by J. Kenner
"You're--but--" I stopped talking, afraid I sounded as gobsmacked as I felt. He'd asked me if I wanted more, and so I'd been expecting everything. Wanting it. Even craving it.
Now I stood in front of my doorway, confused, off balance, and uncertain where exactly I'd gone off the rails.
"I'm not coming in tonight," he clarified, as his fingers brushed my cheek. "But make no mistake, Sylvia. This isn't over. It hasn't even begun."
"I don't want it to be over," I admitted.
"And what do you want?" he asked. "Because I will tell you right now that when I want something--or someone--I pursue it relentlessly and don't stop until I have possessed it fully. Do you want sweet words and chocolates? You'll have them. Hand-holding and gentle kisses? I welcome them. But I want so much more, Sylvia, and you need to know that I will have you in my bed."
My mouth had gone completely dry. The rest of me was hot and wet, and I had to reach out and press my hand against the doorjamb simply to keep from melting onto the floor.
I expected the dark to take hold, my fears to pull me down, and the cold, unforgiving fingers of memory to yank me back into myself and away from this man and his words that were both a seduction and a demand.
But there was no cold, and the only dark came from the night sky, and was bright with stars. That tingle I felt wasn't fear, it was excitement. And when I met his eyes, I was certain that he could see in mine how much of a miracle he was to me.
"Christ, you tempt me. My fingers itch to take you right now. To strip you bare and just look at you, naked and hot and wet for me. And I will, too. I'm going to touch you. I'm going to stroke every inch of you. I'm going to bury myself deep inside of you. And I'm going to memorize the way you look when you find release in my arms. All of that," he said as my body went limp and hot under the force of his words. "But not yet. Not tonight."
He reached out as if to stroke my face, but his fingers hesitated just millimeters from my skin. I sucked in air, well aware of the heat between us, and wishing desperately for even the lightest touch of skin upon skin.
Then he withdrew his hand and looked straight into my eyes. His were inscrutable. Mine, I'm certain, were wild and pleading and just a bit confused. Because with Jackson, everything had flipped. Instead of grabbing control, I'd surrendered it. And that really wasn't me.
I didn't understand why--and while that might scare me, what scared me more was the fear that he would go away.
"You want me, too." It was a statement, not a question, but I answered anyway.
"Yes." The word seemed too small to encompass so great a need.
"All right, then." The smile barely touched his mouth, but I saw pleasure light in his face. "I'll pick you up tomorrow morning. Ten-thirty."
"Oh." I blinked at the sudden shift from the seductive to the esoteric. "Okay." I ran through my schedule, grateful I had no conflicts. Not that it mattered; I would have blown off anything that stood between me and spending the morning with Jackson.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, as if he knew my thoughts. "You're mine tomorrow," he said as he brushed a fingertip over my lower lip, and then turned and walked away.
I went inside, so full of light and anticipation that I actually did a little twirl. And I am really not the twirling type.
I peeled off my clothes, and every brush of material against my overheated skin was like a sensual treat. I slid into bed naked, wanting nothing but the sheet between me and my memories of Jackson.
Then I closed my eyes, slid my hand between my legs, and let thoughts of this gorgeous, sexy, enigmatic man carry me off to sleep.
six
A sharp knock at my door awakened me, and I stretched in bed, enjoying the fading memories of some truly spectacular dreams.
Dreams. Not nightmares.
The thought brightened my smile even more. So far, Jackson Steele was proving to be the embodiment of the perfect man. Charming, funny, utterly gorgeous. And despite that whole takecharge vibe, he wasn't the least bit nightmare inducing.
Pleased, I hummed a little as I tossed on a robe. I didn't hurry--it wasn't yet eight on a Saturday morning. Anyone who needed me was just going to have to wait. Still, I called out, "Hang on," as I tied the sash and walked to the door.
I checked the peephole, but no one was out there. Curious, I opened the door to look back toward the street, only to find a beautifully wrapped box on my doormat. I picked it up and found a simple tag tucked in under the bow. Wear Me.
I laughed, feeling a bit like Alice as she stumbled into Wonderland. But I had no doubt that the package was from Jackson, and when I went inside and took the lid off, my suspicions were confirmed.
The dress I found cradled in tissue paper was sunshine yellow and absolutely darling, with a fitted bodice, a loose and breezy skirt, and big white buttons from cleavage to hem. It also came with matching low-heeled sandals that actually fit when I tried them on. But it was the last part of the present--the part hidden beneath a thin fold of tissue paper--that made my entire body tingle. Sheer silk stockings accompanied by a black garter and black thong panties that were nothing more than a tiny triangle of lace. The bra was equally tiny, with almost nonexistent cups that were designed so that a woman's breasts spilled over the top, adding fullness while keeping her nipples exposed.
I licked my lips, then put on the lingerie, careful not to run the stockings as I rolled them up each of my legs. Then I stood in front of my full-length mirror and tried to see myself from all sides.
I looked like sin.
More important, I felt like it. Hot. Wild. Daring.
And there was no denying the tingle between my legs when I imagined Jackson buying this. Watching me in it. And then watching me out of it.
Without thinking, I slid my hand down into the panties, my finger barely stroking my clit before finding my center. Oh, holy Christ, I am wet. And when that familiar electric tingle started to shoot through me, I yanked my hand away, as guilty as a teenager.
Not because I didn't want to get off, but because I wanted Jackson to be the one to take me there.
Both aroused and anxious, I slid into the dress, pleased to see it fit perfectly. Then I hurried through my hair and makeup routine, only to find myself dressed and impatient well before Jackson's scheduled arrival at half-past ten. I spent the time feeling the way I had when I was thirteen and waiting for Billy Tyson to take me on my first date--a movie and a burger, chauffeured to both by his parents. That was back when my life was full of anticipation and wonder. When I trusted my parents to keep me safe and whole. When I lived in a solid middle class bubble that I'd thought, foolishly, was impenetrable.
That was before my brother got sick.
That was before him.
Stop it.
I clenched my fists and forced the memories away. I was about to go out on a real date, a very rare occasion for me. And dammit, I liked the way I felt. I wanted to hang on to the feeling. More than that, I deserved to hang on to it.
I busied myself with making coffee, then didn't want to drink it for fear it would linger on my breath. When the quick, firm knock sounded promptly at ten-thirty, I just about sprinted to the door.
"Hey," I said, breathless as I flung it open, and even more breathless when I saw him standing there, tall and lean, his dark hair windtossed just enough to give him a sexy, reckless vibe. When he stepped inside, his primal, raw scent enveloped me. Earth and wood and rain, blending together in a way that was uniquely Jackson.
"Don't move," he said as he stood just inside my apartment. "I want to look at you."
"I like the dress," I said. "Thank you."
"You're welcome," he said as his gaze raked over me with such intensity that I was certain he was seeing both the dress--and what was underneath.
"I like the lingerie, too," I said boldly, and was rewarded by the heat in his eyes and the way his jaw tightened, as if he was fighting for control.
"Do you?" he said, and those two simple words seemed to h
old a world of questions.
I lifted my chin slightly, and when I spoke, my voice was breathy. "Yes. Do you want me to show you?"
"Very much. But not until tonight. In the meantime, I'll think about just how I'm going to reveal it."
"Jackson--" There was no disguising the need in my voice.
He shook his head, his eyes full of passion and promise. "Tonight. Right now I'm taking you to lunch."
I bit back the flurry of questions--where were we going, what were we eating, when would we be back--and forced myself to simply go with it. To let Jackson take the lead. Strangely, it wasn't hard. Though I rarely slid out of the driver's seat, with this man it just seemed natural. As if something inside me knew that no matter what happened, he wouldn't push me too hard.
But whether that impression was accurate or simply wishful thinking, I really didn't know.
Back in the Porsche, Jackson easily maneuvered the Saturday morning traffic. We ended up at Centennial Olympic Park. I'd only been in Atlanta for a few weeks, but I knew the park well. Reggie's office was only a few blocks away down Marietta Street, and I'd come to the plaza during my lunch hour once or twice. It's a big space, with grassy areas, a reflecting pool, and the famous Fountain of Rings.
"A picnic?" I asked as we got out of his car. "There's no basket."
I half-expected him to open the trunk and pull one out. Instead, he just took my hand. "Burgers," he said, and I laughed. "Is that bad?"
I shook my head, still laughing. "I went out for burgers on my very first date. And I was feeling some of those first date nerves when I was waiting for you. I guess it just struck me as funny. What?" I added, noting the intense way he was looking at me.
"You just surprise me. There are things you're holding back--no, don't worry, I'm not going to press you--but then there are times when you're disarmingly honest."
"Not usually," I admitted. I didn't say that I felt comfortable with him. Too comfortable, perhaps.
I didn't say it, but I was certain that he knew it.
"Should I point out that we're in a park?" I asked brightly, hoping to signal a change of subject. "Unless you're planning to grill, that's not the traditional location for a burger and fries."
"I thought you already realized that I'm not the traditional sort."
I narrowed my eyes, but he didn't explain further. Instead, he led me across the plaza, the Fountain of Rings shooting water high into the sky as children watched and ran and splashed in the jets. "Want to?" he said, eyeing the streams.
"Tempting," I admitted. "But I like this dress too much. And I'm starving."
"Then let's get you fed."
We turned, strolling the tree-lined plaza until we reached the grassy area and the Visitor's Center--and the funky-looking hamburger stand.
"Googie Burger," Jackson said, pointing to the angular building that reminded me of both the old Jetsons cartoon and Tomorrowland at the Disneyland Park in Anaheim. "Opened here not too long ago."
"That's really its name?" I asked, studying the walk-up hamburger stand and the tables that surrounded it.
Jackson eased us into the line. "Yup. Do you know why?"
I cocked my head. "Is this a pop quiz?"
He laughed. "Guilty as charged."
"I can hardly have grown up in Los Angeles, love architecture, and not know about Googie," I said. "It's like a subset of futuristic design. Very Atomic Age. Starbursts and roofs that slope up. And lots of boomerang shapes. The building at LAX, the iconic Las Vegas diamond-shaped sign, about a zillion car washes. It's all over the place. Do I pass?"
"Flying colors."
"But the really important question is, how are the burgers?"
"As excellent as the building," he assured me. And he was right. Soft buns, perfectly cooked meat, crisp lettuce and tomatoes, and French fries to positively die for. We chatted while we ate, talking about everything and nothing, and when I reached over to wipe a bit of mustard from the corner of his mouth, I was struck hard by the realization that though I barely knew him, being with him was so easy that it felt as though we'd been together forever.
That perceived familiarity didn't lessen the heat, though, and when he caught my finger and drew it into his mouth, I gasped aloud, as much in surprise as from the sudden explosion of sparks that originated at my fingertip and then pooled, wild and needy, between my thighs.
He kept his eyes on mine, then so slowly I thought I might just melt, he teased my finger with his tongue before dragging his teeth gently over my skin as he released me. "Tonight," he said. "I'm going to taste the rest of you tonight."
My lips parted as if to respond, but I couldn't manage words.
He smiled, a little smug and very sexy. Then he stood and held out his hand to me. I took it willingly.
"Where are we going?"
"I thought I'd show you some of my favorite places. You said you grew up in LA, right? How long have you been in Atlanta?"
"Not long. I came right after I graduated in August. I met my boss out there--he was brokering a deal for Damien Stark, so I knew that Reggie was legit. Reggie Gale," I added. "He needed an assistant, I wanted real estate development experience, and so it just worked out."
"Stark," Jackson said, his voice flat.
"You've heard of him, right? Retired from the tennis circuit not long ago, and he's exploded onto the business scene. He made a huge profit with some real estate investments before he retired, and he parlayed that into a tech company and a whole bunch of other ventures."
"I've heard of him. I'm not entirely sure what to think of him. Or of his success."
"Really?" I shrugged. From what I'd seen Stark was damn talented. "I actually applied for an assistant job with him, but when Reggie offered me this position, I took it. Closer to real estate."
"And Gale brought you to Atlanta."
"So it's only been a few weeks. And everything's been so busy with the Brighton Consortium project that I haven't had much time to get to know the city. So, yeah," I said. "This is perfect."
I didn't mention that it was especially perfect since I knew that my time in Atlanta might be short. Once Reggie had fired me, I'd sent an email to the HR department at Stark International asking them to please consider my application if the assistant position hadn't already been filled. Even if I didn't get that job, I knew I'd probably end up back in LA. I had friends there and connections. And at the end of the day, it was all about finding a job.
Right then, though, I didn't want to angst about my job prospects. Instead, I simply wanted to enjoy the time with Jackson.
It ended up being an even more wonderful day than I imagined, with Jackson taking me around the city, showing me his favorite buildings, and telling me why he liked them.
We started by having a post-lunch drink at the Marriott Marquis with its alien-looking atrium that rose up to dizzying heights. We hit the Georgia Aquarium next, which had that same futuristic Googie quality. We entered, then went to the largest tank and sat in the dark. I couldn't say what creatures lived inside that massive habitat. All I knew in that moment was Jackson. His heat, his scent, his presence. I could barely think, much less focus, and when he brushed his lips against my temple, even that sweetly innocent touch was enough to have me writhing with need and anticipation.
From under the water at the aquarium, he took me underground to a subway station. "This one is my favorite." Jackson spread his arms out to encompass the Peachtree Marta station one hundred and twenty feet below the ground. The ceiling and floor were finished, but the sides of the tunnel were rough, blasted rock.
"This is where men shaped the world the way they saw fit," Jackson said, his words echoing my earlier ones. "Seemingly simple, but now thousands of people can move through bedrock, and the design--with the exposed rocks--drives that home."
He ended our tour at the sleekly stunning High Museum of Art with its original design by a Pritzker-winning architect and subsequent enhancement by an Italian architectural maestro. We wan
dered its galleries, exploring it thoroughly, but spending most of our time checking out the current Cezanne exhibit and studying the prints in the permanent photographic exhibit. Our Day of Architecture finally ended at Table 1280, the fresh-to-table restaurant inside the museum.
"There's more," Jackson said, as he lifted a strawberry to my mouth. "But the more time I spend with you, the less interested I am in architecture, and the more interested I am in getting you naked."
I almost choked on the berry. "Not very subtle, are you?"
"I know what I want," he said. "I know it, and I go after it. I told you that last night. And, Sylvia, I thought we were clear that I wanted you."
"What you want? Sounds a bit one-sided."
"It's not," he assured me. "I know what you want, too." The way he smiled reminded me a bit of the wolf with Red Riding Hood. The better to eat you with, my dear. "Don't I?"
Oh, dear god, yes.
I ignored the wild pounding of my heart as I pushed my plate away, the slice of cheesecake uneaten. I didn't understand the intensity of my reaction to this man. All I knew was that Jackson shifted something inside me. And so help me, I liked the way that felt.
The short walk to his car seemed unbearably long, and the drive was almost painful. The thrum of the engine drove through me, and every time he shifted gears, I felt the shift in power between my legs. My nipples were hard and painfully sensitive as they rubbed the lace of my bra with each movement.
I was on edge and frenzied and just a bit out of control. I wasn't a woman who swooned around a man. Just the opposite, in fact. Usually I clenched up or went cold if a man came after me with as much intensity as Jackson had. Granted, he wasn't demanding or forcing or giving ultimatums. Hell, he'd even pulled back that very first time when he'd ordered me to take a walk with him.
But that didn't change the fact that his entire persona was control and power. Exactly the kind of thing that usually made me edgy and off center.
So why wasn't I feeling that way now?
Then again, right then, I really was on edge. But a different kind. A better kind. My skin tingling, my sex throbbing. My entire body was primed in anticipation of his touch. A touch that I wanted. Maybe even needed.
"Go ahead," Jackson said, his voice soft but with a subtle hint of authority.