Code Name: Tiara by Sawyer Bennett
CHAPTER 14
Camille
Ijoined the mile-high club with him not four hours ago, somewhere over the Florida panhandle. The only thing that kept me from calling out his name to the heavens was the fact that my mouth was so full of him.
It was stupendously amazing, and I was shattered.
And then it was over.
We had to dress quickly, and I ogled his body while I pulled on my clothes. I hadn’t had the chance when he first undressed because I was ogling that part of him that fascinated me most. But as he dressed, I stared in wonder at his right arm, completely covered in tattoos from shoulder to wrist. On the left side of his torso, a massive dragon with green and gray scales crawls down his ribs, wings tucked and a large, spiked tail that wraps around his back and comes up over his shoulder. Flames shoot from its mouth, licking down over his hip bone and spreading slightly into his thigh.
Which made me look at his dick again.
I quickly averted my eyes to his chest where perhaps the most interesting tattoo sits, a skeleton of a frog with a man’s name under it. I asked him what it signifies, and he said it’s honoring a fallen SEAL but didn’t offer more. I didn’t press. We continued to dress in silence.
I had to stay in my bedroom for another fifteen minutes after Jackson left because you could tell by my mouth I’d just given him a blow job. It didn’t help matters that before he walked out of my room, he pressed a punishing kiss—full of tongue and promise—and whispered, “I like the taste of me on your mouth.”
I swear I almost combusted right then and there again.
I was convinced Paul, the flight attendants, and even the pilots who sat in the cockpit the entire time knew I’d just had sex in my bedroom.
Oral sex, but it was still sex.
And once again, it was mind-blowing.
But now I’m in Princess Camille mode and Jackson is in bodyguard mode, and you’d never know what we did not long ago. For the rest of the flight, to our landing and disembarking, to the vehicle procession to the hotel, then on to the community rec center where we are currently, we’ve barely spoken two words to each other.
We’re speaking to each other about as much as we usually do when in work mode. I surfed my phone in our downtime, going over last-minute itinerary plans and notes for speeches. Jackson was vigilant, issuing orders to the other team members who are providing additional security.
Even though I’m playing it cool the way he does, it doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it.
Amazing isn’t really the right word to describe that experience.
Transcendental fits better. It was the most intimate, naughtiest thing I have ever done with a man. The orgasm he gave me was almost brutal, but it was the best I’ve ever had. I know deep in my gut, I’m never going to have it that good with anyone else. Any poor schmuck my parents eventually try to press on me to marry … well, it’s just never going to be like that.
There will never be another man who can do that to me, I just know it.
Jackson and I have agreed to keep this going. At least, that’s the way I took his statement that he was going to get condoms.
An errand he’s already completed. While we were checking into the hotel, he left me under Paul’s watch and slipped away. I knew exactly where he’d gone, even if no one else had a clue.
It’s my belief—no, my sincerest desire—that we open that box tonight.
There’s a tugging on the hem of my skirt, and my mind jolts back to the reality that I’m at a public event at the local recreation center, in the process of mingling with adults and kids.
I look down to find a little girl of about seven or eight, and I blush over where my thoughts just were. I have no business thinking about sex while in the midst of representing our monarchy.
But damn … Jackson is such a temptation that I give myself a little grace.
About forty-five minutes ago, I sat through a welcome presentation some children put on, then gave a tiny speech and wheeled into the center’s gymnasium several rolling carts of sports equipment. There were balls, bats, mitts, protective pads, helmets, and even a pair of new athletic shoes for every kid. When I chose Jonesboro as my “typical American town,” I wanted to come bearing presents for the children. My secretary found this rec center in a lower-income area that doesn’t have the money to fund all their programs. The one most sorely in need was athletics, and I had all of these gifts purchased here and waiting in storage, ready for me to hand out. I also donated two hundred thousand dollars of my own money for badly needed building repairs.
I bend at the waist to get closer to the little girl. “Well, hello.”
She grins up at me, her front tooth missing, and I find it absolutely precious. “Thank you very much for the new equipment you gave us, especially the shoes. Mine had a hole in the bottom.”
My heart squeezes over how grateful a kid can be just for a pair of shoes. “You’re very welcome. What sport do you play?”
She smiles bigger. “Soccer, baseball, basketball, and cheerleading.”
My eyes widen. “That’s a lot of sports. Do you have a favorite?”
She shakes her head. “I like them all. But I’m best at soccer. I actually think I could be better at baseball if I tried a little harder. At least that’s what my daddy says, but he also says I should stick with what I love the most, even if I’m not the best at it.”
I smile at her, looking around to see if I can locate her father, but I don’t see anyone nearby that seems focused on our conversation. “Your daddy sounds like a pretty smart guy. I bet he comes to all your games to cheer you on, doesn’t he?”
Something flicks across her face, and her smile turns downward. She shakes her head and lowers her eyes. “My daddy’s in jail. But I get to go once a week to see him, and I tell him all about my sports.”
A jolt of shock rockets through me so severely that I lurch upright. I feel like someone just kicked me in the gut so hard that I can barely breathe.
I hadn’t expected her to say that. I’ve never met a child whose father was in jail, which probably means I’m too incredibly sheltered.
I know this recreation center supports low-income families. I also know from my humanities studies that poverty leads to criminal action. I just never connected it in such a real way. It’s pressing down upon me that what I’m doing—handing out free sports equipment to all these kids—is really… nothing worthwhile at all. If I were to use the true power of my tiara and the money from our mines, I could stop poverty, which ends the drugs and criminal behavior and keeps families together.
For the first time in my life, I feel a bit worthless.
Before I can think of something to say to her, something that will make us both feel better, Jackson is at my side with his hand at my elbow. “Your Highness, it’s almost time to make your closing remarks.”
I jerk at his words because it’s nowhere near time to go. I don’t even know what to say, but I’m horrified to feel relief at the fact he’s going to speed up our visit and get me out of here. Because this little girl’s truth hurts way too much, and I really, really would like to leave.
I’m such a coward.
Jackson turns to the little girl and squats. He nods over his left shoulder and says, “I heard a rumor that they’re giving out cupcakes over there.”
The girl’s eyes light up and she flashes that toothless smile again. With a tiny wave, it’s forgotten that she has new shoes and her father is in jail. The promise of a sweet confection has taken her attention, and I’m grateful because she has to live with that reality every day.
I feel sick to my stomach.
“Let’s take a walk,” Jackson murmurs as he squeezes my elbow. He leads me across the gymnasium but my legs feel like lead. I manage to follow him out a set of double doors and down the hall past where Paul is stationed. He nods at both of us as Jackson turns us down another hall and we enter an empty office. He closes the door behind us and releases my arm.
I’m frozen in place, my eyes drifting to grime-covered windows where I can barely make out a parking lot filled with cars.
“What happened back there?” Jackson asks.
My body still feels stiff and unyielding, but I manage to turn to look at him, my brows furrowed in confusion. “What?”
“Something happened back there,” he says with a worried expression. “I was watching you. You went pale. You look like you’re going to vomit right now. Are you sick?”
I shake my head, lifting my hand to my mouth and subconsciously nibbling at my fingernail. It was a nasty habit I broke back in college, and now I only do it when I’m distressed.
“Camille,” Jackson says a little harshly, and my hand falls away from my mouth. “What’s wrong? Don’t make me ask again.”
That demanding tone, expecting subservience from me. It actually reaches past the numbness and shakes me out of my shock.
My eyes slide to the door and then back to him. “That little girl … her dad is in jail. She sees him once a week and tells him all about the sports she plays here at the rec center.”
While I see a measure of understanding cross Jackson’s features, he doesn’t seem to understand why this upsets me so much. “That might be common for you. I know it’s common in your country, and so you’ve probably seen it quite a bit.”
He nods, his eyes grave and somber. “One of our employees spent some time in prison. She has a son.”
He doesn’t elucidate but then again, he doesn’t need to explain what such a situation means to that parent and child.
“It’s just… upsetting,” I say sadly. “I know about these things. I studied humanities in college, and I’ve learned on paper all the horrors associated with poverty. Yet, I live in a palace high atop a hill overlooking a blue sea, and I don’t have a worry in the world. That little girl … it’s never been real to me. Do you know what I mean?”
“I can imagine,” Jackson says in a low voice.
“It’s not enough.”
“What’s not enough?”
I shrug with uncertainty and hold out my hands. “This. Giving away presents, making charitable donations. It’s nothing but putting Band-Aids on the wound and doing nothing to solve the problem of how this came to be in the first place.”
Jackson moves toward me, puts his hands on my shoulders, and dips his head closer. “Trying to solve all the world’s problems is like trying to drink an entire ocean, Camille. No one can. You can’t solve this country’s problems or even fix a small country’s problems. Poverty and crime and drugs… it’s pervasive. There’s no workable solution. The only thing that helps are the people who put Band-Aids on. People like you who give things that are desperately needed, or social workers who look out for the unprotected, teachers who work in horrible conditions just to try to reach one kid. Everybody comes together and does a little bit of something to make it better. So you do make it better. Without you, it would be worse.”
Just five minutes ago, I felt so dejected and worthless I really didn’t understand what the point was of anything I tried to do. But Jackson was able in just a few words to turn my perspective around. He made me understand that I’m doing all that I can, that I am not the solution to that little girl’s father being in jail.
Nor can I be.
But maybe I can help. I’m going to have my secretary look into the family’s circumstances and figure out what I can do.
How I can at least put a Band-Aid on a gaping wound.
Without thought, I put my hands on his neck and go up on tiptoes, placing a soft kiss on his mouth. He blinks in surprise but doesn’t pull away. “Thank you,” I whisper.
Jackson looks baffled.
I feel a little baffled.
The air around us seems heavy. He just provided me with a service that has nothing to do with the job for which he was hired—to protect my personage.
Instead, he helped protect my soul.