Below Deck – Love Under Lockdown Read online Jamie Knight

Categories Genre: Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 23946 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 120(@200wpm)___ 96(@250wpm)___ 80(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

Below Deck - Love Under Lockdown

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Jamie Knight

Book Information:

I’m on a cruise with my older, handsome boss. And now we’re locked down with each other.
I won a trip for my hard work at the office.
Mostly I felt lucky I’d get to spend so much time with my boss.
He’s demanding and cocky, but he’s also hot as hell. And now we get to be in close proximity to each other for a week. But then a pandemic strikes.
And the ship gets placed under quarantine orders. We’re forced together into very tight quarters.
He says he can think of a few things we can do to pass the time. But I’ll have to follow his every order.
And obey his every command. I’ll let him take all of me, except my heart. If I can manage to hold that back while giving him my body.
Is this just a cruise trip fling? Or is fate steering us towards the real thing?

Below Deck is a standalone boss/employee romance with no cheating, no cliffhanger and a very happily
Books by Author:

Jamie Knight

Chapter One - Carrie

The best laid plans soon falter. Or something like that anyway. Though what you never really hear about are plans that aren’t laid at all, events in life that come out of nowhere and blindside you like bad news on an idle Sunday afternoon.

I knew what I wanted to do. I had the whole cliché childhood dream. I was going to be a performer. Broadway was my ultimate goal. I trained for years, both vocally and physically. Few really appreciate the exertion and control required for proper technique, particularly in terms of belting. But you also had to be able to sing quietly and in all contexts.

Standing, sitting, even lying flat on your back with a hunk of debris in your side, as with my dream role of Epinine in Les Misérables. I still had a scar on my head, small and faded but present, from when my sister threw a shoe at me when I wouldn’t stop singing “On My Own” around the house. My hair was blonde like Cosette, but should it change color at all, I would bloody well dye it if I had to.

I didn’t have to. It never really came up because I never really got the chance to audition. Fate, striking like a train, sent me over the roof of a car as I rode to practice one lovely Saturday afternoon. I could still technically walk, but nowhere near what would be needed for the rigors of the theatre. Permanent paralysis was the possible cost. Another career had to be found, and quickly.

While nearly cliché as the best laid plans, it was also usually true that fate rarely closed a door without opening a window. No sooner had I been released from the hospital with a cane to help me walk and a big bastard bill to keep me from sleeping, I saw the ad. MP Solutions was looking for interns. An exciting opportunity for someone with the right attitude. No experience necessary.

It never failed. There were, in fact, three certainties in life. Death, taxes and get-out-and-walk traffic. No matter how early you left, or the day of the week, it would find you eventually, like the blood-curdling inevitability of a demon’s dark curse that choked out the city sky and crushed all hope of a punctual return.

The impotent rage of the prisoners of circumstance was expressed in a flurry of ineffectual honking that really only hurt their fellow inmates. The nefarious monsters behind the construction schedule were safe within their gated fortresses.

It was like an open-air music festival with dozens of acts set up within inches of each other, all competing to be heard over the other. Salsa to the left of me. Metal to the right, Stealers Wheel stuck in the middle, and K-Pop and Top 40 somewhere in the distance. All blocked out, for the most part, by “Worst Pies in London” in my very own head.

I was apparently the only one in hundreds to think to wear headphones. I only kept one bud in at a time when the traffic was actually moving of course. At that moment, however, there wasn’t a hell of a lot to listen for.

As I waited for the horrors of modernity to relent, I set my mind to the day to come. Mostly to my boss, the smokin’ hot and absurdly intelligent Maxwell James Morgan. Replete in his finely tailored suit, inky black to match his liquid eyes.

He was deep and wise beyond his 29 years, which went a ways to explain how he had managed to qualify for the Fortune 500 when he was not yet 30. It really was enough to make a girl wet. Me in particular. It was a bit embarrassing, but there was more than one occasion when it all just got too much and I had spent the majority of my lunch break in the single-occupancy bathroom, fingering myself to quiet orgasm, imaging his beautiful eyes looking up at me from between my thighs as he ate me out. It got even worse, and better, after I was promoted to his assistant in addition to my duties as an agent.

With everything else that was happening in the vast and expanding universe, did it really matter if I was fifteen minutes late getting into the office when I knew for a fact that Max spent the first twenty minutes of every workday meditating in his office, preparing his beautiful body and brilliant mind for another day of innovation and would never know unless someone ratted me out? Of course it didn’t. Unfortunately, not everyone shared this philosophy.

“Late again?” Lauren asked, clicking her tongue in the most patronizing way possible.

“Depends on your perspective,” I said, placidly as I could manage.

“What is Max’s perspective?”

“Non-existent because he isn’t going to know, and if you try to tell him he won’t believe you. He’s more of the seeing is believing type and has a marked distaste for gossip.”