My face heats at the memory … the thick outline of his cock against the soft material. He had a massive erection, and I stared at it in fascination until the next wave of nausea hit.
When the dry heaves finally stopped, my head felt much clearer. Jackson brought me a cold bottled water, and I drank greedily. He stood in the bathroom doorway while I brushed my teeth, one hand pressed on the vanity to steady myself. Jackson helped me back to bed, rearranging the sheets and blankets before I slid in. The man even went so far as to place a garbage can beside my bed and then got me a hair tie to put my hair up in case I had to throw up again.
While he did those things for me, I could not stop thinking about his erection. I didn’t have the guts to look there again, but that didn’t really matter because the image of it was burned into my brain. Even long after he went back to his room, the door open so he could hear in case I got sick again, I couldn’t stop thinking about his cock.
And what he could do with that thing.
I knew, just knew, it would be all kinds of wonderful.
With a man like Jackson Gale.
As I sit here on this plane en route to the States, I can barely bring myself to look at him. What does it say about me that I’m not moved by how he took care of me, but rather the size of his dick? How come the image of him putting the garbage can by my bed isn’t what’s making my skin tingle, but rather the thick ridge of his shaft pressed against the gray cotton?
What in the hell is wrong with me?
When I woke up this morning, nauseated and feeling like someone had run me over with a tank, all I could think about was that damn hard-on.
And then all I could think about was there had to be something seriously wrong with me since that was all I could think about.
I’m actually embarrassed for myself.
Horrified, actually.
How could a man—an employee, really—affect me that way? Am I still under the influence of alcohol? Did I poison my brain?
I bow my head and massage my temples, my headache increasing, and I know it has nothing to do with the hangover.
“Are you okay?”
My head pops up to find Jackson looking down at me. My face warms and I swallow past my nervousness to mutter, “I’m good.”
I avert my gaze, looking out the window. It’s pitch-black over the Atlantic, and there’s nothing to look at, so it’s a clear avoidance tactic, which is also humiliating.
But at least I’m not staring at Jackson. I’m terrified he might see the shame on my face and know exactly where my thoughts were. Can a man know that just by a woman’s expression?
I expect Jackson to walk back up to the front of the plane. Instead, he slides into the seat next to me, and I have to force myself not to shrink away from him. And the only reason I want to shrink away is because my gut instinct is to snuggle into him.
What the fuck is wrong with you, Camille?
“Hey,” Jackson says to get my attention, and I’m forced to look at him. “You embarrassed about last night?”
In all the times in my life where I’d baked a little too long on the shores of the Coral Sea—those times I forgot to use sunscreen and came home with a horrible sunburn—I have never felt my skin heat to the degree it is now. I imagine my cheeks blistering. There’s no doubt they’re red, and it’s obvious I am indeed abashed.
My voice is actually squeaky. “Embarrassed about what?”
Jackson tilts his head sympathetically. He leans into me and lowers his voice, even though we’re sitting too far away from anyone to be overheard. “About throwing up last night. Falling out of bed. Basically being a sloppy drunk.”
He says that last part with a grin, teasing me past my shame.
I hate to say… it works.
It makes me giggle. My eyes come back up to his, and I hope he can see the apology within. “I am so sorry you had to see that. I’m so sorry you had to hold my hair and see me vomit and smell it and then help me—”
“Stop,” Jackson chides gently. “We’ve all been there. And your secret is safe with me. You don’t need to be embarrassed about it.”
I may have been a wee bit mortified about him watching me vomit, but I’m past that now with his gentle teasing.
Still totally ashamed that I’m quite obsessed with what’s between his legs. But I have to hope that will go away. How long can one obsess about a dick?