Chapter 27
JETT
I try to get comfortable. As comfortable as a man can be with a raging hard-on.
I’ve changed into lounge pants and a T-shirt, whiskey glass in hands strategically placed, though a bucket might be better suited to hide the evidence.
I have no idea if Cari will do it. If she’ll wear the dress. I don’t know what’s going through her mind, but I’ve been turning the possibilities over in my head ever since I sent her my surprise gift.
What does she think of it all? Does she think I’m a pervert? Probably. But I need to know. I need to find out if she feels what I feel.
Doubt creeps in. Maybe she won’t go through with it. Maybe she’ll come down in shorts and a T-shirt and call me a disgusting old man.
Or maybe she won’t come at all.
The grandfather clock chimes. Its loud clang drowns out my thoughts—and any other sounds in this cavernous room. But after it stops, I hear footsteps. The clickety-clack of stilettos on the marble floor grow louder with each step.
My heart lurches, and my cock stiffens painfully.
She’s wearing the shoes. Which means … she’s wearing the dress.
My entire body reacts, a surge of desire so intense it’s almost unbearable. My relaxed posture vanishes, and every muscle in my body stiffens. The door flies open and Cari strides in like a breeze—no, like a storm.
Confident. Poised. Powerful.
This isn’t the Cari I know.
She’s stunning. Sexy as hell. My mouth falls open, and I almost drop the whiskey glass. I should stand up—this moment deserves it—but I sink further into my wingchair, fearing that she’ll see the evidence of my desire if I do.
She closes the door, her hips swaying as she walks toward me, stopping just inches away. My lips part, and I instinctively lick them, the urge to devour her overwhelming me. The dress clings to her curves, the slit teasing dangerously high up her thighs. And then I notice—no bra.
Fuck.
Me.
It’s even better than I could have hoped for. Cari was made for this dress, or this dress was made for her.
If she’s as turned on as I am, she’s soaking wet. I want to reach out and feel her there.
Stop. I suppress a guttural groan in the back of my throat. Biting down on my molars I let my eyes roam all over her freely. “You look fucking good enough to eat,” I growl, my voice rough with need.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Wolf.” Her chin tilts up, her eyes—those fuck-me eyes—defiant.
Mr. Wolf? I raise an eyebrow. If that’s how she sees me, I can’t wait to fucking eat her up. “That dress was made for you.” I quickly down the rest of my whiskey, trying to buy time to collect my thoughts. She’s nothing like I expected.
She’s surprised me.
Taken control of the situation.
Done the unthinkable.
“How did you know what size I was?” she asks, her voice steady, not a trace of the shyness I’d anticipated.
She’s not afraid. Not shy, not embarrassed. What the fuck has gotten into her? I didn’t expect this—this confident, bold Cari. She’s strong, just like she is as my PA, but this ... this situation is entirely different.
“I pay attention.” My hungry eyes sweep over her, top to toe. I want to tell her to twirl, but resist the urge. I don’t want her to think I see her as an object.
Her gaze pins me in place. “Why did you give this to me?”
I let out a labored breath. Easy. I’ve been rehearsing my answer. “I wanted to see if you meant what you said.”
“You’re my boss,” she purrs, sliding her tongue across her lower lip, making my control slip another notch. “I’ll do whatever you say, Mr. Knight.”
Fuck. Who is this creature? “Anything?” My voice is barely a whisper. My breath hitches in my throat, stuck there like a ball of clay, as the air between us thickens heavily with innuendo.
My eyes travel down her body, over the plunging neckline of that flimsy fabric, straining against her breasts. The peaks are perfectly outlined, and I am so tempted to reach out, to slip my hand inside, to kiss her, suck her, devour her.
Don’t go there.
She did what I asked. She wore the dress. I didn’t think she would, but what now? What the hell do I do now ? Talk to her? Figure out what this means?
I finish my whiskey in one gulp, then stand abruptly and walk to the bar, needing another drink, needing distance. I pour myself another glass. “What’ll you have?” I ask, more to break the tension than anything else.
“Nothing.” She sits on a barstool, opposite me.
“Nothing?” I ask. It’s an effort to keep my voice casual. This version of Cari unnerves me. I feel trapped. I clasp my whiskey glass tight, feeling grateful that the bar is between us, hiding the obvious bulge in my pants.
“I need to talk to you. It’s just as well you called me down.”
I had a feeling she’d want to talk. Probably about what an ass I was on the drive back from the caves. “I noticed you didn’t come down to dinner.”
She tilts her head. “I lost my appetite.”
I lost mine, too, but I doubt her reason is the same as mine. “Oh? Any reason for that?”
I see the gentle movement of her throat as she swallows. “Not one I can put my finger on right now.”
There is a world of answers in that one sentence. “I thought you were avoiding me.” I examine her carefully. Then, because she wore the dress, and she came—she obeyed me—I slowly make my way over and sit down next to her.
Her hair is up, and she looks like a goddess. It gives me a perfect view of her shoulders, and how the dress ties in pretty little bows. Flimsy bows. One tug, and it’ll all fall away ...
“You didn’t talk to me on the ride home,” she challenges, her voice calm and composed as she leans back, perfectly comfortable. “Are you avoiding me?”
She’s got me there.
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. Brooke was excited and telling me about her day,” I offer weakly. “You heard her chattering away. She had a lot of fun today, so ... thank you, for that.” I ramble like a fool, trying not to look down at her dress, or focus on the way her thighs are exposed. “What did you want to talk to me about?”
“It’s Brooke.”
My sexy thoughts disintegrate.
“Brooke?” I lean forward, my attention sharp.
“She asked about her mommy. She wanted to know where she is. I didn’t know how to answer that, so I wanted to check with you. What does she know?”
I stiffen, trying to mask my reaction. Brooke’s questions have been more frequent lately, and it’s become increasingly difficult for me to answer. She wants to know if she can ever have a mommy again.
“I told her that her mommy has gone to heaven,” I tell Cari.
“I don’t know what I’m allowed to say. What do you want me to tell her?” Cari gives me that look, the one that cuts through my defenses.
“Just reiterate what I’ve told you. Tell her that her mommy is in heaven and looking down on her.”
“And what if she—”
“I don’t want to talk about it, Cari,” I growl. I can’t talk about my dead wife. I can’t have a conversation with Cari about my personal hell, about my past, about her. Especially not when she’s dressed like that and staring at me with her bedroom eyes. “You’re very good with Brooke,” I say, not wanting to sour the mood. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for her, and not just the little things. The thoughtful things, like fixing her elephant, you’re just so good all around. You’re the best nanny she’s ever had.”
“I’m not her nanny, Jett. I’m your PA, and I’m helping out because you needed me to.”
Fuck. The lines in my brain blur when it comes to Cari. “Of course you aren’t her nanny. I’m not thinking straight.”
Her gaze drops to my lips. “Why this dress? Haven’t you already seen enough of me?”
My throat is so parched, it’s like I’ve poured sand into it. I can’t give her an answer.
“You were testing me.” Her eyes darken as she whispers, “Did I pass?” Her voice is so low, I have to lean towards her to hear her words.
“With flying colors.”
She watches me closely, her breathing shallow. I try not to look at the quick rise and fall of her chest. “Is something wrong?”
I reach over for the whiskey decanter and pour myself another drink. “The truth is, Cari ... you’re the one bothering me.”
Her eyes widen, and her lips part in surprise. “Me?”
I have to tell her. This might be my only chance. “I think of you in ways I shouldn’t.”
Her eyes turn darker. Her mouth falls open. Fucking hell. That delectable, delicious mouth. In my private moments, I have jerked off to thoughts of that mouth. The things I want to do to her, if she’d let me.
Her tongue flicks out nervously. “Th-that’s because you’re here, without Alicia—”
“We broke up,” I grind out. I hate that she’s so fixated on my ex-girlfriend. “She’s history. Do not talk about her. Ever .”
She shrinks back. “Then it’s … because you’re lonely out here—”
She couldn’t be more wrong. “It’s not because I’m here. It’s not because I’m single. I’ve been thinking of you for a while now.”
The whiskey has loosened my tongue, removed my filters. I see the shock on her face.
“Thinking of me? ” she asks, weakly.
It’s now or never. Three glasses of whiskey, or maybe four, have given me courage. “In ways I shouldn’t be thinking of my PA.”
She frowns. Then looks down at her dress quickly before her gaze snaps to mine. As if clarity has suddenly dawned. “Is that why you asked me to come here with you? To Bermuda? Did you plan this?”
My insides feel like they’ve emptied. She’s shocked. Worse, she’s disgusted. I panic. “No! I swear. I didn’t plan anything. I didn’t want you to come here. I shouldn't have asked you to. I knew it was wrong, but Anna let me down, and if she hadn't, I wouldn't be in this impossible situation. You’re the last person I wanted to come here with.”
Hurt fills her eyes. I move closer, needing to explain. “It’s dangerous—you being near me. Me being near you, away from the office where it’s easier to push you away.Where I have a million other distractions. I think of you in ways I shouldn’t, Cari, and that’s why you’re the last person who should be here with me.”
She looks stunned. As if I’ve announced life-changing news—like she’s won a lottery ticket.
A range of emotions cross her face, giving me time to examine her features. Her russet-colored eyes, the light freckles on her nose and cheeks. Her luscious lips, and tiny upturned nose. Her pale, iridescent skin with a dewy sheen. Her rich auburn mane, thrown up into a loose bun, wisps framing her face. She’s smart, sexy, sassy, beautiful, and has a heart of gold. Everything about her is perfect. Why did it take me so long to realize that Cari Summers is the whole deal?
“You really think of me like that?” she whispers. I can’t tell if she’s shocked or scared, if she feels trapped. I don’t want her to feel any of these things.
Once again, the tiny voice of reason screams in my head. What the hell are you doing?
She deserves an answer, and now’s my only chance. “You have no idea,” I tell her, leaning in towards her just a little. “I feel like a dirty old man and this is wrong on so many levels, but you … you in that dress is an image I’ll take to the grave with me. But—” I set my whiskey tumbler down.
She’s much more than that.
I clasp my hands together in case I can’t hold back, and I’m already so desperate to touch her. “There is so much about you that I admire. You're not just my PA, Cari. You're not just a beautiful woman. You keep me grounded. You keep me in line. I love your smile and your infectious laughter—which I miss, because it’s been a while since I last heard it—though I understand why. I love your heart, and how you care. How you are around people. How you are around Brooke. Unlike me, you're not scared to feel your emotions. You don't hide anything. You’re not afraid to feel everything, and you wear your emotions on your sleeve. I can often tell how you're feeling just by looking at you.” I close my mouth, fearing that I've said too much. Gushed like a sappy teen. This woman unravels me in a way that is unfamiliar and uneasy for me.
“Jett.” She looks at me strangely. A faraway expression in her eyes. “Are you … playing games with me? Is this some sick joke?” Her voice is all choked up.
Damn. I’ve offended her. She’ll sue me for harassment. I’m not thinking. This constant hard-on I seem to have all the time has affected my brain. “Don’t hate me for this,” I beg, feeling like I’ve lost her. She’s revolted by my confession, knowing I can’t take back what I’ve just revealed. I panic, not knowing why I’ve done this, not knowing what happens next. “But … it’s not a sick joke. I thought I could handle being here with you, but I can’t. You do all sorts of crazy things to me, and you don’t even know.”
She chews her lip as if she’s contemplating things. “I've been thinking about you, too, Mr. Knight. For the longest time.”
“What?” I can’t believe what she’s just said. “What did you say?”
“I’ve been thinking about you for the longest time. I can’t even remember when it started. During my interview. A few days in. A few months in.” She shakes her head. “I don’t know the exact date, but it’s gotten worse with time, this affliction I have.”
My cock grows even harder, and I didn’t think that was possible.
“Affliction?” I don’t like the word she used.
“You asked me why I’m leaving. That’s why. It drives me insane watching you with your many girlfriends. Watching you take them to dinners, having me book your restaurants and vacations, picking up the sexy lingerie and trinkets for them.”
I’ll be damned. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” I want to believe her. Cari doesn’t lie, which means she’s telling the truth, but this … this is unreal. I never, ever in my wildest dreams suspected this. She’s snarky and direct with me. Up until a few months ago I thought she hated me. But recently, there have been moments when she’s looked at me, that made me think perhaps this isn’t just in my head.
“I can't work for you anymore, Mr. Knight. I have this stupid … stupid crush on you.” She squeezes her eyes shut, then opens them again, and looks directly at me. “It’s gotten worse since my mom died, and I can’t take it anymore.”
This news is music to my ears. It’s a breathtaking, astonishing reveal that has the potential to ruin me or make me deliriously happy.
“You’re not playing games with me?” I ask, disbelief sweeping over me. I have money and power, neither of which she cares for. She’s young and beautiful, but she's intelligent and kind, even when I've been impossible to be around. She's also resilient and funny, and she has so much going for her, whereas I'm just a cynical and jaded bastard.
What does she want with someone like me? I’m older. I have a child. I have a ton of baggage, and I’ve been an absolute pig to her. It would be wrong of me to tarnish her with my darkness. She deserves someone as amazing as she is.
“What do we do now?” She bites her lip, and tries to lift up the flimsy fabric to cover her exposed thighs.
I don’t know. I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with this news. “What do you want to do?”
She puts a hand to her hair and takes out her clip. I watch in awe, my pulse starts to race as her hair tumbles down and falls like gossamer around her shoulders. I gaze at her in dumbstruck adoration.
I pushed her out of my thoughts, I barked orders at her, and did everything I could to keep her at bay. And I succeeded, but it’s only now that I have unfettered access to her. Now that she’s in my space, inches from me, I can sit and freely observe her features. I can take my time with every curve and dip of her body.
And I love what I see.
There’s still a trace of Cari Summers, my PA, in the woman I see before me, but she is now a vixen. She’s strong, bold, and unafraid, and she drips with sex appeal.
I want her so badly.
My eyes trail down her body, inch by inch, as if I’m discovering her for the first time, and she catches me.
“I excite you,” I say, peering at her nipples which stick out like bullets beneath the dress. Fuck.
Instinctively moving my stool closer, I reach for her, wanting to touch her, but I resist and lay my hand on the countertop instead. My cock is so hard it's getting painful.
“You do that a lot, lately,” she answers, shifting on her stool, her eyes lowered. It’s the first sign that she’s playing a part. Confident on the outside, yet deep down, she’s nervous.
We’re sitting so close, I can smell her perfume—light and flowery. A scent I have come to know. A scent that excites me.
“God, you are so beautiful, Cari.” My eyes trail down to her shoulders, and I imagine untying those delicate bows. I want so much to slip my hand inside her dress and cup her breasts, but miraculously I manage to resist that, too.
“I want to touch you,” I say, because I am steel hard with need.
Her eyes meet mine. “Then touch me.”
Fuck.
My hand trembles as I tentatively reach out and cup her breast gently over the fabric, sliding my thumb lightly over it. Her nipple peaks even more. A low growl rolls in my throat. I’ve never had to exercise such restraint before.
This is torture, touching her like this. Her dress gapes apart at the slit, exposing her thighs again. My mind is a riot of confusion as debauched thoughts fly around in my head. Her mouth falls open. She’s enjoying this as much as I am, and so far she hasn’t asked me to stop. So I keep stroking her, hissing out a sigh, enjoying this first touch and taking pleasure in observing her reaction.
Maybe she wasn’t fucking with me.
Maybe she meant what she said.
This wasn’t just all in my head.
Is she as wet as I am hard? I’m tempted to touch her there and find out. I move my hand to her other breast, giving it the same careful attention. She’s so perfect, in every way. Her nipple hardens even more, and I fight the urge to claim it with my mouth. I want to suck her hard, drawing it out to a higher peak, but I don’t. I can’t. I won’t. And it’s slowly killing me.
“You're a breast man, and I’m really small.” She closes her eyes, as if she’s ashamed to look at me.
Her words break the magic spell and my hand stills. I pull back. A breast man? She’s so astute. I don’t have an answer for her because I can’t think straight. “What makes you think I'm a breast man?”
“Because your girlfriends are all gorgeous, and ... busty.”
“I don't go looking for women who have big breasts—”
“It’s just an observation.” Her voice is low, rushed, breathless. Sultry, sensual energy tension whizzes between us, making me hot and sweaty. “You’ve been paying close attention to the women I’ve dated.” I shift a little closer, and she doesn't move back. She seems comfortable, and that reassures me.
“Hard not to when you have me arranging your vacations and dinner reservations. Not to mention the–”
“Okay. Enough about that.” I don’t need her to rub my face in it. I know what an ass I’ve been. “I’ve been a difficult boss.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
“But I’ve tried to do the right thing when I can.”
“Meaning?” She peers up at me.
She won’t know, can’t ever find out, that I paid towards her mother’s medical expenses. Or that I pulled strings to get her on the clinical trial. It was no easy feat. I also contributed toward the funeral, told the undertaker to give Cari a reduced price. I paid for her bereavement counselling. I’ve given her perks and bonuses and pay raises, even when they weren’t due.
“I’d rather not talk about the women I’ve dated,” I say, letting her think it’s about that. But I see a pattern. ? I met Dina at an art gallery in Manhattan. Voluptuous and beautiful, she caught my eye as I people-watched, bored out of my brains. I met Alicia at a bar one evening, when my Vanhelm deal was sapping my strength. She was there, having just finished a court case. She had beauty and brains, and I don’t recall ever looking at the size of her breasts but … now that I think about it, Cari isn’t wrong.
I reach out and take a strand of her gorgeous red hair, feeling the texture beneath my fingers. Silky and soft, it glistens under the hanging Tiffany bar lights. “I don't go seeking women who have certain attributes, at least I didn't think I did, but—” My eyes instinctively dip to her chest before meeting her eyes again, “… it would appear that I’ve been fickle. You’re not like that, Cari.”
She looks affronted and with a toss of her hand moves her hair out of my fingers.
“You’re different.” I grab her wrist gently because I don’t want her to leave. “You’re different, Cari. I love— admire , I admire everything about you,” I say quickly. “But it's your personality and your wit, and the way you stand up to me, that makes you stand out.” I soften my hold on her.
She stares at me in silence, as if she’s trying to decide if she believes me or not. I’m such a hypocrite. I couldn't stand to see her talking to that boy-man, and the thought of her being at a pool party with him filled me with rage. It was whiskey that dulled my senses.
The reason for her wanting to leave pierces me like a blade. Seeing the things I’d get her to do for me that were not related to work, the errands I'd send her on—my own way of pushing her away—must been torture for her, given her confession.
“I'm sorry I did that to you,” I continue. “But I did it to create a barrier between us. I did it for me , and I hate that I hurt you.” I thumb her lower lip, the one she often chews without realizing, making me focus my attention on her mouth. She jolts under my touch. “This is new and unexpected, this revelation that you have feelings for me.”
In the silence, we eye one another warily. I can scarcely believe what she’s told me, and my hand moves to cup her face gently. Her skin is soft and warm, and lays against the palm of my hand as if it belongs there. I have imagined this moment for a long time, and now it feels like a dream from which I don't want to awaken.
She hasn’t said a word, but she also doesn’t stop me from touching her. “Whatever happened to that ... to that …” I have trouble asking the question. “That ... guy who used to come and meet you after work?” I move my hand away, and rest it on the countertop.
Just the thought of her with someone else is hard for me to take. Hard for me to even say. And yet, she's had to see me with my girlfriends. I have so much to do to make it up to her.
“Rory?” She looks away. “I broke up with him when my mom was sick. He wasn't there for me during that time. He seemed to think we could continue going to dinners and going on dates, and ... for him, life continued as normal.” She sighs. “I didn’t need him in my life.”
“He let you down?”
She looks up at me. “In more ways than I can count.”
What a loser. He had someone so precious and didn’t value her. To think that when she was going through that tough time, the one guy who should have known better had failed her. It pains me to think of her alone then, though I did what I could to help.
“I didn’t have time for anyone but my mom back then,” she continues. “I needed Rory to be my rock, my safe place, and he wasn’t. The last thing I needed was for someone to irritate me. You know how I can’t put up with nonsense.”
That's my Cari. I smile at her, and she smiles back. “You put up with me,” I say, wanting to take her mind away from her past.
“You were a challenge. And with you, it wasn’t nonsense.” She leans towards me now, and I shift closer. We're a tangle of legs, and I don’t know how it happened, but her knee is between my legs and my knee between hers. The problem is, her thighs are exposed and it takes all my willpower to not lay my hands on them, to not dip my head a few inches closer and plant a kiss on her lips.
I keep my wits around me, lifting my whiskey tumbler, and taking a big sip. “A challenge, huh?” Though, I know I was more than that, I'm sure. A moody, miserable asshole.
“You kept me on my toes. I didn't want to get anything wrong when I was working for you, but I messed up with the Vanhelm deal.”
I hate when she refers to it in the past tense. “You never got anything wrong, and the Vanhelm deal? Well, I was despicable. And you fixed everything, despite it being under the most difficult of circumstances. You're the best assistant I've ever had, and you’re still working for me now.”
“Is that what this is?” she asks, innocently, before resting her hands on my knees. My body responds, like she touched me with a hot poker. I almost flinch, but I stay strong and try not do anything hasty. She looks at me as if she's daring me to make a move.
I set my whiskey glass down and give in to my desire. I place my hands on her thighs and can’t help but hiss. Her skin is silky, and soft, and my fingers gently move over her. Fuck. My head drops to my chest, and I inhale a deep breath feeling my cock stiffen some more.
“You're ... uh ...” she whispers.
I lift my head to see her eyes on my package. The flimsy loungewear fabric hides nothing, and my erection looks huge.
“That’s all you,” I whisper. “You do that to me. I’ve been hard most of the time you're around, and if that sounds vulgar and disgusting—”
“I like it. I like that I do that to you.” But her hands remain fixed on my knees, as if she can’t trust herself to move them higher. My fingers, on the other hand, continue to trace over her skin, moving slowly towards her inner thighs.
Our gazes never drift. “You make me so hard that I need to take care of myself every night before I go to bed.”
Her mouth falls open, and she chews her lower lip.
Fuck. There she goes, doing that again.
“Are you wet?” I ask, my voice raspy with need. “I bet you are.”
“Drenched.” Her hooded eyes turn darker. “Feel for yourself,” she dares me, before closing her eyes and anticipating my next move.
I let out a groan, my hands stilling on her skin as I contemplate her request. But I pull back, because even in my addled state, I know I can’t go there—to that place in my mind's eye, where my face is planted between her legs, my tongue lapping up her juices ...
“You should go to bed, before I do something I’ll regret,” I say.
Her eyes fly open, her lids shuttering as if she doesn’t understand. The words don’t match the mood, or the longing in our bodies. She looks pained. It hurts my heart when she slides off the stool and rushes out of the room.