The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (14 page)

It wrapped up shortly thereafter, and Mr. Knight informed me I would be returning to The Bangalow with Giuseppe while he and Mr. Bennett and Mr. Carlisle showed the others a good time in Port Douglas. I was relieved at the opportunity to remove myself. “Don’t wait up for me,” he said, just outside the car door, kissing me lightly on the side of my mouth.

I was surprised to no end when a match flared to life inside me. I felt cheated and greatly riled up he had not taken advantage of the moment to serve me a proper kiss. Then I realized that he was likely trying to be respectful of the awkward circumstance. And while I should have admired him for it, I resented him.

Before I could stop myself, I grabbed his hand, he turned back around, and I threw my body into his so much so he had to grab me. My dress rode up quite high but I did not care, and I leaned up and kissed him hard on the lips. (My boldness was buoyed greatly by the wine I had drunk.) I was not sure what I was doing, and wondered if I had applied too much suction, when he stabbed through with his tongue and into my mouth, swirling and licking inside. My body, initially tense, relaxed into his. He pulled back after a moment, and I removed my body from his and glanced in his eyes.

I expected the bit of fun to warrant amusement. But . . . he was stern. Maybe even angry.

The world crashed around me. Once again I had been unable to create intended emotions.

“What was that, ay?” he growled.

“I . . . I was . . . playing along.”

He made a grunting noise and left without another word. I clambered into the car numb with pent-up lust and a tornado of confusion.

I had not expected anger in response to my sexual overture.

What could be the source?

I was winded by the realization. Maybe he really only wanted to make sure I was not considered “on the market.” Mr. Bennett had set his sights on the Russian women (neither they nor Dmitry minded) so he was out of the picture, but certainly Joe would have been persistent with me. Maybe Mr. Knight really only had my best interests in mind. And that is when I experienced a brand new emotion, one I could not even assign a color to because of its ghastliness.

Maybe Mr. Knight was not sexually attracted to me. It was one thing to throw myself at him, in order to get fired and appease my own sexual desire. It was another to throw myself at him and not stick.

But, I quickly remembered my true goal—either way, he would have to fire me. If he responded, he would fire me because I used him. If he did not respond (again the emotion spread inside me—was it despair?), he would still have to fire me because he could not work with an assistant who wanted to have coitus with him. That is what we agreed. And I strongly suspected he had fired his last assistant for that very reason.

There was only one problem. I was not certain I had the courage to experience Mr. Knight’s rejection.

I said goodnight to Giuseppe, who barely murmured “
Buona notte
.” I hustled into the bedroom, closed the door and leaned against it.

Peter and Julie had turned down the bed, which taunted me—until I reprimanded myself for attributing human behaviors to inanimate objects. I was exhausted, yes, too exhausted to sort out such a complicated “either/or” scenario. So, I decided to push it all out of my mind. After all, I reasoned, undressing, I had one more full day tomorrow, at the reef, and one more night.

That was plenty of time to make up my mind about what to do.

Worst-case scenario, I decided, slipping into a short, skimpy nightie (I could not be faulted for not packing appropriate sleepwear), I could do nothing. Come Monday, I would submit my resignation.

Frankly, Sullivan Blaise’s retribution was more appealing than the look Mr. Knight gets on his face when he is repelled. And then there was the terrible truth: after the dinner, I believed Mr. Knight was mixed up in something unsavory, however he wished it not to be so. It was wise and logical and imperative for me to untangle myself.

I washed my face red, brushed my teeth and climbed into the bed, staying as close to the edge as possible. Glancing over at the empty side, I simply could not see how Mr. Knight’s body would fit without touching mine.

I closed my eyes and tried to clear my mind. But all I could focus on was Mr. Knight’s return. After twenty minutes, I turned on the light and tried to read an excellent book,
The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People
, on my e-reader (the one allowance I had made with my tiny bank account after my mother’s death).

When I heard men’s voices and women’s laughter an hour or so later, at 12:30 a.m., I quickly turned off the light and rolled over, my heart beating so loud I thought it might burst.

The bedroom door opened and closed quietly.

He was back. I could barely think straight. What was wrong with me? It was worse than the second grade spring blossom play when all I was supposed to say was part of a poem, “violets are blue,” and instead, peed my pants.

The clang of a belt buckle. Clothes rustling. Static buzz (in my head). When the bed depressed suddenly, I inhaled loudly.

“You’re awake, Miss Sykes.”

Having blundered my attempt to pretend to be asleep, I was forced to concede the truth. But first, I needed to return from panic station.

“Yes,” I uttered, regulating my breathing and my mind.

He turned on the light on his side of the bed, and I rolled over. I observed him swing his bare, strong legs up and under the top sheet, and lean back halfway upright against pillows. He was wearing underwear, only, and I was horrified to see my employer in such a state of undress . . . and yet, at the same time, beyond exalted to be lying beside a man in such intimate repose.

I could not reconcile the two experiences.

When our eyes met, my heart hitched up to hummingbird speed.

I could
not
steady myself.

“Howya holding up?” he asked quietly, staring down at me.

“Fine.” I chose to lie.

“Why aren’t you asleep then?”

Propping myself up awkwardly on one elbow, I stared at the black soft hair peeking out of his armpit. I felt the hair on his leg brush my thigh under the sheet.

Oh yes. Why wasn’t I asleep? What could I answer? Because my body was in a fever pitch of need. Base, biological yearning, mysterious, inexplicable attraction.

Moistness. Hunger. Salivation.

I stared up at him, and was unable to say a word. In that moment, I saw into his eyes and it was clear he was not intending to take advantage of our unusual situation—he appeared blank. Indifferent.

Not a word came to mind. I just kept staring up into those large ebony eyes that were staring back down on me.

“Don’t look at me like that, Miss Sykes. Not if you know what’s good for ya,” he finally murmured through gritted teeth.

Fear hacked my thoughts asunder, and, as a result, surprisingly, I could
not
look away. It was the most peculiar compulsion: I was intensely drawn by the prospect of what wouldn’t be good for me.

“Miss Sykes, what are you doing? And I want an answer. Back at the restaurant, kissing me like that. And now. Staring at me . . . with those eyes.”

I inhaled sharply, and glanced away. He had called me out. Of course. I swear arousal reduces one’s IQ. It was all so perfectly clear: he
was
disgusted with me. He didn’t want me
that
way. Instinct seized hold of me. Fortify yourself, it shouted.

“I thought, you kissed me first, so, so I thought it was part of the pretending.” I lied.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I wanted to have fun, then.”

He scoffed. “You don’t lie very well, Charlie.”

“Perhaps if I work long enough for you, I’ll pick up a thing or two,” I blurted out, huffily. My mouth popped open at my own outburst. I sat up and glanced at him, and the expression on his handsome face was one I had never seen before. The best I could describe it—surprise. “I just mean,” I rushed to amend, slightly facing him, “it is not as though you have been perfectly honest with me.”

I had never lost control of
two
emotions before: this time it was itchy tomato red and Dijon mustard yellow, which is how I imagined impatience and resentment.

He stared at me for a moment before his facial muscles relaxed. “Christ, you disarm me, you know that?”

I didn’t know what to make of that remark. Was that a good thing or a bad thing? I seized the loose thread.

“So you admit it.”

His face tensed up again.

“Admit what?”

He was being deliberately obtuse.

“This buffer business. We are here in bed, aren’t we? Do you wish to have coitus with me or not?!” I demanded, rather annoyed.

His mouth popped open then shut quickly. He was throttling my gaze with his own.

Wait—was it wrong to confront him in this way?

Yes.

Why?

Because now he could reject me. I had put myself right on the ledge. I was not desperate. Was I?

He narrowed his eyes at me, and I knew then he was doing that literal figurative thing he talked about . . . staring straight through my eyes, into my soul. His body, it had changed, too. It was somehow more alert.

“Are you asking?” His voice was hoarse.

I needed more oxygen to my brain to think properly, and I took in a mouthful. Why was it important I concede my sexual desire before him?

“Are you asking if I am asking?” I breathed out.

Oh. This was a . . . game. We were playing a game. I did not like it. I did not like competing with these kinds of stakes.

His already-dilated eyes flickered. His nostrils flared as he inhaled through his nose. He let his head fall, a little to the side.

My chest was so tense I longed for relief, and, though I inhaled deeply, again, it did nothing to settle my nerves.

Should I give over? Let him win?

Yes.

Probably.

I felt it then, an innate biological desire that he should win. I needed him to win.

He shifted up and over slightly, and picked up a few strands of my hair near my shoulder and rubbed them in his fingers. I was breathing heavily through my nose and had to fight the incredible overpowering urge to lean into him.

“You’ve no idea how much you turn me on when you call it coitus,” he practically whispered, running the fingers of his other hand down my bare arm. I gasped at his admission—and watched his eyes examine my flesh on display in my thin nightie like someone might an inanimate object. Deep down I felt such an ache I nearly curled up and over to nurse it. He had never looked at me like this, with such . . . fire in his eyes, like he wanted to . . . step right inside me.

“Because it’s clear you don’t have a clue what fuckin’ really is.” He glanced into my eyes and I swayed from the message. “And I have to say, Charlie, it’s a shame no man’s been able to give you what you really need. And . . .” he let go of my hair, and shook his head, staring away.

Why had he stopped? He was making music in me with his words. There were notes he was striking . . . organic flesh in deep bass and high-pitched treble, soft tingles, hard pangs . . . I . . . I had never been just an instrument before. My vagina was swollen and clenched, as if to release the pressure.

“I’d love nothing more than to give you what you need,” he muttered, turning back to me. “But what would that say about me, after I promised you I wouldn’t have a lend of you? I haven’t got much of anything besides my honor, Charlie.”

My chest swelled with the realization Mr. Knight was . . . a good man. Unfortunately, it made me want him even more.

“Mr. Knight, I will be perfectly honest with you,” I choked out, sitting up straight and staring ahead, squeezing my knees together to no avail of relief where I needed it most, catching my breath because he shadowed my every movement, hovering up near beside me, and I liked that he did, badly. I swallowed and clenched my eyes tight before opening them as if that might help me see straight.

“You would not be taking advantage of me. It is rather the opposite, and I had not wished it to come to this as I really enjoyed working for you.” Shocked, I realized my eyes were watering. I glanced over. His eyes were clutching at me, digging in, seeking . . . something. “I have fought my desires, as I did not wish to give credence to others who think so low of you or to lead you down that path of temptation.” My voice was unusually quaky. “But . . . the attraction is simply too much.”

He said nothing, made no movement. His beautiful lips were curved up, but . . . he took no action. Perhaps I was not clear enough. I needed to offer myself to him.

“So, I am hoping you will put aside your honorable reservations, and give me . . . sexual pleasure.
Please
,” I added, staring at his mouth.

I had thought I had taken a risk when I moved to Australia. No. I had planned that. This was real risk—where you put yourself before someone and ask them for something. And it struck me, as my skin grew taut with the vague tingle of goosebumps, I had
never
asked anyone for anything before.

I could not fathom what color emotion I would experience should he turn me down, or how it might color everything afterward.

I stole a glance in his eyes, and gasped, just as his warm, large hand snaked around the back of my neck and grasped it fully. My nipples tightened and the funniest image popped to mind.

I was a marionette.

He leaned in, that mouth just inches from my face, his warm breath on my cheek. “I’m giving you one chance, now, to change your mind. Because you need to understand something, Charlie. I’m not messing around with you. You cross that line with me, there’s no crossing back.”

Anxiety clashed with shivers of anticipation.

Even though I knew that having coitus would change the nature of our relationship, I was not prepared to hear him articulate the consequence. I bit my lip. I would lose my job. And I needed to, that is why I was giving in to my base needs after all . . . but I did deeply resent having to give up a job for it, and hated Sullivan Blaise then with a depth I could not articulate.

Mr. Knight rested his forehead against the side of my head, and the surge of anticipation, lustful, mouth-watering anticipation, ebbed away my hatred. “You should also know I intend to be all-in with you, have done right since the day we met.”