Knights and Kink Romance Boxed Set (2 page)

If there was anybody who could turn the crimson
media tide back in Senator Grayle’s favor, it was Rodney Doyle. And
like it or not, I’d knew I’d have to start kissing Rodney Doyle’s
ass pronto if I wanted to keep my job, cutthroat-slick-bastard
reputation or no.

In fact, I’d probably have to kiss a lot more than
just his ass, if you know what I mean.

And I’d have to start praying that Rodney Doyle
actually
wanted
Senator Grayle to remain in office. If he
didn’t, then I was sure that Doyle and his paper would soak up the
squalid juices of the “Grayle-gate” sex scandal for everything they
were worth.

The very thought of meeting Rodney Doyle
face-to-face made little beads of sweat start creeping out on my
forehead, and not just because I knew the guy was a slick, sleazy,
powerbroking bastard. There was another side of Rodney Doyle that
intimidated the hell out of me. There was another reason why I’d
given the man a wide berth for my entire career, and it wasn’t
because I was such a savvy PR professional that I didn’t need him
or his paper.

No, there was another reason. One you might not
expect.

I’d seen Rodney Doyle on television enough times to
know that the man was drop-dead gorgeous, sexy as hell, hot enough
to make my crotch turn to cream at the very thought of him. I also
knew that Doyle had quite a reputation as a ladies’ man—especially
when it came to seducing young, attractive female Congressional
aides.

Which might make you think I was exactly Rodney
Doyle’s type.

Ha. Not quite.

I might have been a female Congressional aide, but
that was where the similarities between me and Rodney Doyle’s
infamous string of Washington conquests ended. At thirty-four, I
was not exactly young, and as a plump size fourteen with mousy
brown hair and freckled skin, certainly not what you’d consider
attractive, either. Which didn’t exactly make me a good candidate
for any Sexy PR Savior of the Year awards. The chances that Rodney
Doyle would find me even remotely attractive enough to exchange
sexual favors with me so I could save my boss’ (and my own) career
were roughly equivalent to the Canadian Army’s chances of
conquering the world by force of arms.

Still, that didn’t change the fact that the very
notion of seeing Rodney Doyle in the flesh already had my panties
in a pretzel.

And the fact that I hadn’t had sex in the two years
since I’d started working eighty-hour weeks for Senator Grayle
certainly wasn’t helping matters. I was about to come right there
in the office just
thinking
about going to meet this guy. I
was right and raring to cream in my Hanes cotton panties—something
I’m sure neither my cube mate nor the upholstery on my desk chair
would have appreciated one bit.

Oh, God.

Rebecca tapped me on the shoulder. “Jasmine, are you
okay?”

“Wha?”

“You look a little red in the face. Do you need an
aspirin or something?” Rebecca rooted around in her bottom desk
drawer, where I knew she stored samples of every over-the-counter
drug from Advil to Zyban.

“Mrrrgh. I’m uhhh, fine. Just, you know, a little
stressed out.”

And a little turned on.

Rebecca didn’t look convinced. She went to the water
cooler and drew me an icy-cold cup. “Here, take this,” she said,
then handed me two Advil. “I know you’ll probably be pulling an
all-nighter on this one.”

“And then some.” I scanned my packed Outlook
calendar for the day and cancelled all my appointments. There was
only one place I needed to go in a crisis like this—everything else
could wait. “Rebecca, do me a favor.”

“Sure thing.”

I printed out Rodney Doyle’s contact information
from Senator Grayle’s online Rolodex and handed the sheet to her.
“Rebecca, I want you to use all your sweet-talking telephone skills
to get me a private appointment with Rodney Doyle over at the
Beltway Times
. Preferably for this afternoon. Think you can
do that?”

Rebecca’s eyebrows raised. “Rodney Doyle? The
meanest, toughest press editor in town? The king barracuda himself?
Are you
really
gonna go to him for help with this mess? Are
you sure that’s a good idea, Jasmine?” Rebecca looked worried. “His
newspaper is
so
sleazy—“

“Look, we’re basically out of options as far as the
press is concerned. Doyle’s the only guy left in town who can even
possibly help us at this point. And since I’m sure you enjoy having
a job as much as I do, I think we should at least give him a try.
So, will you make the call or not?”

Rebecca’s expression softened. “Sure, I can make the
call. But I thought you preferred to set up all your press meetings
yourself.”

More sweat beads broke out on my forehead. “True.
But this is sort of a—
special
situation.I need someone with
a—well,
softer
touch on the phone than I can manage.” A lie,
of course. I couldn’t exactly tell Rebecca that I might have an
orgasm on the phone if I tried calling Rodney Doyle myself.

What the hell was the matter with me? Having orgasms
on business calls wasn’t exactly my style, after all. I was a
straight-as-an-arrow PR professional. I worked eighty- and
ninety-hour weeks all the time and hadn’t taken a vacation in six
years—which was fine by me, thank you very much. When you’re a
workaholic who loves your work as much as I do, you tend not to
miss trivial things like trips to the Caribbean and
meat-and-potatoes sex with a steady boyfriend every Friday. Getting
one of my sound bites on the eleven o’clock news was what turned me
on, not drop-dead-gorgeous men. “Sex” and “free time” just weren’t
words in my vocabulary. Up until today, anyway.

Which probably explained why the mere feeling of my
Hanes against my clit were driving me bugnuts.

I stood up. “Rebecca, ahm, excuse me for a moment. I
need to ahhh—powder my nose. Let me know if you can make that
appointment with Mr. Doyle.”

With that, I headed for the ladies’ room. I was in
serious need of release.

I went to the last stall—the handicapped stall.
Plenty of room to maneuver. I locked the stall door and dropped my
skirt, stockings, and panties.

My right hand went straight to ground zero, which
was already slick and sweet with my nectar. My left hand went
straight for my boobs, which I expertly popped out of their
underwire 38D cups and began to stroke. My nipples are already
rock-hard—sharp enough to cut glass, even. I ran my middle finger
back and forth over my clit, sending that little bundle of nerves
over the edge in no time at all. “Oh, God, yeah,” I cried, not at
all worried about who might hear me. I came almost immediately,
shaking and vibrating and kicking the stall door in my ecstasy. But
I didn’t stop there. I rubbed all my creases and crevices,
spreading my juices as far and wide as they would go. I came again,
almost without effort, but it just wasn’t enough.

I needed something big and fat and hard and wide to
ram itself right up inside me. And unfortunately, the closest thing
available was my right middle finger, which just wasn’t going to do
it. My vibrator was at home in my bedside drawer, loaded with dead
batteries and collecting dust, because I just hadn’t had the time
(or the desire) to use it in over a year. And I was stuck in the
middle of the Washington PR crisis of the century, so it wasn’t
like I could take the afternoon off in favor of a
mini-dildo-and-orgasm fest at home.

Damn it all to hell.

In an instant, I was transported back to earth, no
more satisfied than I was when I entered the stall. Dejected, I
rearranged my clothing and traipsed out of the stall to wash my
hands—and ran smack-dab into Rebecca. She looked a bit afraid.

“Jasmine, ahmm, pardon me for asking, but what on
earth
were you doing in there?” She nodded her head towards
the empty stall.

“Umm, nothing,” I lied. “Just umm, freshening up.”A
ridiculous statement, considering that the musky smell of my sex
enveloped the entire restroom.

“Riiiiight,” Jasmine chuckled. It was obvious she
suspected something kinky was going on. “I just came in here to
tell you I was able to set something up with Rodney Doyle. He’s
very busy, and he’d only agree to see you if you went over to his
office right now. You need to get there no later than two o’clock,
or you’ll miss him.”

I glanced at my watch. One forty-five. Doyle’s
office was on K Street, almost three miles away, and a good
twenty-minute drive in slow afternoon traffic. Getting there by two
would be an impossible task—something I was sure Rodney Doyle knew
full well when he made the appointment. But then again, I might get
lucky and land a cab driven by a lunatic speed-demon through a
bunch of green lights, and make it with a minute to spare. It was
worth a shot.

“Call Rodney Doyle back and tell him I’m on my way.”
I dashed back to my cubicle to grab my coat and purse, and I was
off.

Chapter
2

I got lucky, for once. The first cab I hailed was
driven by a turbaned Pakistani man who probably hadn’t bathed in at
least a week. He might have stunk, but he sure knew how to beat the
worst DC traffic. After less than five minutes of swerving and
swooping around other cars, jumping curbs, and running stop signs,
I was in front of the looming
Beltway Times
building on K
Street.

I checked my watch. 1:52. I had exactly eight
minutes to get inside, take the elevator to the penthouse office
suite, and convince Rodney Doyle to save my boss’ career. An easy
enough, task, right?

Not exactly.

I tipped the cabbie a fiver for his efforts and
swept into the building’s swank marble lobby.A grouchy-looking
security guard blocked the door. “Do you have an appointment?” he
growled at me, looking official and rude at more than two hundred
pounds—all muscle.

“I’m here to see Rodney Doyle. My appointment’s at
two.”

The huge security guard looked me up and down,
frowned, and rested his left hand on his gun while he used his
right to check his register book. “Says here that Rodney Doyle
don’t have no two o’clock appointment.”

“He does now. My secretary just set it up.” I
checked my watch again and tapped my foot incessantly. I was
running out of time.

The guard punched an extension into his security
phone with his thick, meaty fingers. I silently wondered if it was
true that you could tell how big a guy’s dick was by the size of
his fingers, and shivered. I was on the verge of coming just
looking at the doorman’s big, black, pulpy digits.

God help me.

The guard hung up the receiver and grunted. “You’re
clear. Sign the register and take this badge. Go up to the
eighteenth floor, show the badge, and they’ll let you in.”

“Thank you.” By now I was sweating buckets, and my
panties were swimming in my own juices. I didn’t know what had me
turned on more—the huge hulk of a man behind the security desk or
the fact I was about to meet Rodney Doyle. Then again, I’d gotten
so horny at that point that anything remotely male within an
eight-mile radius could probably have turned me on.

I was in serious need of a serious lay.

“Ma’am, you better get going. Mr. Doyle don’t like
to be kept waiting.” The hulking security guard’s deep-bass voice
jerked me out of my reverie. I made for the elevator, passed my
electronic security badge over the scanner, and I was off.

I did a quick mirror-check on the elevator doors,
and discovered that I looked quite the tramp. My blouse and skirt
were rumpled and creased from my solo romp in the bathroom stall.
My mascara had run a bit, giving me little raccoon eyes. And the
apples of my cheeks were covered with a textbook sex flush.

Ack.

It was a bit late for me to freshen up. I was about
to beg the most powerful newspaper editor in Washington for a
break, and I was going to do it looking like a mousy, pudgy, horny
tramp. Not exactly my usual polished PR style. But it would have to
do. I smoothed the creases of my blouse and skirt as best I could
with my sweaty palms, rubbed at the mascara under my eyes with my
fingers, and hoped for the best.

The mirrored elevator doors slid open to reveal a
huge penthouse office suite. The far wall was nothing but
floor-to-ceiling smoked glass, the middle of which held a door that
read “RODNEY DOYLE: PRIVATE.” Across from me behind a large
gleaming desk sat a very glamorous receptionist.

“You must be Jasmine Rand,” the receptionist cooed
as she looked me up and down with noticeable distaste. She couldn’t
have been more than twenty. Her size-zero frame was poured into a
tight-fitting Prada suit—which meant either she was grossly
overpaid or had a major sugar-daddy. “Mr. Doyle is expecting you.
Right this way.”

I followed the tiny woman to Rodney Doyle’s imposing
glass door, which she opened slowly. “Good luck,” she chirped,
looking me up and down again before she turned on her kitten heel
and went back to her perch behind the gleaming reception desk.

I glanced into the office and found it empty. Or so
I thought.

I heard a booming voice that seemed to come from
everywhere and nowhere at once. “Well, what are you waiting for,
Kingdom Fucking Come?”

Kingdom Fucking Come?
An interesting choice
of words.

I stepped gingerly into the office, looked around,
and saw no one. Just a wall of mirrors and a very expensive-looking
leather-on-mahogany desk with matching chairs.

The booming voice again. “Funny, I would have
expected you to come groveling on your hands and knees, Ms. Rand.
But I suppose that’s not your style. I bet you prefer to do things
standing up. Come. Come, please.”

The number of double entendres in that statement was
ridiculous.