Page 61 of Jesse

He opens one eye. Grins. “That was amazing. I honestly—fuck. Was not expecting you to be so…”

“So what?” I growl.

“Just come here.” He sighs. “I’ll get you off while I doze.”

“You asshole!”

But a moment later he sits up, grabs my wrist, and pulls me so hard, I land on top of him.

“There,” he says, humming the words into my neck as he wraps his arms around me and holds me tight. “See. That’s better.”

And even though this is not what I was expecting or wanting, and being wrapped up in his arms implies I’m under his protection and that’s not what I was going for…

I relax and let him hold me.

Just for a moment, I tell myself. Just a few moments. Then I’ll get up, put my shirt back on, and walk out the winner.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO - JESSE

The rumble of waves and the sweet, rocking motion of the yacht wake me up from a deep, heavy sleep. Damn. I sigh. It’s so great to be back on the yacht.

“Are you awake, Mr. Boston?” an unfamiliar voice asks.

I crack open one eye, realize I’m lying face down on a bed, have a moment of panic that I’m not on the yacht and actually have no clue where I’m at. Then spy the portholes in the side of the cabin and relax.

“Ms. Dumas wanted me to serve you breakfast and let you know we’d be landing in about thirty minutes.”

“Aw, fuck,” I groan as I turn over.

My belt jingles as I do this and… I realize, my cock is hanging out. I squint both eyes up at the man standing over me with a concerned look on his face, and suddenly recognize Miles.

His eyebrows are raised when he glances down at my dick.

“Sorry,” I mumble, then fumble with my pants and tuck the boy away. “Now… what the fuck is happening?”

I feel drugged. Did that little succubus drug me again?

No. I think this is just the hangover from last night’s drugging.

“Breakfast is served, sir. I’m sorry I’m late. You said one hour, and it’s been two and a half, but Ms. Dumas insisted I let you sleep it off.”

“Did she now?” I ask, forcing myself to sit up so I can rub my hands down my face and take a deep breath to collect my thoughts.

“Would you like me to wash this?”

I remove my hands from my eyes and squint up at Miles. “What?”

“Your shirt, sir. It’s…” He’s holding it up with tiny, silver pastry tongs. “Soiled.”

“Sure,” I mumble, then look around and say, “You have a fucking laundry room on this thing?”

“No, sir. But the jet club has facilities.”

“Jet club?” I ask. Still half in my sleep dream. My heart aching a little about not being on the yacht.

“Yes, sir. I’ll have it washed and pressed for you when you return.”

“Where are we going again?” I ask, looking down at the fold-out tray that hovers over the bed.