by J. Kenner
"Of course I did." His voice is as gentle as a breeze.
"How?"
A tiny smile plays across his lips. "Ever heard of OnStar?"
"You tracked your car."
"I've got a Lexus, too," he says. "You ran out on me in one car, I followed you in another."
"To make sure your Porsche was safe?" I ask, unable to keep the challenge out of my voice.
"No." He brushes his thumb over my cheek. "I wasn't worried about my car."
"But you didn't get out. You just sat there."
"I thought you wanted to be alone."
"You're here now," I say.
"I thought you'd been alone long enough."
I actually smile, which feels pretty good. Then I push myself up, so that I'm sitting instead of lounging. "How did you get in?"
"You left your front door wide open," he says. "Good thing this is a security building and nobody can get through the gate."
"You're still not going to tell me how you managed that?"
"A magician never shares his secrets." He's been kneeling beside me, but now he stands up. "You're better now?" he asks, and when I nod, he steps back into the apartment.
I fight a sharp pang of panic as I shift on the lounger so that I can look inside, then sag with relief when I see that he isn't leaving but getting something out of my refrigerator.
"Corkscrew?" he asks, then immediately answers himself. "Got it. Never mind."
A moment later, he returns with two glasses of white wine. He hands one to me, then uses his free hand to pull over the metal folding chair that Cass brought out here the last time she was over.
He sits, then puts his glass on the concrete next to him. He leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees. He looks completely casual and totally in control, and every ounce of his attention is focused on me.
"We're done, Sylvia," he says, and I jolt bolt upright.
"What? No! You told Damien, and I--I agreed to--you know. Dammit, Jackson, you can't just quit. You can't--" I am starting to rise, but he takes my arm and tugs me back down.
"Not the resort," he says calmly. "I'll design a magnificent resort for you. But this," he says, gesturing between the two of us.
I shake my head, not understanding. Because surely after everything, he isn't tossing away all of his demands and ultimatums.
Is he?
He reaches for his glass, then stands and walks to the railing. He stops there, so that he is silhouetted against the now-gray sky. "You fucked me up, Sylvia, it doesn't get more basic than that. I said this was about revenge, and it is. It was. I wanted to punish you for leaving me. For leaving me for him--for Damien, I thought--and god, how I wanted to punish you."
"But I didn't. Not like that. I told you."
"And I believe you. But that wasn't all of it. Because I still wanted to make you pay for hurting me. Hell, for hurting both of us," he says, and I can't help but wince, because what he says is true.
"But it wasn't all about punishment." He takes a sip of wine, then sets the glass down. "Do you need to hear it plainly? I'll say it. I want you, Sylvia. As intensely as I wanted you in Atlanta. And the moment I saw you in the theater, I knew that I was willing to make any deal I had to in order to get you close."
His words are punctuated by each step he takes toward me. "Did I want your submission? Did I want you naked and willing beneath me? Hell, yes. I still do. But that's not the whole of it. I want to make you feel. To make you laugh. I want to see that fire that burns in you. I want you to look at me the way you did five years ago. And, Sylvia? I want you to stay."
My chest is tight, and I am having a hard time breathing.
"But I want none of that if the cost is hurting you."
He reaches down and cups my chin in his hand, his expression so tender it makes my heart squeeze. "So there will be no deal. No game. No conditions put on my agreement to work on the resort. I will still do my best to seduce you," he adds with a tender smile. "But I can't be the one who brings you more pain."
I open my mouth to speak, but I cannot. I can only shake my head, wanting to deny what he has so obviously seen.
His takes my hand, and though it is only our fingers that are touching, it feels as though his strength is running through me. "I've seen the lock, the tattoo, and I can guess what it means. I should have guessed in Atlanta."
I look away, unable to meet his eyes.
"You shouldn't have to bear that kind of burden. And if I added to the weight of it, I am so damn sorry."
I look at him now, my throat thick and my eyes burning. "You didn't," I say. "Not really. Oh, god." I draw in a breath and raise my hand to my mouth, then bite down on the soft flesh at the base of my thumb. "I want to cry--I really, really want to cry right now. I'm full up with tears," I say, feeling almost like I'm drowning in my own emotions.
"Then let go," he says, moving to sit beside me and gathering me in his arms.
I manage a half-laugh, then press close. "I can't. I haven't cried since I was fourteen."
He pushes a lock of hair off my forehead, then slowly trails his fingers down my shoulder to my back. "'It is some relief to weep,'" he quotes. "Ovid."
I draw in a stuttering breath, picturing the tattoo in my mind. The delicate blue tears. The precise lines of the script in which Cass had inked that quote upon the shoulder blade where his hand now rests.
"It would be relief," I say with an ironic smile. "If I could manage it."
"It's some relief, too, to talk about it," he says. He strokes my hair, and despite everything, I feel safe. "Can you tell me who?"
I close my eyes, because I don't want to think about it.
Except that's stupid, because somehow, some way, I seem to always be thinking of it.
"Was it your brother?"
"No!" The answer is fast and vehement and true. "No, Ethan doesn't even know about it." I can hear the panic in my voice. Oh, god, if Ethan ever found out the real story ... I shiver, as determined as always to protect my baby brother.
"I saw the way you looked at dinner after you got his text."
"He's coming in a few weeks. He wants us to go visit our parents. They're in Irvine. They moved there from Brentwood when Ethan graduated from high school."
"And that's bad?"
I take a deep breath and remind myself that not only am I awake, but Jackson has handed me back control on a silver platter. I can talk about this, and I will be okay.
"Not Irvine--as far as I'm concerned distance is good. And I can't wait to see my little brother. He was really sick when he was a kid, and we were incredibly close. He--he got better."
I draw in a breath, determined not to think about the price of my brother's health. "Complete recovery," I say, hurrying on with my story. "And he's been living in London for over a year now."
"But not your parents."
I look down and realize that I've twisted my hands together so much my fingers hurt. "The man--the one who raped me--" I take a breath, realizing that I haven't said that word since I told Cass this same story. "He was a friend of my father's. I called him Bob." Just saying the name makes me shiver. "And I got a job with him when I was a freshman. My dad set it up. So I'm not very good with the family-dynamic thing. I kind of shut myself off, you know?"
He nods. "So you were fourteen?"
"Yes." I keep my voice matter-of-fact. The only way to get through this is to just say it. Like I'm summarizing business documents. "It started then."
I see the way he flinches at the word "started," and I'm grateful he doesn't ask how long it went on.
"And your parents?"
"I haven't told anybody," I say, which isn't actually an answer to his question. "I told my friend Cass, but that's it."
"No professionals? No therapy?"
"I'm not interested in spilling my troubles to strangers. No way am I handing that kind of intimacy and control to someone I don't even know."
"You need help."
"I've got my own k
ind of therapy. I'll be fine."
"But you're not fine," he says reasonably, and the worry is plain on his face.
I turn away. He's right, of course, but I'm not going to admit it.
"All right, then. If you won't get help from a professional, you'll get it from me."
"Jackson ..."
"What? I'm the problem? I'm not. I'm the man who--"
My chest tightens, hearing a word that he hasn't said. "What?"
He hesitates. "I'm the man who'll fight your demons," he says, and I can't help but smile. Because in my mind, that is who he has always been. In reality, though ...
"A nice sentiment," I say, "but I'm already fighting them."
"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, you're not winning."
"Please," I say, and I can hear the strain in my voice. "Can we just drop it? At least for now?"
The expression on his face is so wretched it almost tears me in two. "I made it so much worse for you," he says, then kneels beside me and cups my face. "I'm sorry."
"No. You haven't. I just need it out of my head for a while."
"You need rest. Come on. I'm going to carry you to bed. Nobody should be up this early on a Sunday."
He shifts so that he can stand, and I press my hand against his thigh.
"Wait."
The muscle of his thigh is tense beneath my hand, like a spring ready to explode. His entire body seems to quiver with the struggle of restraint, and when his eyes meet mine, I see the moment when realization hits him. "No," he says, his voice as taut as a wire. "That's not what you want. Not now."
"Please," I say, because right then he is exactly what I need. "Help me fight my demons. Tuck me up in bed like a child and it will feel like he's won. Like he's taken something from me."
He cocks his head, his blue eyes as sharp as lasers and at least as penetrating. I hold his gaze, wanting him to see not only what I need, but what I want.
"Please," I repeat after another moment clicks by. "Don't you get it? I wanted you so desperately last night, but not like that. Not when it felt like revenge. Like you wanted to fuck me out of your head or something."
"Oh, baby." He cups my cheek in his palm. "I never wanted you out of my head. Just the opposite. I wanted you too damn much."
"Then stay with me." I don't have the words to tell him how much I need this. How much I need him. And I can only hope that he can hear it in my voice. "I need you. And oh, dear god, I've missed you."
"Sylvia." My name is so soft that it's little more than air upon his lips. Then he cups my head in both hands and pulls me toward him. "I'm going to make love to you, Syl. And if you don't want me to do that, you need to say something right now."
I say nothing, merely tilt my head back and part my lips in silent invitation.
And when he bends his head to mine--when he brushes his lips softly over my mouth as if testing this new reality--I cannot help the moan of acquiescence and pleasure.
I lift my arms to wrap around his neck, then pull him closer. I know what I am risking--only a few hours ago, the nightmares had sent me running, literally, for the hills.
But it is morning now, and I do not intend to sleep anytime soon.
And when the nightmares do inevitably find me ... Well, I guess it will be worth it.
fourteen
Jackson's mouth closes over mine, his lips soft, yet demanding. But right now, no demand is required, and I surrender eagerly, opening my mouth to him, welcoming him. Letting him fill me, taste me, consume me.
His hands are on the chaise, one on the back support and the other on the cushion near my waist. Our bodies touch only at our lips, and yet every inch of me is alive with awareness, as if there is not even the tiniest bit of flesh that he has not explored and brought to life with his finger, his lips, his tongue.
He breaks the kiss, then sits beside me as I gasp, trying to remember who and where I am. "I'm going to take you inside," he says, even as he moves to gather me up.
"No." I push his arms away, the plea clear in both the word and my tone. "No, I want to stay."
"You have neighbors," he says, though I don't really. My balcony is private on both sides, and though it is theoretically possible that someone is on top of the roof of one of the retail buildings across the street and looking this direction and through the glass barrier with a pair of binoculars at four in the morning, I highly doubt it.
I say nothing, just take his hand, and tug him toward me.
"That's what you want?"
"Yes."
He lifts a brow. "I suppose that's fair. In our original deal, you belonged to me. So for this morning, I'm entirely yours."
I lick my lips. "Entirely?"
His smile manages to be both devious and sensual. "Tell me what you want, Sylvia. Exactly what you want."
I meet his eyes. "Undress me," I demand.
His mouth curves up, his eyes bright. "At your service," he says as his fingers work down the buttons of my dress.
He makes a quick job of it, doing no more and no less than removing my dress, and since I had burst out of the hotel in nothing else, I am now completely naked.
But there had been nothing sensual about his movements. No seduction. No stolen caresses. And though I am frustrated at first, I soon realize what he is doing. Despite his promise, Jackson Steele is still playing games.
"Stroke me," I say. "Draw your fingers over my belly and down to my sex. But not quite there. I want to be teased. I want you to take me to the edge."
"Do you?" His brow arches up as he considers my words. "Well then, I think we can manage that."
I smile, then lay my head back and close my eyes, losing myself to his touch as he gently trails his fingers over my flesh, the touch light and enticing and full of promise. He draws small circles on my abdomen, then trails down in spirals to my pubis. His fingers trace the triangle of trimmed hair, and I gasp from the sensual, almost ticklish touch of his fingertip along the juncture of groin and thigh.
He cheats a bit when he bends low and blows a thin stream of air directly on my clit, but the sensation is too incredible for me to complain about breaking rules, and I only arch up in a silent demand for more, which, thankfully, he understands.
The cool air on my hot clit is mind-blowing, and I spread my legs, wanting his mouth, his tongue.
"No," he whispers. "I want to hear you say it."
"Lick me," I beg. "Go down on me. Please, Jackson, god, please."
Thankfully, he doesn't hesitate, and he takes my sex in his mouth, his tongue laving me, drawing me higher and higher with gentle flicks upon my clit. Thrusting his tongue into me with so much force, so much power, that I'm not sure I can stand it. But it's not his tongue that I want, because all I desire in that moment is for him to fill me, wholly and completely.
"Jackson." I close my fingers in his hair and tug his head up so that his eyes meet mine. "Kiss me," I demand. "Fuck me."
His slow smile sets my skin on fire, and he moves off the chaise to stand beside me. Slowly, he takes off his shirt, then peels off his slacks, his briefs. He stands there, naked and erect and with such longing on his face that I do not know how either of us will survive this night, because I am certain that when we come together the explosion will destroy us both.
"I don't have a condom," he says.
I reach for him. "I don't care. I want you. And if you say it's okay, then I believe you."
"It's okay," he says, then moves on top of me. He starts low, his lips on my hip, then kisses his way up my body, stopping at my breast to lick and tug and tease so much that the sensation shoots through me, all the way to my clit, and I have to stop him for fear that I will come right then.
His cock is hard between my legs. I spread my thighs, wanting him to find my center, and when he does, I toss my head back and gasp. In that moment, he captures me with a kiss, then thrusts inside me.
My body captures him, draws him in, and as his tongue thrusts inside my mouth, his cock pounds int
o me, harder and harder as if every moment of the last five years is hidden in each thrust.
This isn't like before. It's not revenge sex. It's not make-up sex.
It's need and demand and lust and passion. It's us. And it finally feels right.
His touch--our connection--sends me spiraling up faster than I wanted, and yet at the same time I have no desire to hold back. I want the explosion. I want him. I want everything that we have shared and will share.
I want the world, and with Jackson I do not think that is too much to ask.
And with that thought, I shatter, exploding like a billion pieces of colored glass as he slides against me, filling me, touching my core--and then, oh yes, finding his own release inside me.
He stays over me for a moment as the colors fall like stars around us. His arms tense as they support his weight above me. He watches me, his expression so tender that I wish once again I could cry, because it seems as if there is no other release for all the emotion I'm feeling.
"Sylvia."
It's all he says. Just my name. But it holds a world of meaning. And when he lowers himself and I curl close to him, I draw in a sigh and know that, right then at least, I am content.
I do not know how long we lay there, naked on the chaise. I haven't slept. Instead, I've simply felt Jackson's touch as I look out at the moon reflecting on the Pacific's waves in the distance, with the deep gray of the sky reaching down to touch the water. "I want a house," I say, though I don't know what made me think of it. "I want a rooftop patio and I want it in the hills. Somewhere with a lot of land, but a view of the ocean."
"Already tired of your new place, and you haven't even unpacked?"
I reach for the blanket and pull it up to ward off the nighttime chill. It is almost not necessary, though. Jackson is like a furnace, and his heat warms me as I curl against him, my cheek to his chest, so that I hear both his heartbeat and the reverberation of his voice when he speaks.
"I love this place," I say. "But I want to see the stars. I want a velvet black sky. And I want to be able to hear the sound of the ocean's waves breaking." I start to mention that I hold Damien and Nikki's Malibu house up as the gold standard, but decide that perhaps this isn't the moment to bring my boss into the conversation.