Code Name: Tiara by Sawyer Bennett
CHAPTER 7
Camille
“Can I get you something to drink, Your Highness?” Lydia, one of my usual flight attendants, asks. She’s in her late forties, single, and no children. She likes to mother me, and I don’t mind it. I return a fond smile but shake my head. “Thank you, but no. I’m fine for right now.”
Lydia bobs her head—not in formality as I don’t require that, but in kind understanding—and turns to move to the front of the plane. I watch as she bends in toward Jackson and Paul seated in the front club chairs that face each other. Jackson is in the seat with his back to me, Paul across from him. She’s clearly asking them the same thing she just asked me, and they both engage her in a short conversation before she bustles off to the galley.
The minute she leaves, Paul and Jackson start talking to each other, or perhaps they’re resuming a prior conversation. I’m not sure as I’ve barely looked past my little area since boarding. They’re too far away, and with the hum of the engine, I can’t hear what’s being said.
Not that I care.
We’re on an evening flight across the Atlantic to New York City, and we’ve not been in the air long. It’s roughly an eight-hour flight, and we’re scheduled to touch down in the Big Apple around 7:00 p.m., factoring in the time difference.
Dinner is going to be served in about an hour, and I have no idea what the crew has planned, but it’s always scrumptious. Lydia will have a selection of appetizers and practically any form of drink you could ever want, alcoholic or nonalcoholic. I am indeed hungry, but that’s a recent development. Most of the day I’ve battled low-level nausea and only managed some toast for breakfast and dry crackers since then.
But my stomach finally seems settled, and I’m pretty much past my hangover. While I still have a slight headache, the massive amount of water I’ve been drinking since waking up has helped tremendously. I make a mental note for about the tenth time today to never drink again. I know I will break this promise in the future, but at least for now, I’m pretty sure I can keep it.
This morning was rough. My head felt like it was being split in two with a blunted ax, and I could taste the bitterness of vomit deep in my throat. The minute I sat up, my stomach rolled and flipped, and I had to concentrate not to gag. I moved gingerly off the mattress and made my way to the bathroom. I looked like death warmed over in the mirror, but I immediately guzzled bottles of cold water from the suite’s fridge.
Some of last night is clear, some is a bit fuzzy, and other parts are completely black. I make another mental note to stay away from mixing wine with martinis.
I have clear memories of Rachel’s wedding. It was emotional and lovely, and watching the nuptials enough to make the trip worthwhile. I remember the beginning of the reception and the sumptuous meal. I love long dining experiences where you eat small plates slowly so you can concentrate on the conversation.
After dinner, I remember the men—traditionally only the groom, father of the groom and best man—making their toasts and the guests sipping from their Pimm’s Cups, which I didn’t partake in as it’s too sweet for me. The wedding cake was delicious and I definitely remember that the lemon buttercream frosting was so good, I made Rachel promise to get the recipe for me from whoever made the cake.
I even remember my first martini, extra dirty, just how I like it.
Things became a bit blurrier as the night wore on, but I know I had so much fun with my college friends. It’s been far too long since I’ve been able to go out and have an unfettered good time. I know this was possible because I was in a secure location, and I had security guards who were not going to judge me if I got wild. There was so much dancing and laughter and reconnecting with old friends, I didn’t want the night to end. The only thing missing was Marius—I know he would’ve had a blast too. If it weren’t for a prior commitment, he would’ve been my date.
As the evening wore on, my buzz got really good. I definitely remember Jackson hauling Baxley off the dance floor because he tried to grab me. I even recall the feel of his fingertips as they brushed against my hips and the slight shudder that went up my spine. I knew it was Baxley because there was not one person in the entire reception hall, out of all those hundreds of people in attendance, who would have dared touch me without permission.
Except Baxley.
The guy had always creeped me out at university, and I didn’t care for him at all. Over the course of the evening, he became more aggressive in his attempts to get my attention. I managed to handle it fine on my own, and when I saw him coming up behind me with the intent to grab on, I probably would’ve handled that just fine as well.
I’m quite sure my knee would have connected with his nuts. I can’t even imagine the headlines that would’ve made, but it would’ve been worth it. And while things are fuzzy, one of the last things I remember with any real clarity is how hot Jackson looked hauling Baxley out of the reception.
So in control.
Commanding.
Ruthless.
It pushed my buttons and made me wonder what it would be like to be with a man like him. Not just sexually, although I certainly do wonder about that, but with a man who exuded such confidence. It’s truly an unknown to me.
Marius is about as close as I’ll ever come to knowing a man with that level of confidence, and even he has his insecurities. But Marius is moot because I’m not attracted to him.
I am, however, attracted to Jackson Gale, and sometime in that drunken haze last night, I came to realize it.
I mean, what woman wouldn’t be? With his dark hair and glowing hazel eyes, and while I haven’t seen him in anything other than a tuxedo, suits, or a T-shirt and jeans such as he’s wearing now, there is no doubt his body underneath is honed to perfection.
Things got downright murky after Jackson handled Baxley. I had another martini, thinking it would calm me after the adrenaline rush of watching Jackson so effortlessly handle someone who tried to touch me. I got a bug in my brain about Jackson Gale, amplified by the alcohol, no doubt, and I have a vague recollection of telling Rachel I should haul him back to my hotel room and take advantage of him. She snorted so hard, champagne shot out her nose, but then she agreed it was a grand idea.
We then spent several minutes whispering about the possibility of doing such a thing, but somewhere deep in my drunken brain, I knew there was no amount of alcohol that would ever let me do something like that. I’m too unsure of myself.
After that, things went from murky to black. I don’t remember the rest of the evening nor how I got to my bedroom, although I am sure Jackson and Paul escorted me. I have no recollection how I got into my pajamas, but I’m confident I did that on my own because I found my dress and shoes thrown on the floor, which is not like me at all. I’m quite sure I passed out as soon as I hit the bed.
After guzzling water this morning, I laid back down on the bed for a while. We weren’t scheduled to leave until the evening, so I had plenty of time to nurse my hangover. As I tried to flush my system, I remembered bits and pieces of other memories.
Somehow I ended up on the floor.
Jackson crashed into my room.
I vomited. Copious amounts.
And Jackson squatted beside me in the bathroom, holding my hair so it wouldn’t fall into the toilet.
Then came a moment I remember with great clarity. I’d expelled most of the alcohol from my stomach and had just put my head down on the porcelain toilet seat, thinking how gross it was but also how comforting. Jackson was still beside me, and my eyes drifted to the side, taking in his powerful thighs with his gray sweatpants stretched over them.
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?
Something in the far reaches of my mind answers me, You can think about it until the day you die, Camille. If he’s good with it… you should find out.
I jolt in my seat over my subconscious basically telling me I’d have to try it out to know whether I could get it out of my brain, as that is absolutely not going to happen.
Jackson’s brow furrows slightly as he stares at me. I imagine a myriad of emotions just crossed my face as I battle my inner devil, goading me to make my inappropriate thoughts come true.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks again, his expression concerned.
“Fine,” I assure him, but there’s no hiding the tremble in my voice. I attempt what I hope is a confident smile. “Just tired from last night.”
“Anything I can get you?” he asks as he rises from his seat.
And the move is so unexpected, my gaze doesn’t rise with him. Instead, as he stands in the aisle, his crotch basically eye level, I stare at the front of his jeans.
Of course, there’s no erection, although admittedly, he wears jeans very, very well.
It’s not hard to imagine what that ridged outline looks like behind the dark denim. Maybe hanging just left of the zipper.
There’s a cough, and I jerk, my eyes flying upward. Jackson stares hard at me but in no way that I can discern what he’s thinking. He’s not amused. Not angry. Not offended.
I mean… he just caught me blatantly staring at his crotch, probably with a longing look on my face, and I don’t have an inkling as to how that makes him feel.
That’s worse than actually knowing how he might feel about it.
Once again, the heat in my face is like an inferno. I decide the courtly thing to do is apologize, but before I can utter a single word, he says, “I’m going to head back up front. Let me know if you need anything.”
My throat is tight. I can’t even squeak out an “okay,” so I merely nod.
Jackson turns back up the aisle, and God help me, I’m going straight to hell. I check out his ass as he walks away.