Chapter 24

24

Knox

You bet, I was taken aback by her calling me asshole. And I was pissed. So, pissed. She didn't answer my calls, and that turned my rage into an inferno.

Then, my sense of humor took over, and I barked out a laugh. My assistant got away with something no one else has before. My respect for her has increased. This woman is going to be my downfall. Instead of springing out of bed, like normal, I lay back against my pillows and contemplated delightful scenarios where I'd spank her luscious backside as a punishment for her impertinence.

I jerked off to images of her pleading and writhing under me. She begged me to let her come, and I refused. I took her to the edge over and over again, until she was reduced to a mass of need. And then, I imagined her on her knees, opening her mouth around my cock as she looked up at me with her big, pleading eyes, and I ejaculated.

Then, I fell asleep, and was greeted by nightmares about my last mission. My run-in with her at the nightclub must have disturbed me more than I realized. The scar on my cheek throbs. A line of pain seems to zip out from it to my brain. My throat is so dry that when I swallow, it feels like my throat is lined with razor blades. I snap my eyes open with a start.

I sit up, grab the water from my nightstand, and gulp it down. Springing to my feet, I warm up with a light jog in place, followed by dynamic stretching. I drop down and flow into a push-up, and another, and another. My muscles begin to burn, and I welcome it. By the time I hit the hundredth one, the burn has spread from my core to my extremities, and a light sheen of sweat covers my forehead.

I move into my set of pull-ups, hit a hundred, then jump up and begin a series of fifty squats. I hold each squat for two minutes, relax, then start another series of fifty, and again. The burn in my muscles is a full-blown fire which burns away all thoughts in my head. The blood pumps in my veins. Heat surges through my skin. And while thoughts of my run-ins on duty have faded…

They've been replaced with images of her. Her lips. Her skin. Her big brown eyes that reflect her every mood. Her eyelashes that can ensnare me in their web. Her curves. Her scent. The way she touched my scar. A shiver runs down my spine. My groin tightens. There's a tenderness at her core that signals I could find a safe home there. I stiffen.

But I'm not looking for a home. I'm not looking for a woman to share my past or my future with. Yet, I told her more about myself than even my own brothers. I allowed myself to hint at my proclivities with her. And surprise; she didn't run.

She's perfect. She's made for me. And I've ensured she'll hate me.

I move onto the lunges, hit the third set of fifteen reps per leg, before dropping down into plank position.

I've shown her that I have no place for her in my life. I chose someone else over her. Fuck. My heart clenches in my chest. Agony has my guts in a fist hold. I hurt her. The only good thing to happen to me in a long while, and I made sure to destroy it. Fuck. Regret engulfs my body.

I start on my sit ups. When I hit a hundred, I begin again from the top. And again. By the time I'm done, sweat trickles down my back and pools in my armpits. But I'm not even winded. Despite not having slept most of the night, I'm not tired.

It's not going to be easy to get back in her good graces. Doesn't mean I'm not going to try my best to put things right with her. There's no reason our working relationship has to suffer as a result of my actions, right? I did it because she deserves someone better than me. Someone who will not be tempted to unleash his tendencies on her.

It's why I decided to proceed with Arthur's plan. And I put her in her place. I broke her heart. I saw it on her stricken features when I announced I was marrying someone else. And then I sent her that text, asking her to make a lunch reservation for me and my fiancée-to-be. How could I have done that? No wonder, she threw my orgasms in my face and threatened to get them elsewhere. No wonder, she woke me up by calling me asshole. A bark of laughter leaves my lips again at the recollection.

This is what I wanted. I wanted her to hate me, and now she does. I achieved my goal. I ensured she wouldn't want anything to do with me. I did it to protect her. So why don't I feel better about it? Sweat drips into my eyes and I welcome the burn. And why are thoughts of her filling my mind?

I head for the boxing bag that hangs in the corner of my bedroom. I could have converted one of the guest bedrooms into a gym, but on the days I wake up with my head all screwed up from my past, I find it best to reach for the punching bag without wasting a second. I jab, then throw a straight punch, snap back, and repeat. Then, I rotate my hips and shoulders, extend my arm fully, and put my body weight behind the punch. Then, throw a hook. And repeat the sequence again and again. Jab-cross-hook. Jab-cross-hook, my gaze focused on where my fists strike the bag.

I wait for my head to empty, for that blessed void that comes with focusing my mind and body on the task at hand. But even as muscle memory takes over, thoughts of her refuse to leave. I'm drowning in her. I ramp up my speed, moving my weight on my feet as I rain blows on the punching bag. Pain shoots out from my knuckles and up my arms, but I don't stop. Keep going. I need to get her out of my thoughts… I need to… find a way to make her understand what I did was for her own good. That I have her best interests at heart. That she'd never want to be with someone like me. That I'm not worth the ground beneath her feet. That… She can do better than me when it comes to a relationship.

As for me? The upcoming wedding to Priscilla is a sham. I'm doing it because it's the only way I could think of to show her I don't want her. Even though I do. That I don't care for her. Even though I do. I can't stop thinking of her. And that's the truth. And as long as I can continue seeing her on a daily basis, I'm going to be fine. Everything will be fine. Or so I tell myself.

The thing is, I do need to see her face every day when I come into the office. That's all I need to keep going with my life. I slam my fist into the punching bag, and this time, the pain roars up my arm and explodes behind my eyes. I grab the bag with my free hand, raise my fist, and find blood seeping through the cracked skin on my knuckles. Damn, I forgot to wrap my knuckles before laying into the boxing bag. I squeeze and open my fingers. Sparks light in my brain, and I realize I may have overdone it.

I deserve the agony throbbing in my fingers, the ache strangling my chest, the spasms swelling my thighs. I deserve this despondency choking my throat and threatening to suffocate my lungs. I deserve this and more for causing her pain. It doesn't matter if I did it to keep her at arms-length and ensure the connection between us will be nothing but professional from now on.

I bounce on the balls of my feet and shake out my arms. I need to get a hold of myself. I need to get the hell out of here and to my office… Where I can see her sweet face. So I can assure myself that life is worth living. That I can go on, knowing she's going to be okay. That she's going to be shielded from my presence intruding into her personal life.

Yes, I did the right thing. I did. So why does everything feel so hollow?

I trudge into my bathroom and stand under the shower. As thoughts of her infiltrate my mind, I allow the images to flow over me. The blood drains to my groin, and I welcome that familiar tightness in my balls. I squeeze my erect cock from base to crown, and again. This is all I will allow myself. I will not touch her, but allowing myself to climax as I think of her is, surely, allowed. I swipe my fist up and down repeatedly. All too soon, my balls draw up and my climax spurts over my palm.

By the time I'm dressed and holding a cup of coffee in my hand, dawn breaks over the horizon. I grab my car keys and head to the parking lot at the base of the building. Traffic is light, and in less than half an hour, I pull into my office. I take the elevator up to my floor and head down the corridor. When I pass her desk, there's no one there. In fact, no one seems to be here at all. I glance at my wristwatch and realize it's early.

She won't be here for another hour yet. I try to focus on my work, but keep tracking the time on my watch. When half an hour has passed, I call her desk, but there's no answer.

It's fine, she'll be here. Wait another half-hour. You can do this. You've lain in wait for targets to make a move for days on end in the heat of the Middle East. You can wait another half-hour before calling her phone.

I squeeze the bridge of my nose and draw in a few deep breaths. Then focus on the merger document I'm pursuing on screen. I even manage to lose myself in the details for a little while. When I look at my watch, forty-five minutes have passed. It's almost eight a.m. She should be here any minute.

I give up trying to work and begin to pace the floor of my office. Back, forth, back. I watch the hands on my watch crawl forward. When the big hand hits twelve, I stalk to the door of my office and pull it open. I see her seated at her desk; her back is to me. She's staring at her computer screen. I take a step forward and realize, nope, it's not her.

It's someone else. And she's seated at her desk. At. Her. Desk! I draw abreast with her, and the stranger looks up.

"Who're you?" I demand.

"I—" She swallows. "I…"

"Spit it out; I don't have all day," I snap.

The color fades from her cheeks. "I-I'm your new assistant."