perfectly aligned with mine.
Every time I push up onto my toes, my ass grazes his crotch.
And every time, he doesn’t move away.
If anything, I think—no, Iknow—he presses in that tiniest fraction more. Enough that I can feel him starting to harden. Enough that my own thighs clench and my pulse trips over itself.
I should turn around. I should end this right here—grab the back of his neck, pull his mouth to mine, and finally know what he tastes like.
But the idea of making him snap?
Of seeing him lose every ounce of control he’s been holding onto these last two days?
That’s a far better reward.
So I keep stretching. Keep reaching. Keep brushing up against him like it’s all part of the effort.
