Page 34 of Tempting the King

And, King Hertzof criminal record.

Finally, King Hertzof bar fight.

That’s my girl.

I texted her to tell her goodnight and sweet dreams.

She needs her sleep.

I, on the other hand, don’t.

I need her.

I rap my knuckles on the door.

“Baby, it’s me. Open up.”

A shadow darkens the peephole, and my chest swells with pride. I told her last night no matter what, when someone comes to the door, you look at them before you let them in, even if it’s me.

I’m hoping she’s come to terms that I’m not just a client, and she needs to drop the whole ‘I can’t do this’ professional conduct bullshit.

The door swings open, and I rush inside, desperate to be close to her again, grabbing the accessory I brought with me, then kicking the door shut behind me.

Bam. Bam. Bam. My pulse rages in my chest and my eardrums as I take her in.

She steps out of reach before I grab her, walking toward the windows before turning my way. The view of the Detroit River and the Canadian Club sign on the other side of the waterway frame her in the distance.

She’s back in a pair of black stretch pants, and the seam highlights the indent of her pussy. She’s paired the pants with a pink tank top today, and she’s bare-footed, which makes my balls ache for some reason.

Her toenails are painted a sparkly green, matching her eyes, and her tits look even more tempting than yesterday, her nipples pebbling under her shirt. I’ve never needed anything as much in my life as I need to be inside of her.

Her hair is damp and fresh, hanging in natural curls around her face, with the blue sky out the window behind her… she’s a masterpiece.

I set the gift on the floor and walk forward, following the trail of her Sweet Tart scent, ready to dive into this pool of lust and obsession.

I need to figure out how I’m going to keep myself together, keep my no nutting vow to my team, but keep her in my life without upending everything I’ve worked for.

As I get closer, I notice she won’t meet my eyes. My heart drops as she squeezes them shut and a single tear drops down her cheek.

“What happened? Did you get hurt?” Wild panic aches in my chest as I bolt across the room. “I told you not to open the door unless you knew who it was!”

She does that waist squeezing thing again, doubling over as I leap over the couch between us, my fucking foot catching on the back, sending me airborne. I land with an oof, snapping a leg on the coffee table as I roll to the floor, then bounce up and barrel forward until her shoulders are in my hands.

“Jesus.” Her face screws up, watching me make an ass of myself, then she shakes her head like it’s too much to try to figure out right now and says. “Anyway, nothing happened. No one hurt me.”

This is not nothing. She may be the empathic whatever, but I have a connection to this girl that runs straight into my heart, and something is most definitely wrong.

“Please.” My voice is thick, a knocking pain wandering around in my head with a sledgehammer as that tear glides over the apple of her cheek. “You tell me what’s wrong, right now. I can’t fucking breathe.”

I snap my teeth together, fighting for a breath that won’t come as she looks to the ceiling and I give her shoulders a soft shake, drawing her eyes to mine.

They are red-rimmed, and I hate it. I hate whatever is distressing her and I need to fucking fix it.

“I—” She bites into her bottom lip, trying to stop the tears, which roll out one after the other as her chin quivers. “I’m sorry, this is so unprofessional. All my clients canceled again. For tomorrow now. Except for you, so it’s not a glitch. No calls, they just canceled from the scheduling app we use. I’m sorry, I’m trying to forget about it and focus on your session—”

I’m bombarded from all sides by cannonballs of guilt, and I nearly forget what my plan was when I got her alone today.

The gift I brought was a hockey stick. One of mine, from last year when I scored the winning goal in the final game that sent us to the championship. Which, we ended up losing in the fifth game by one goal.

---