Jaxon #3
“Told you.” She gloats with a little shrug, looking too damn proud of herself. “See you upstairs.”
She turns and heads out of the kitchen, and I watch her leave.
Completely. Utterly. Shameless.
Man, I hate to see her go but I love to watch her leave.
When I finish eating, I clean up the kitchen, then head to the foyer and up the stairs.
A faint light spills out from a room at the end of the hall, and as soon as I make it into the doorway, I lean against the door frame, content to watch her.
My thoughts, filled with all the ways we could mess up that freshly made bed. She has no idea what she does to me.
She leans over the bed, stretching to grab a pillow for a pillowcase, her robe sitting dangerously, only about an inch under her ass, barely holding on for dear life. I swear if she breathes too hard it’ll slip, making me the happiest man.
She finishes fluffing the last pillow, and when she turns around, her face is lit with a wide grin—until she sees me.
Her eyes go wide, her hand flying to her chest. “Oh my gosh, Mr. Knox. I didn’t even hear you! How long have you been standing there?”
“Two, maybe four—” I let the words hang, my gaze locked on hers.
“Seconds,” she finishes, clearly relieved.
“Minutes,” I whisper. Her hands tug at the edges of her robe, a nervous little gesture that’s so damn adorable it makes my chest ache.
She stands there, frozen for a beat too long, until my eyes drop to her lips. That’s when she snaps out of it, gathering her composure and scurrying into the adjoining bathroom like a flustered rabbit.
I smirk, pushing off the doorframe.
“Yes, well,” she claps her hands together, her tone brisk, “I’ve fully stocked the bathroom for you.
The linens are in here.” She opens a small closet adjacent to the bathroom door, her movements quick, purposeful.
I watch her, letting my gaze trace her every move, soaking up every syllable that falls from her lips.
“Toiletries are down here,” she continues, gesturing to the cabinet underneath the sink. She bends slightly. A flicker of hesitation etches across her face as she taps a finger on the door. Cute.
She brushes past me, careful to avoid contact.
But her scent lingers—something dark, edible, and intoxicating—as she disappears into the walk-in closet on the other side of the room.
“If you get cold, there are extra blankets right here.” She points to a shelf just above her head, her fingers grazing the edge.
“Okay,” she says, her voice higher than usual, “I’ll leave you to it. If you need anything, I’m two doors down.” Then she bolts, practically sprinting out of the room, the door slamming shut behind her.
I chuckle to myself as I set my duffle bag down, and I head to the shower.
I turn on the shower, the steam curling around the bathroom, and fogging up the mirror.
As I step in, the hot water beats down on me, washing the day from my body, but not the thoughts of her from my mind.
I can still see her fidgety, still hear the nervous cadence in her voice.
Afterward, I collapse into the hotel-grade bed she’s meticulously made, stacking pillows behind me as I settle in with a book. The sheets smell faintly of lavender, and for a moment, I let myself relax.
A few moments later, a soft knock breaks solitude .
“Come in,” I call, setting the book down on my lap.
The door creaks open, and she peeks inside, curly hair framing those big, brown doe eyes. Then she steps in, a vision in silk shorts and an oversize T-shirt, Army Wife stamped on the front. I can’t lie, it makes me chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, tilting her head.
“Nothing,” I say, shaking mine as I pull my glasses off and set them on the nightstand. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to make sure you’re settling in okay… and I also wanted to thank you for the kitchen.”
“No thanks necessary,” I reply, my voice dropping. “It was the least I could do after a five-star meal.”
Her smile widens, and damn if it doesn’t hit me like a sucker punch. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Mr. Knox,” she teases, her tone lilting. But there’s an edge to it, something suggestive she probably didn’t mean to let slip.
“Yeah?” I ask, arching a brow, giving her a grin that’s all teeth and mischief. “How much of everywhere are we talking?”
“Within reason.” She rolls her eyes, a small, defiant tilt to her chin. “What are you reading?” She gestures to the book in my hand, clearly trying to shift the focus as she lets herself move closer.
“Today? Macbeth,” I reply, my thumb brushing the edge of the pages. Truth be told, I like the classics, and this is one of my many re-reads since middle school.
“Were you reading something different yesterday?” she asks, her voice lighter now as she swings lazily off one of the bedposts of the four-poster bed.
I nod.
“What yesterday?”
“I’m working my way through the Seven Military Classics of China.”
“Huh,” she murmurs, her brows furrowing thoughtfully.
“What?”
“Just… never pegged you for a Macbeth kind of guy. Military strategy? Sure. But Macbeth? Shocker.”
“Well,” I say, smirking, “Macbeth is a military strategy book when you think about it.”
Her left brow lifts, intrigued. “How so?”
I extend an inviting hand toward her, palm up. “Come here.”
She hesitates for a beat—I almost think she won’t.
Then, slowly, she slips her hand into mine, her delicate fingers threading through with quiet certainty.
The moment stretches, taut and electric, until my chest tightens and a current jolts through me.
Every time she touches me, I swear I’m one breath away from passing out.
I nudge my head toward the bed, pushing my luck, but she crawls over my legs and sits right next to me. If I say I didn’t watch the way her shorts shifted, giving me a little peak of her perfect ass, I’d be a liar.
Once she’s settled—legs tucked neatly beneath her, resting against the pillows beside me—I drag my head out of the gutter and continue.
“Macbeth illustrates—through Macbeth’s choices—that a ruler shouldn’t let unchecked ambition take over, abandon moral values, betray trust, or use violence as a crutch to maintain power.
” My voice drops as I glance down at her.
“His descent into tyranny and corruption serves as a cautionary tale of the consequences of those actions.”
“So basically, a guide on what not to do with power and authority?” she asks, her tone thoughtful as she twists a loose curl around her finger. If divinity wore skin, it would look like her.
“Exactly.”
Her gaze sharpens, curious. “So why do you read strategy and military books?”
I chuckle, shaking my head. “I might not be a king, but I run a large entity with a lot of moving parts—different minds, different personalities. It’s about being the right person for the job, not just wielding power for power’s sake.”
She peers up at me, her eyes sparkling with something soft and dangerous, admiration. Adoration.
“Don’t… don’t do that.”
She looks up at me with puppy eyes. “Do what?”
“Look at me like I’m some kind of champion who spends their days saving damsels in distress.” A look like that will do me in, a look like that makes me want to tear her to shreds— fuck my decades-long friendship with her brother and her morals.
“But you do spend your days protecting people. And you are a good guy,” she says, her voice rising as she props herself up on one arm, her body tense with challenge, like she’s ready to fight me over this.
“I do it because I get paid to.”
“No, you do it because it means something to you.” She says, her soft eyes peering up at me. “I’ve heard you on the phone with your team, combing over plans. Over and over again. You can’t fool me. You aren’t the brooding asshole you want everyone to think you are.”
I can’t help the slow smirk that spreads across my face. “I’d be happy to disprove that theory.”
Her brows draw together, a perfect little furrow of confusion. “How?”
Hooking my index finger right in the collar of that Army Wife shirt, I yank her down to my lips. My other hand slides to the back of her neck, gripping firmly, holding her exactly where I want her, even as she tries to squirm away.
As my tongue traces her bottom lip, and she lets out a gasp—a sweet, startled sound I don’t hesitate to take advantage of. I press deeper as I massage her tongue with mine, coaxing a moan out of her.
Her taste is intoxicating, something I could drown in if I’m not careful. But I want her breathless. I want her to tremble. I want this moment seared into her mind, a reminder for every time she thinks about just how good I am.
My hand drops to her hip, and with one fluid motion, I lift her on top of me. Before she can catch her breath, I use my thighs to part her legs, allowing her to straddle me.
My grip tightens at her waist, and I grind her down against my cock, the friction just enough to draw a whimper from her lips. That sound is all I need to spur me on. Slowly, deliberately, dragging her against me in a rhythm that has her body shuddering.
“Oh, shit,” she breathes, her voice muffled against my lips. Her tremors are wild, unrestrained, and I feel every one of them. Her hair tie gives out, and her raven curls tumble loose, messy and untamed, framing her face like a wicked goddess. She looks filthy. Perfect. Mine.
I fist her curls, pulling her head back and baring her neck to me. And as my teeth sink into her soft, sweet skin, she gasps again. Tracing my tongue along the same spot, I savor the potent taste of her.
“Please…” she moans, her voice shaking.
I pull back, licking the darkening mark I’ve left. “My Reina says please…” My voice is low, taunting. “Please, what?”
“Don’t stop,” she whispers, her desperation slicing through me.
Her wish is my fucking command.