And there was a moment before I left when she stared at my crotch. I was oddly fascinated at first, seeing almost a dreamy look on her face as she stared straight at where my dick was softly nestled behind worn denim. And then her expression morphed, and I swear a hungry look took over. If given the opportunity, I’m pretty sure she could’ve eaten me up right then and there.
It was weird and thrilling at the same time, and I’m lucky I didn’t develop a hard-on in response to the way she looked at me. I had to cough to break whatever spell she was under, and then that look on her face disappeared. She was clearly embarrassed, so I left it alone, not wanting to make it worse for her.
But … there was something there.
Attraction, for sure.
I know because whatever was on her face, I feel that same swirl of desire within me. Ever since that sex dream, I’ve felt it a lot.
Fuck, I’m a mess because I think I’m reading this right. I get the sense if I were to try something, she’d jump on it.
The question is, if she were to try something with me, would I jump?
I’m on the job. I shouldn’t, yet here I am wondering about it.
I’ve never made a move on a client, and I’ve protected plenty of gorgeous women over the years at Jameson. I’ve had some of them come on to me and offer up the goods in exchange for nothing more than a hot night of mutual pleasure. While incredibly tempting, I’ve never wanted to take the offer because my job and duties are more important.
What does it say about me that in my most protective role ever—for a royal princess—that I’m considering possibilities?
If Kynan knew what was going on in my brain, he’d shoot me. If he knew it had already extended to my dick, he’d strangle me, then shoot me.
Fuck if I’m not tempted, though, and only because I’m sure she’s on the same page, and I’ve never been attracted to someone the way I am to Camille.
Christ, I’m an asshole. I need to let this go.
My phone rings, interrupting such complex thoughts I actually jolt. I recognize my mom’s ring tone, though, so without hesitation, I reach over to answer.
“Hey, hot stuff, what’s up?” I ask, knowing it will make my mom giggle.
Instead, she says my name—Jackson—and the hair stands on the back of my neck.
“What’s wrong?” I demand in a low voice, coming up off the bed.
“It’s your dad,” she says softly. “He’s had another heart attack. We’re at the emergency room now, but they’re going to admit him and do a catheterization.”
“Going to try to place another stent?” I ask. That’s what they did last time.
“Maybe,” she murmurs. “If they can. But if the blockage is too great, they might have to do bypass.”
“Fuck,” I mutter low, but I know she heard it. She doesn’t chastise. Being married to a military man with two sons in the service, the F-bomb isn’t going to make her blush. Hell, she can drop them with the best of us.
“I’m coming,” I say, making a split-second decision that’s going to disrupt a lot of people.
“You’re in the middle of a job,” she exclaims, denial in her tone. “Absolutely not.”
“I’m coming,” I repeat, and what I don’t say is that I’m coming for her. She’s the one who needs support. My brother is deployed, and she’s by herself.
“Jackson,” she starts to argue, but I cut her off.
“Mom … I need to get busy making some arrangements. It will be no problem for me to take a day or two or however long. I can get someone to take my place.”
And that’s the truth. Kynan would never expect me to continue on with an ill parent.
She tries to argue one more time, but I gently shoot her down and make my farewells. I promise to call her back soon with my arrival time.
Before I call Kynan, though, I need to talk to Camille.
Moving to the door that connects us, I give it a quick rap with my knuckles. The TV is quickly muted and Camille calls, “Come in.”
I enter the main suite to find her sitting on the edge of the couch, turned at an angle to watch me come through the door. “Is something wrong?” she asks as she stands.
“Not that affects you,” I reply flatly. I’m obviously worried about my dad, and my mom being alone, but I’m also worried about leaving my post. I’ve never done that. “My dad had a heart attack and—”
“Oh no,” Camille blurts loudly and rounds the couch to rush to me. Her hand goes to my forearm in a show of support. “Is he okay? What can I do? Are you okay?”
I should be irritated as time is of the essence, but I’m quite touched by her compassion.