Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (22 page)

“Mmmmmmmm,” I groaned, feeling my nether parts go
all hot and bothered—they wanted in on a piece of the action, too.
I’d never experienced such sensations before; if what he was doing
to the back of my knee was any example, I’d go out of my mind when
Reginald went to work on ground zero.

I searched through the fog of my deep arousal for
the strength to speak. “You don’t even know my name, Reginald, and
yet you’re treating me like the love of your life.”

“I don’t need to know your name,” he sighed into the
crook of my leg. “I just need to know that you’re enjoying
yourself. This is just my little way of thanking you for treating
me like a person instead of as a cheap sex object.” Reginald shot
me a wink and then turned his attentions toward my nether parts,
still hidden away behind the soaking-wet cotton crotch of my
panties—which he whisked away with one hand and then tossed across
the room. They landed on the floor next to the minibar. Reginald
parted my dewy folds with his fingers and gave my clit the same
expert tongue bath he’d just finished giving my leg and knee.

I felt my eyes roll back in their sockets as the
entire world melted around Reginald’s lapping head.

Reginald worked my clit into the kind of white-hot,
tooth-melting frenzy I’d only read about in books. My hips bucked
wildly, and my legs and feet kicked hard against the upholstered
chaise lounge with soft little
thuds.
My head exploded. I
saw stars. Every single cliché you’ve ever heard about mind-blowing
orgasms, I experienced all at once. And just when I thought I was
going to drown in a sea of pure ecstasy, Reginald sent me over the
edge again—using nothing but the tip of his tongue.

After the second earth-shattering orgasm, Reginald
had the good sense to let me rest. He gently closed my legs, and
pulled a spare silk comforter from the closet, which he laid over
my still-heaving body. The weight of the thick, satiny-smooth
blanket against my skin was enough to set me to sleep.

I must have dozed for several hours, because when I
came to I was alone in the room and the sun was low on the horizon.
I got up and headed for the bathroom—since my bladder hadn’t been
emptied since before I got off the plane—and discovered a sensual,
raw soreness between my legs which told me that while my nether
parts had thoroughly enjoyed the afternoon’s proceedings, they
still weren’t satisfied. The walls of my vag ached with the
pressing need to be filled up by something long, thick and hard. A
romp with my dusty old Rabbit was probably in order.

I relieved my bladder and headed back out into the
suite to search my luggage for the Rabbit. To my surprise, I found
my suitcase had already been unpacked; my clothes were neatly
folded and tucked away in the plantation-style bureau across from
the king-sized bed, my toiletries neatly arranged on the vanity
table next to the picture window.But my Rabbit was nowhere to be
found.

Damn it,
I thought to myself as I frantically
rummaged through the drawers one more time—and one more time, no
Rabbit. I checked and re-checked my suitcase—no dice there, either.
I racked my brain, trying to remember the steps I’d taken when I’d
hastily packed my suitcase for the trip, and each time distinctly
remembered packing my dusty, unused Rabbit and a fresh pack of
batteries in the inside-lid pocket of my suitcase. I found the
battery pack tucked inside a pair of my plain white cotton panties,
but no Rabbit.

I hadn’t forgotten my Rabbit. It had been
stolen.

Who the hell would want to steal my old, dusty,
late-model vibrator that hadn’t been used in at least two years,
and with dead batteries to boot? Something like this couldn’t
happen at a worse time, when the walls of my vagina were
practically in knots from lack of penis satisfaction. My middle
finger wasn’t going to cut it with my nether parts in such a state.
I scanned the room for something—anything—reasonably long, thick
and tubular to do the job when my eyes landed on a handwritten card
someone—Reginald, I assumed—had left sitting on the nightstand.

I snatched the card in my sweaty palm, and rushed
over to the window for better light to read it by. The hand was
deeply slanted and elegant, like copperplate, and written on the
resort’s high-quality vellum stationery with an old-fashioned
fountain pen.

Dear Madam:

I have taken the liberty of unpacking and arranging
your things while you sleep. You will find everything in the bureau
drawers, save for one thing—your marital aid. I have removed this
from the room, because a woman as lovely as you should have no need
for such tacky plastic contraptions that are no substitute for a
skilled human touch. If ever you are in need of servicing upon your
person, you need only ring the bell desk. Ask for me by name, and I
will appear.

And if by chance I am unavailable, I believe that
several guests have also recently checked into the resort who are
themselves searching for your sensual favours. Make inquiries with
the front desk staff, who will be pleased to assist you in this
matter.

Yours in service,

REGINALD

I laughed softly to myself as I neatly folded the
card and tucked it away in my purse for safekeeping. It was like
something out of an historical romance novel—this eloquent,
delicate letter handwritten with care and left for me to find after
a long slumber by a man who did not wish to even know my name, but
obviously cared deeply about me.

My mind raced with conflicting thoughts. At one
level I felt like I was exploiting this poor young man, who was
struggling to better himself in a poor Third World country by
working as a male prostitute—a degrading job no matter how you
sliced it. At another level, I was both floored and flattered that
this same young man would find
me—
a mousy, plain, somewhat
overweight thirtysomething woman—sexy enough to share sexual favors
with me for free when sex was the main way he earned his
living.

And as I stood there in front of the vanity mirror,
naked as the day I was born, another nagging feeling weighed
heavily in my chest.

As much as I hated to admit it, I was burdened by
thoughts of Rodney Doyle. Even though I owed the man nothing after
all that had happened back in Washington, I couldn’t help but feel
as if I’d betrayed him by my little mini-tryst with Reginald. How
would he feel if he knew I’d cavorted with a total stranger—a male
prostitute, no less—on a whim at a Caribbean resort? And how would
he feel if he knew that I was arranging to meet with several
Washington powerbrokers here at that same resort, hoping to use my
nascent sexual talents—the very sexual talents that Rodney helped
cultivate—to convince those powerbrokers to give me a leg up in
Washington even though my career and reputation were ruined by
scandal? Would he be jealous, like he had been over the House of
Flowers affair? Would he hate me for what I’d done?

Or would he find my newfound skills at seduction
irresistible?

I pounded my temples and shook my head back and
forth to clear it of these disturbing thoughts. Why the hell should
I care what Rodney Doyle thought about me now? That slick, slimy
bastard had used and abused me. I was done with him. In fact, I’d
already written him off for good back at the airport. The fact that
I’d hightailed it out of Washington to a luxe Caribbean resort for
the sole purpose of sexing it up with a bunch of very powerful
total strangers ought to be proof enough of that.

I didn’t care a straw for Rodney Doyle, and would be
perfectly happy if I never laid eyes on him again.

Or so I tried to tell myself.

Because if I really didn’t care a straw for Rodney
Doyle, I wouldn’t have been standing naked and alone in my hotel
suite, wiping tears from my eyes because I missed him so much.

Chapter
16

After a long and embarrassing fit of crying, I
finally managed to pull myself together enough to freshen up for an
evening around the resort. After showering, I donned a simple black
cocktail dress that clung to my ample curves just enough to suggest
a womanly shape, yet still leave quite a few things to the
imagination. I paired the dress with a set of strappy black-patent
sandals with tiny kitten heels that I’d had for years but seldom
had occasion to wear in my dreary, button-down life as a Washington
PR staffer. A long silver pendant chain that hung down nearly to my
waist and matching dangly earrings completed the ensemble. I kept
my makeup muted, but went for a dramatic hairstyle—a high French
twist with a long tendril of curled hair hanging down by my left
temple.

I took a step back and admired myself in the mirror.
If I squinted my eyes and cocked my head just right, I looked like
a much plumper version of Audrey Hepburn in
Breakfast at
Tiffany’s.
All I needed was the long cigarette holder, and I
could have been her much fatter, much older twin.

I grabbed my purse and headed for the resort front
desk to check my messages. I stopped by the bell desk on my way,
hoping to see Reginald, but the bellboy on duty told me he’d gone
home for the night. I had to work hard to hide my disappointment at
this news. I figured that like the States, prostitution of any kind
was probably illegal here on St. Lucia, and I didn’t want to risk
getting Reginald—or myself—into any kind of trouble.

Of course, Reginald hadn’t prostituted himself to
me—I’d enjoyed his favors free of charge. But I couldn’t risk any
details of his secret livelihood getting into the wrong hands. His
whole future depended on it.

Assuming it
was
even a secret, of course. I
supposed sex-for-hire was common enough in a secluded luxury resort
like Silken Sands—common enough that the staff knew enough to look
the other way. Still, I was taking no chances. I had to be discreet
for the remainder of my stay.

To that end, I tiptoed up to the front desk, taking
care that my kitten heels didn’t clank on the travertine tile
floor. “Excuse me,” I whispered to the pleasant-faced young woman
behind the desk. “I’m Jasmine Rand in Suite Eighteen. Are there any
messages for me?”

The woman pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows.
“Yes,” she chirped. “Several, in fact.” Her tone didn’t exactly
signal approval. She bent down and flipped through a small filebox,
then retrieved a stack of pink message slips. “Here,” she said,
narrowing her eyes at me. “You might want to tell all
your—ahem—
friends
that they can also leave a voicemail for
you on your suite phone. We simply don’t have enough staff here at
the desk to take thirty messages in a single day for a single
guest.”

I was stunned. “
Thirty
messages?” So much for
being discreet.

“Yes,
thirty
messages,” the desk clerk
sniffed.“I hope you enjoy the rest of your stay here at Silken
Sands, Ms. Rand.” With that, she turned on her heel and busied
herself sorting a stack of check-out statements for the next
morning.

I found an easy chair in a quiet corner of the hotel
lobby and sorted through the huge stack of messages. Five of them
were from Rebecca back at the office, all marked “Urgent.” Since
I’d told no one in Senator Grayle’s office about my Caribbean
plans, I had no idea how she’d found me. My stomach lurched at the
thought of how what I planned to do down here might seriously
affect her and her career if word got out back home.

I soon began having second thoughts. Should I
abandon my plan for sex-based career enhancement altogether, and
just spend the remainder of my days here at Silken Sands lounging
anonymously on the beach reading magazines and speaking to no one?
Or did I go a step further and catch the next flight back to
Washington on standby? Or even worse, did I abandon everything I’d
spent the past fifteen years working towards in Washington and just
slink back to North Dakota in defeat?

I didn’t even read the rest of the messages, which I
suspected were from the various and sundry Washington powerbrokers
Dexter had drummed up for me to seduce. Before I did anything
else—before I dug myself into an even deeper hole—I had to call
Rebecca.

I ducked into the lobby ladies’ lounge and was
relieved to find it empty. I dug out my cell phone and found
Rebecca’s cell phone number on my speed-dial directory. I dialed
the number, hoping that my cheap, outdated mobile phone would find
enough signal on this remote island to put the call through.

Rebecca picked up on the first ring, but I could
barely hear her through all the static. “Rebecca? Rebecca, can you
hear me?” I shouted into the phone. “It’s Jasmine!”

“Who?” Rebecca’s voice was crackled and sounded a
million miles away.

“It’s Jasmine! Jasmine Rand. You called me down in
St. Lucia.”

“What?” Rebecca’s voice trailed off. By then I’d
lost the signal and the line went dead.

I was dancing frantically around the room trying to
pick up a signal again when the phone buzzed in my hand. The caller
ID screen said “REBECCA’S CELL.” I picked up, but this time the
connection was even worse. I couldn’t understand a thing Rebecca
was saying, so I just shouted into the phone. “This isn’t working!
We need a land line! Call me back in five minutes in my room at the
resort! I’m in Suite Eighteen!”

I dashed back to my suite just in time to hear the
old-fashioned telephone ringing. (It had been so long since I’d
heard an old-style telephone bell instead of modern electronic
ringtones I almost thought it was the fire alarm.) I picked up on
the fourth ring, just before it rolled to voicemail. “Rebecca?” I
asked, breathless. “Is that you?”

“Who the hell is Rebecca?” an angry male voice
boomed on the other end.

It was Rodney Doyle.