9. Jackson
JACKSON
We travel to Las Vegas a few days later so he can meet with a hotel there to prepare for his upcoming concert.
On the flight, my brain taunts me, replaying those lines from when we were in the hotel doorway.
That moment.
Then my traitorous mind takes a few more steps, teasing me with images of what it’d be like if I had one night with him the way I want.
I grit my teeth, trying to get him out of my head.
I need to. My God, do I ever need to.
The resistance cause is not helped when Stone has a lunch meeting with his friend Callum a few days later. Before he walks into the restaurant, he winks at me and says, “Bye, handsome.”
It’s almost like he’s messing with me.
And I like it.
Too much for my own good.
When he finishes a late-night radio interview the next evening, we leave the station together, and I open the limo door for him, as I always do.
I expect him to slide in right away, but someone calls his name.
My gaze snaps in the direction of the voice, my radar going off.
But it’s a photographer he knows.
Stone flashes a smile at the guy against the backdrop of the Vegas neon. As he’s standing right next to me, his body shifts closer to me than he usually is.
I catch my breath, inhaling his ocean breeze scent, the hint of a moan daring to escape my throat. I bite it back, then curse myself silently.
I hope he didn’t hear that hitch in my breath.
After he smiles for the shot, he looks at me, his face dangerously near mine. “You okay?”
“I’m great,” I rasp, wishing he weren’t so close, wishing I didn’t want to bend closer, slide a hand around the back of his head, and haul him in for a deep, possessive kiss.
Taste his lips.
Explore his mouth.
Feel him slam his body against mine as we consume each other.
“Are you sure?”
I lie my ass off when I say, “I’m positive.”
Because I am not okay.
I am on fire.
I am burning up with too much lust, too much want.
I’ll need to find an industrial-strength fire extinguisher at this rate.
Especially when he slides into the car and asks, “What’s your story?”
Asks it like we’re on a date. Like we’re checking each other out. Letting down our guards. Testing out possibilities.
My story.
I don’t want to tell him. I don’t want him to know.
My story is that I’ve been in love a couple of times. Once madly, deeply. And it ended terribly.
My story is that I love my family, I love my job, and I can’t risk losing it.
My story is that I’m wildly attracted to my boss.
My story is that four months working with him hasn’t dampened this attraction.
It’s only intensified it.
I don’t tell him those private details. But I serve up a wafer-thin slice of it on the quick ride to the hotel, hoping it’ll throw him off the scent of my desire. “I went to college, earned a degree, served my country in the Marines, and became a bodyguard. That’s it. That’s my story.”
“Nothing more to it?” he asks, like he’s angling for something else, a nugget, a delicious detail.
“Nothing that interesting,” I say as we pull into the hotel.
“I bet there’s a lot more to you than you let on.”
“Nope. I swear there’s not.”
“I don’t believe you,” he says when we get out of the car and head into the casino.
“You should.” I tug at my shirt collar.
I’m too damn hot.
I’m burning up being near him.
Even the air-conditioning in The Extravagant Hotel can’t cool me off.
But I’ve got a job to do, and I narrow in on that, my focus solely on the client, not the man.
I scan the casino, keeping my eyes peeled for threats, staying one step ahead of anything and everything, doing my damnedest to see Stone as the client.
Only ever as the client.
Like that, we make it through a sea of poker tables and slot machines, and past the high rollers lounge. We sail by Speakeasy, a 1920s-style bar, then past more gamblers, partiers, and revelers.
Until finally we near the elevator banks.
Usually the ones at this end of the hotel aren’t that crowded, and I’m grateful that’s the case tonight.
Means we can get into the elevator and reach the penthouse quickly.
Less time with him is precisely what I need. A glance at my watch as I stab the up button and punch in the code for his floor tells me it’s nearing midnight.
Ten more minutes.
Then I can get a break from him.
A break from all this desire.
I swallow, draw a breath, and stare at the elevator lights as they indicate its descent to the lobby where we wait.
Five floors, four, three.
“Hey! Look. We made it just in time,” a woman shouts as she jogs over. A pack of women follow her—a whole damn crowd.
Stone raises an eyebrow. Wedding party? he mouths.
But they look too young, and there are too many of them.
One of the women sports a diamond tennis bracelet, another a platinum necklace with the name Madison on it.
Rich college girls , I mouth.
He taps his nose. Bingo.
Maybe this is better. Maybe we won’t be alone at this time when I need space.
The elevator arrives, and we pour in.
All of us.
Stone and I squeeze into the corner, and the eight or so women smoosh in after us.
Then a few more call out, waving arms, smiling brightly, commanding the rest of their tribe to wait up.
A dozen women have sardined themselves into the elevator.
They press up against each other, giggling, laughing.
And I’m closer to Stone than I’m used to.
And that’s saying something, because I’m usually pretty damn close to him.
But it’s packed, and his arm is right up against my arm. He’s so close I can smell the scent of his hair. He meets my gaze, looks at the others, then back at me. “Elevator or stairs?” he says in a whisper.
This time, I grin. “You know my preference, and right now, stairs sound good.”
“Stairs sound really good,” he says, his voice low and heated.
Then there’s a shriek as the doors close.
“Stone!” The first woman, the leader of the pack, shouts it.
He smiles. “That’s me.”
“Oh my God, can we take a picture?”
Not like he has much choice.
“Abso-fucking-lutely,” he says, and the women are like cheerleaders getting into formation.
One, two, three.
The dozen of them back up, pressing against us, faces to the screen, Stone in the middle, being the tallest of them, as they snap selfie after selfie.
One of the women jumps up and down. “I love your music sooooo much,” she shrieks.
And the elevator stops.
Grinds to a halt.
The crunch of cables, of metal against metal, clangs in my ears. The lights flicker, then go off.
All my instincts tell me to do one thing.
Protect my client.
I wrap an arm around his shoulders, keeping him close, his hip wedged against mine. His phone is in the front pocket of my shirt, right next to my own.
“What’s going to happen?” a woman cries.
“Just stay calm. Everything will be fine,” I say, since no one gets stuck on an elevator forever.
But the woman doesn’t like that answer. She stabs at the service button fifty times.
“But what if something has happened?” she wails, grabbing one of her friend’s shoulders, jostling a couple of the women.
It pushes them closer to us, and pushes me a little more behind Stone.
We’re not hip to hip anymore. More like my crotch is against his ass.
Great. Fucking great.
“I’ll just sing you all a song,” Stone says in that charismatic, winning tone that’s part and parcel of why he’s famous.
“Ohh, do ‘Bedroom Eyes.’”
He launches into an a cappella version of it, peeling off a couple verses.
Verses where I’m still pressed against him.
Where I catch the scent of his hair, so enticing. Where my hand is on his arm, so firm.
Where I’m on alert in the dark, making sure no one tries to hurt him.
Where I once more attempt to fight off the desire.
When he hits the chorus, the lights flicker, the metal clangs, and the elevator goes bright again.
It moves.
“Yay! Stone fixed the elevator,” a woman shouts.
I breathe a sigh of relief, but we’re still crunched together, all of us, and it’s almost too much for me to take.
This closeness. This contact.
Then, the car slows and stops, and the women pour out, waving, blowing kisses, telling him they love him.
“I love you too,” he says, waving to them.
When the doors slide shut again, he lets out a long breath, takes a step closer toward the doors, then locks eyes with me as we shoot up to the penthouse level.
His green eyes are blazing, hotter than I’ve ever seen them, reminding me of the VIP room. “How about now?” His voice is husky, smoky. Is it from the impromptu singing? Or something else? “Elevator or stairs?”
The way I felt earlier in the hotel? It’s nothing compared to now. I am broiling.
I shouldn’t answer him. I know I shouldn’t.
But I do it anyway.
“Elevator,” I rasp out, and it feels like the riskiest thing I’ve ever said. It almost feels like I’m admitting something to him.
But I can’t. And I won’t.
“Yeah, I’m digging the elevator too,” he says, his eyes staying pinned on mine. Just like that night.
The problem is I’m pretty sure I look back at him the same damn way.
I’ve got to get my shit together.
When we reach his floor, I am all business.
I walk him to his room and say good night, vowing to get him out of my mind once and for all.
Trouble is, once I’m back in my room, that’s easier said than done, because he’s all I can think about.
And I decide to give in just one time.