Page 57 of Guarded King

I lost control. Twice in one day. I’d sent her home, then strode into my office, determined to lose myself in work and put her out of my mind. But her scent lingered on my jacket, sending me flashing back to that moment in the dark—to the sensation of her body pressed against mine, to the neediness in her voice when she breathed my name—and my dick stiffened and jerked in my pants. She’d gone home for the day, and there was no way I could concentrate with that memory in my head.

After the last time, I swore to myself that I wouldn’t jerk off to the thought of her again, and somehow, I’ve managed it. But with my cock hard, and her scent filling my head, I convinced myself that doing it just once more wouldn’t hurt. Once more to purge this addiction. I knew it was an excuse, even as I thought it. But there was no resisting the temptation.

So I locked my office and stripped off my jacket and shirt, then stalked to my bathroom without slowing to close the door behind me. Belt unbuckled, I yanked down my fly and fisted my dick. With one hand braced on the counter, I worked myself over, imagining all the filthy things I would do to Chloe if sheweren’t my assistant. If she were just a woman I met at a bar one night.

I was close, so close, when some strange awareness, maybe just a damn vibration in the air, made me look up. When I found her watching, the rational part of me knew I should stop, but the part of me that wants what it shouldn’t have, the part that grows stronger every day, recognized the emotions on her face. Want. Desire.

So I gave her a choice. Go or stay. And fuck if my pretty little assistant didn’t stay. Right up until my release ripped through me and I orgasmed with my eyes fixed on hers.

I scrub my hands over my face.

Fuck.

How has it come to this? How have I lost control so completely? Over a damn woman I told myself I could resist with no problem. A woman I’ve somehow convinced myself I’m protecting.

I’ll talk to her tomorrow. Make sure she knows that what happened today, my horrendous slip in control, willneverhappen again.

But a few hours later, I’m at home, standing at the window, nursing a glass of whiskey and looking out at the city below me, thousands of lights glittering through the still-falling rain. And despite my best efforts, Chloe is still on my mind.

Maybe I need a reminder of why this is so fucking important. A reality check to cleanse me of this growing obsession. It’s worth a try, at least.

I pull out my phone and shoot off an email, then drain the rest of my whiskey, drop the glass off in the kitchen and head to my bedroom to change. Ten minutes later, I’m pounding out my excess energy on the treadmill set up to overlook Central Park. As raindrops smack rhythmically against the glass, I concentrate on the pump of my heart and the rasp of my breath andthe trickle of my sweat. Trying my hardest not to think about the way Chloe’s cheeks flushed and her mouth parted as she watched me come with her name on my lips.

Cancel my meeting with Cole and Tate this morning, please.

I sendthe message to Chloe at six a.m., then get dressed. After last night, I’m not sure how she’s going to respond. Maybe I should be less concerned. After all, she made the decision to stay and watch.

Regardless, tension builds inside me as I wait for her response. I crack my neck, dispelling a little of the strain there. Thank god it only takes a few minutes for her to respond.

Would you like me to reschedule?

A shot of relief rifles through me.

I’ll check in with them when I get into the office. It should be about 11 am.

The gray bubbles appear instantly.

Should I tell them you’re sleeping in?

I regard my phone, a reluctant smile pulling at my lips. After everything that happened yesterday, she’s joking with me.

They’d be as likely to believe you if you told them I was spending the morning at the zoo. Just tell them I have unwelcome business to attend to.

I pocket my phone, my smile fading as I head to the elevator. Since it services only my penthouse, I ride it uninterrupted all the way down to the garage. I’ll drive myself today. I always do when I visit Dad.

In minutes, I’m easing my titanium gray Aston Martin DB11 into the early-morning Manhattan traffic. It’s about seventy miles to the federal prison, which means a round trip of about three hours. I don’t mind. Despite having Phillip at my disposal around the clock, I enjoy driving, particularly on the open road. It gives me a chance to clear my head.

And today, my head really needs clearing. Losing sight of my priorities like I did yesterday is unacceptable.

After an hour and a half trip through the lush, green landscapes of upstate New York, I pull into the prison parking lot. The facility is surrounded by a fence topped with coiled barbed wire, a clear reminder of where I am. The main building is a sprawling structure of gray concrete, the small, barred windows breaking up the otherwise featureless walls. Because of the nature of Dad’s crime, he lucked out and resides in the adjacent minimum security satellite camp, which is significantly less oppressive.

Inside the low-slung brick building, I’m met with the stern stare of the security officer sitting behind bullet-proof glass.

“Identification and purpose of visit, please.”

I pass him my driver’s license. “I’m here to see Maxwell King.”

He scrutinizes my ID, then taps away at his computer. After a moment, he returns my card and hands me a visitor pass.