The Australian (Crime Royalty Romance Book 2) (16 page)

“I should bloody hope so!” he exclaimed, referring to me using his first name.

“. . . so someone once told me to describe them using physical descriptions, mostly colors.”

I waited for a skeptical look, but instead his face lit up with understanding.

“Hm, shiny white. Well, then.” He leaned back on the pillow, pulling me with him so I had to rest my head on his arm. “If I had to describe it that way I would say it was . . . blood red, no, maybe . . . electric-sign neon green and pink . . . and black.”

“Black?”

“Yeah, like earth. I want to bury myself all the way inside you and stay there.”

I flushed, again, everywhere.

A thought occurred to me. “So you enjoyed it?”

“Fully. Felt like I was twenty again. The most exciting fuck I’ve had since then, too.”

I blinked a few times. He flinched.

“Jesus. Sorry, Charlie. Haven’t had to sweet-talk a woman in a long time. Maybe never,” he added. “What I meant to say is, it was the most honest sex I’ve ever had.”

His dark eyes hugged me to him, as did his arms.

“You’ve caught me, ay. I’m yours.”

I felt strung up, my heart, maybe, like it was on a pulley. I had to mentally let it back down myself. When it finally settled I was greatly relieved, as it was a most extreme feeling.

I basked a little under his hand petting my skin, and wondered if that was how Miss Moneypenny felt when I stroked her. It was a lovely sensation and I longed for a way to express it. If only I could purr. When I told Mr. Knight that, he said, in a husky voice, I would be purring for him real soon. And despite the raw, sensation in my vagina, it clenched with desire, and my heart danced with delight. Then he said we had better get some shut-eye because we had to set out for the reef bright and early the next morning.

I worried I would not fall asleep, what with the vigorous activity, incredible development, and all its foreboding meaning and inevitable consequence, never mind the apparently limitless arousal within me, but it must have been too much, as I did enter into a deep slumber straight away—and on his chest no less.

Mr. Bennett woke us up, clapping hard and loud over Jace’s head, saying, “Wakey-wakey!” I peeled my face from Jace’s chest and glared, groggy, at Mr. Bennett, who was eyeing my flesh. I grabbed the sheet to properly cover myself—I had never fallen asleep naked before.

“Be a good cunt, and get the fuck out,” grumbled Jace. “
Now
!” he ordered. I did not like the smile on Mr. Bennett’s face as he left, adding, “We leave in five, mate.”

I sat upright, feeling terribly groggy, and winced from the tenderness in my vagina. Jace was silent. I glanced over my shoulder. He was staring at my naked backside through half-opened eyes. “Thought it was all a dream,” he mumbled, sitting up, running his hand up and down my back. “So soft and white,” he whispered, kissing my shoulder. “Thank you, Charlie.”

My mind was buzzing with lust, like he had pressed an
on
button. Incredible.

“I want to spend all day touching you like this. But . . .” He left me longing and hollow, standing up, stretching. “We can’t.” His member was hard, and I stared at it with what I am certain was my alien impersonation, but he was not paying attention. He turned and headed into the washroom.

His tone had changed, when he had said “we can’t,” and nerves about what awaited me today—the ocean—combined with our lateness brought me fully into reality.

When he was done in the washroom, he gave me a turn. When I was done, I had a quick shower. When I emerged, he was standing before the sink buck naked, and had nearly finished shaving. He grabbed my arm before I could plug in the blowdryer.

“No time, love. Just put on your cozzie.” He cleaned his razor under the water.

“But I never leave the house with wet hair. I will dry it quickly.”

“Charlie, what’s the point, ay? You’re going into the ocean in a few hours.”

Chartreuse. (Frustration.)

“Dried hair is a small thing to you, but today it is likely the only routine I will be able to implement.” I was certain once he understood my need he would permit it.

“I’m sympathetic, really,” he said after a moment. (I was pleased he did not look at me skeptically.) “But we can’t always get what we want, now can we? Do you hear me whinging about not getting my morning shiny?” I glanced at him, grasping the indirect reference. He winked at me. “Tell you what, why don’t we see what happens letting the sun dry your hair instead? Just an experiment. Now go get into your cozzie, Miss Sykes.” He addressed me firmly.

He was bossing me. Or, was he?

Could I protest? I was fired, after all. I had asked him to have sex with me and now we were pretending to do the employee-employer thing.

He made an exaggerated frowning face in the mirror, and I realized he was mocking me. Even as my mouth popped open, he directed me out to the room with his eyes, a small smile on his face. I debated the alternative, and . . . complied.

My mother had always advised me to choose my battles, the implication being you can’t win every one. I fished around in my suitcase. I had spent a lifetime battling for my way with her, and battling in her best interests, and I can assure you, I lost on most occasions. She was an excellent fighter. I slipped into my blue one-piece and pulled on a black mesh cover-up. And I realized I didn’t have the energy or desire to carry on in such a way with anyone else. I would have to ask B if this was a point of vulnerability for me.

• • •

By the time we departed Port Douglas aboard the luxurious private charter catamaran,
Aquarius
, we were half an hour behind schedule. It was not just Jace and I who had slept in. Dmitry and his two women were still drunk (I am an expert at identifying the signs of most forms and stages of inebriation) and were a challenge to herd.

I eyed them warily from the safety of my bench seat where Jace had planted me on the vessel. They were smoking marijuana and murmuring things to each other while The Black Keys played over the boat’s speakers.

Earlier, we had emerged from our room to discover another Russian man had arrived late last night—a frumpy, black-haired giant who I instantly wanted to call “Goon.” He and two other smaller, elderly men walked around the living room holding peculiar electronics and several laptops attached by cords. Mr. Knight seemed to know him, as they exchanged a brief hello. “Having another go, eh?” he asked Dmitry, who nodded. Jace pulled me to him and whispered in my ear, “Don’t leave my side today,” further supporting my prejudice about the new arrivals. I wondered what Mr. Knight meant, and what they were doing, but didn’t dare ask.

The frightening man I wanted to call Goon, as I was not introduced to him, leaned against a seating area in the bow area of the boat, eyeing the rest of our party with open hatred. (His two elderly colleagues had departed The Bangalow, taking their strange equipment with them before we departed.) I gathered one of Dmitry’s women was “with” Mr. Bennett now, as he occasionally slapped her ass. The sound was unpleasant, perhaps because I had not had my morning coffee. Two more women had joined the party, locals, I assumed, by their accents, and they seemed to be available as they flirted wildly with everyone. They certainly focused in on Joe, whose father flew back earlier that morning. (I wondered why, but did not dare ask about that either.)

I realized that Jace had not been lying about needing a buffer. The women were relentless in their efforts to get Joe’s attention. Joe was accommodating of them, but clearly not interested in being inside their bodies. Instead, his observant eyes kept flickering over me and Jace, and I had the terrible sensation that he
knew
. It was absurd, of course. He could not have known I had lost my virginity last night.

I decided to ignore him, and chalked up my unusual paranoia to exhaustion. I always get eight hours of sleep. Last night I had managed less than five. The jostling of the boat against the waves did nothing to alleviate the tension in my body.

Jace returned to my side with a coffee, reached into his open shirt pocket and produced a pill. “Take this.”

I twisted my mouth.

“I do not do drugs, Mr. Knight.”

His brows created a terrible slash, and in the early morning light, his scars above and below his left eye were prominent, perhaps because the scar tissue did not tan. I noted once again how those scars made his highly symmetrical face much more masculine than it might have been otherwise. He was a beautiful man.

“Think I do?” he snarled. “It’s so you don’t chunder. For motion sickness.”

“Oh.”

I was astonished he should have thought to make such a provision for me. This morning he had put in forced effort to be polite to his unruly guests—and the edge had returned to his voice. That he had taken the time to remember my needs . . .

I took the pill, thinking how only B had ever done something so thoughtful for me before. Once, when I had had to wait all day in court for my mother’s case she had brought me lunch
and
dinner.

“Thank you, that is very considerate of you.” I swallowed it. Sitting back down real close to me, he said, “Hey, it’s what I do.”

Facetiousness.

“And quit calling me Mr. Knight for Christ’s sake. We’re not employee-employer anymore.”

“I’m sorry, force of habit,” I said, anxiety bursting in my gut. I did not wish to be reminded that I was now unemployed, though I relished telling Sullivan Blaise I had been fired.

“Ay,” said Jace, touching my face tenderly with his fingers, drawing me back from inside myself. “Thought you’d be happy about that.”

I glanced at him, confused. Happy I was unemployed? Oh, he meant that we had mated. “I am . . . happy.” There was that strange mix of violet, burgundy and fuchsia.

“Me, too,” he murmured. We stared into each other’s eyes and I was seeing the bottom again, and maybe he was, too. Smiles broke out on our faces, like we were looking at reflections. His arm wrapped around my shoulder and he kissed my mouth. I kissed back, briefly, and then tried to tug away.

“What?” he murmured into my mouth.

“The others,” I said, thinking how unseemly we were being.

“Fuck ’em,” he uttered, kissing me again, focusing on my mouth, sensually sucking my top and then my bottom lip, and licking inside my mouth. And when he had finished making his soft, lingering statement he let me play for a moment in his mouth, and my heart was up in my throat as my vagina became moist, exhilarated by the new, highly relaxing experience. When I was done, we kissed softly and lightly, dry-mouthed . . . a proper denouement. The whole time I had lost myself and only now realized he had been petting my head and hair with his hands.

The sensation was utter bliss. I could not adequately describe it except to say I felt myself floating in a bubble. A bubble of cotton balls and daydreams (and I never daydream).

He did not say a word as my dizziness passed, just stared into my eyes.

“Jace, why don’t you take it to one of the rooms? We all want to hear her scream again,” said Mr. Bennett snidely.

My eyes flashed wide, but Jace would not let me tear away from him, or react in any way, his hand holding my neck tightly. “I need to talk to you, mate. Now,” added Mr. Bennett, passing by us down a level into the covered galley area, which contained a huge saloon and wet bar where the morning refreshments were laid out and the staff were preparing a presentation on the reef.

“Charlie,” whispered Jace, and I focused back on him. “Nothing else matters. Nothing but this. Us.”

I focused on his eyes. He was right. I smiled then.

“There’s my girl. Be right back.”

He stood up, staggered slightly with the vessel’s sway, and headed down two steps into the cabin area.

I marveled at Jace’s restraint. No wonder he had succeeded where other ruffians had not. He had incredible self-control. I, on the other hand, was experiencing a deep desire to lash out at Mr. Bennett.

Dmitry’s voice was growing louder as he interacted with his Goon and woman, which was good, because I think I heard Jace bark at Mr. Bennett (perhaps he was not showing restraint after all), and then I identified the source of my feeling: dread.

I greatly dislike being trapped in a small space with an intoxicated individual. I glanced around, watching for Dmitry, who appeared to be acting out some highly dramatic story for a rapt, drunken audience, and—oh dear—Joe’s eyes were on me. He had been sitting across from Jace and me, and, I realized, maybe watching us kissing. My cheeks flushed and then I felt bright, fiery orange: outrage that he should be so bold by staring at me all of the time.

The other women here had extremely symmetrical faces. Why must he set his sights on me? When he stood up, in his light white linen pants, no shirt, all lean muscle, and stepped over to my side of the boat, I glanced toward the cabin, rather hoping that Jace—who had an arm draped on Mr. Bennett’s shoulder and was waving a finger in his face—would rejoin me. I even stared at the local girl Joe had left mid-sentence, hoping she would follow him. She glared at me.

Joe slid in beside me.

“
Ciao
, Charlie. I missed you at the club last evening.”

He stared down at me with an expression I could not label. I had never encountered it before. I did not say a word, instead took a sip of my coffee, and realizing he was waiting for some kind of interaction, I smiled, though I would not hold his eye contact.

“How old are you?”

The abrupt personal question gave me pause.

“Twenty-four,” I answered.

“Hm. I thought maybe younger,” he said, smiling then with some indescribable look on his face, and I resisted the urge to ask him what he meant.

“Tell me something, you have been to Italy?”

“No.” I answered.

“Oh, you will love it! Where I come from the weather is not unlike this.” I felt the salty air close in around me, despite the sailing wind. I glanced up at him, searching for some signal that his interaction with me was harmless, like last night.

“If I ever visit Italy, I am sure I will enjoy it, Mr., uh, Joe,” I informed him.