by J. Kenner
Jackson's no doormat, either, and he interjects a number of points to clarify what Ollie has said or to ask for further explanation. He's so helpful, that despite my still raw nerves, I'm grateful that he's come.
"So I've given you a lot to consider," Ollie says as the meeting draws to a close. "Your homework is to think about bringing in investors. It will reduce your risk substantially, but also reduces your overall equity position. It all boils down to risk and reward. And control," he adds. "Right now, you're the only face of Totally Tattoo, and you have been for a while. Think about whether that's something you're willing to give up."
"I will," she promises.
We say our goodbyes, then head for the lobby while Ollie goes in the opposite direction to his office.
"Thanks so much for coming, you guys," Cass says, giving me a hug. Then she turns to Jackson and gives him a hug as well. "You're as awesome as Syl said you were."
"Am I?" Jackson says, looking over her head to me.
I bite my lip, realizing that this is the first time they've actually met. And also realizing that I haven't yet had the chance to bring Cass up to speed on the most recent drama.
"Zee was totally irritated that I couldn't meet her right after work, so I'm going to go try to catch up with her for drinks. You guys want to come?"
I shake my head. "I'm meeting Wyatt for a photography session. And I need to run home and change and get my camera first." I'd thought about canceling when Nikki left a voice mail, excited to learn that Damien was taking her to New York tonight. But the truth is, I haven't spent enough time behind the lens lately. And right now I'm messed up enough that the idea of forgetting everything else except form and light and composition is pretty damned appealing.
"Have fun," Cass says. She gestures to the elevator. "Y'all going down?"
I start to say yes, but Jackson touches my elbow. "Go ahead," he says. "I want Sylvia to myself for a minute."
Cass grins. "Of course you do." She nods toward the reception desk, where Cyndee talks on her headset to a caller. "Just be discreet."
She winks, then pushes through the door to the elevator bank.
"Thanks," I say when she's gone. "It was nice of you to come."
"I told you I would."
"You did." I shift my weight, hating how awkward I feel around him. "I didn't think that you would."
"You should have more faith in me," he says, and I know he's not talking about Cass.
Maybe he's right. Maybe I should. But I say none of that out loud. I just shrug and repeat myself. "Anyway, I am glad you came. It means a lot to her."
"And to you."
"Yes. And to me."
He looks at me for a minute, his gaze so steady that it feels as though he's memorizing my face. "You know what you know, Sylvia. Don't second-guess yourself."
I look away, unwilling to meet his eyes. I don't like the way his words sting, the way they bring out everything that I'm afraid of.
But mostly I'm afraid that I've screwed up. And that I've lost him again.
I'm back on Damien's desk on Wednesday, and the day is so crazy with him out of the office and the various fires that I need to put out that I have very little time to think about Jackson.
I'm grateful for that small blessing.
I'm even more grateful that I don't see him all day, but when seven o'clock rolls around and the building starts to empty out, I find myself thinking more and more about him. It's stupid, because I'm not ready to see him again. I don't know what I want to say or how I want to say it.
But that doesn't change the fact that I'm craving him, and the fact that he hasn't come up to see me--that he doesn't crave me, too--is bothering me more than I like to admit.
And so even though it makes me feel like I'm in high school all over again, I call down to building security and ask Joe if Jackson is in the building.
"No, ma'am, Ms. Brooks. He hasn't been in today at all."
I hang up the phone and feel like a fool. Because the truth is, I could have gone home an hour ago, but I'd been hanging out hoping to see Jackson, when Jackson wasn't even here to be seen.
I'm a mess and I know it, and as I drive home, I call Cass, who sounds about as stressed as I feel.
"What's wrong?" Pathetic, perhaps, but I'm happy to know that I'm not the only one having a truly fucked up day.
"Nothing. I'm just freaking out about the franchise thing. Zee thinks it's a mistake."
"Why?"
"I don't know." Cass sounds both exhausted and exasperated. "She says it's too much of a commitment. That it'll take too much of my time. She says it already has, because I've spent most of today reading all the material Ollie gave me, and then some. Plus she was pissy that I didn't get to see much of her last night."
I frown. "She wants to be with you," I say, hoping that I am right. "You two just started dating, so she's jealous of everyone who has your time. That includes your job."
"I guess. Listen, I have a raging headache and we're open late tonight and I'm booked back-to-back. I'm going to go pop some ibuprofen and get ready for my next client. Hey," she adds, almost like an afterthought. "Why'd you call anyway? Are you okay?"
"I'm great," I lie, then let her go.
I tell myself that I should believe my own press, and as I let myself into my condo I repeat the words like a mantra. I'm great. I'm awesome. I'm doing just fine.
The mantra is not working very well, so I decide to take a page from Cass's book and self-medicate.
Ibuprofen, however, is not my drug of choice. That would be Kahlua over vanilla ice cream and as many reruns of Friends as I can stand.
I know that I have fallen asleep when Ross steps out of the screen and turns into Bob.
"You're not real," I say. "Not anymore. You're just a dream."
"I'm as real as it gets, and we both know it." He takes a step toward me, his camera aimed at my face. "What did you think? That he would save you? He fucked you up as much as I did."
I shake my head. "No."
"He can't help you. But I can give you what you want. We both know you liked it."
"No."
He reaches for me, his fingers cold as they slip over my skin. He tries to close his hand around my wrist, but I jerk free and run, racing down dark corridors, through half-constructed sky rises, and then out onto long steel girders that are suspended across the sky.
"He can't save you. You can't even save yourself."
He's coming closer, but I can't let him get me. I look around frantically, not sure what I am searching for but knowing that I have to find it.
And then I see him.
Jackson.
He is on the ground, at least thirty stories below.
He holds out his arms. "Make the jump, Sylvia. Make the jump and I'll catch you."
I turn to see Bob coming closer. "Nobody can catch you," he says. "You're just going to crash and burn."
"Dammit, Sylvia, trust me." Jackson's voice is crystal clear despite the distance between us.
And though it scares me to make the leap--though I am about to go flying out into the abyss with nothing but his arms to save me--I throw myself off the building and hurtle through the wild blue sky to the man waiting on the ground to save me.
twenty-two
I got Rachel to cover my desk Thursday afternoon because I just couldn't be in the office any longer. Because I needed to apologize to Jackson, and because I knew exactly how I was going to do that.
But now that I'm here at the marina, all I've done for the last twenty minutes is stand on the dock looking at the Veronica.
Jackson's in there--I'm sure of it. I saw his shadow pass through his office right as I arrived. And yet even though he's the reason I came, I can't quite make myself go in. I'm afraid that he'll push me away--and I don't think that I could stand that.
No. He won't. He's your knight. He's the one who's going to save you.
I nod, bolstered by my thoughts. Then I hitch my tote bag up more securel
y onto my shoulder and make my way onto the boat.
Nothing is locked. Not the gate to the boat nor any of the doors once I'm on board.
It's not exactly safe, but I can't deny that he's made it easy.
I go first to his work area, but he's not there, so I head down to the bedroom.
The shower is running, and I hesitate outside the bathroom door, tempted to join him. Then I glance back at the bed and decide that I have a better plan.
At least, it's better if he doesn't kick me out. But I'm running that risk either way, so best to just not worry about it.
I set my tote bag on the floor, then take out the things I've brought. I made a quick shopping stop on the way over, and I place each item on the bed, then bite my lip, afraid that maybe I've gone a little too far.
Then again, what's that saying? Go big or go home? As far as I'm concerned, those are words to live by.
I hear the shower cut off, and know that he will be back here soon. I debate, but then make a last second decision. I peel myself out of my skirt and blouse, bra and panties. I leave on the black stilettos, though. And I grab a starched white button-down from Jackson's closet and slide into it, buttoning all but the top three buttons.
It hangs to mid-thigh and from the small image in the mirror over the built-in dresser I think I look cute and sexy--and hopefully desirable and forgivable.
At any rate, it's too late now, because the door is opening and Jackson is entering, and I suck in a breath when he steps fully into the room and I see him, lean and tan and perfect, with nothing but a thin towel slung low around his hips.
"Sylvia."
I can't read his reaction in his tone, and so I just clear my throat and manage a weak smile. "You should lock your boat if you're going to be in the shower. You never know who might let themselves in."
"I don't usually shower during the afternoon. For some reason, I've been distracted." His eyes skim over me, and though his voice is still flat, the towel does little to hide his arousal. And though I know that doesn't necessarily mean he will forgive me, I am more than willing to be optimistic and take that as a good sign.
I'm about to launch into an apology, but Jackson speaks first.
"What's all this?" he asks with a nod to the bed. And this time, there is no doubt that there is heat in his voice.
I clear my throat as he picks up a coil of nylon rope. "I, um, I stopped by Come Again," I say, referring to a local sex toy shop. "I was trying to figure out how to say I'm sorry that I doubted you. That I didn't trust you."
He puts down the rope and picks up a vibrator. He cocks his head when he looks at me, and though my face heats so much that I'm afraid of burning the boat, I'm grateful that he looks not only amused but intrigued. "And you trust me now?"
"Yes." The word is simple and entirely true.
He moves on to the small leather paddle, then whaps it lightly against his palm before looking at me with such wild and dangerous lust I am tempted to forgo my apology and beg him to just fuck me.
"What made you change your mind?"
I lick my lips. "I didn't. I realized that I always trusted you. I just got caught up in the noise and the doubt. It's a vile thing. It seeps into the cracks. It can destroy things." I draw a deep breath. "Jackson, I'm so sorry."
He doesn't respond in kind, instead he glances at the selection of sex toys. "And this is how you intend to prove it?"
"It seemed like a good idea at the time."
There is no reading his expression, and I'm both nervous and frustrated. I want his forgiveness. I want his touch.
I want him, plain and simple.
And right now I have no idea how I will survive if he tells me to get off his boat.
"You don't need all of this."
"Are you saying you want me to leave?"
Something like pain slashes across his face. "God, no."
"Then this is what I need, Jackson. You said so yourself."
"Sylvia--"
"Dammit, I'm not breakable. I need you to know how much I trust you. This is what I want." I pick up the paddle. "I fucked up, Jackson. Don't you want to spank me?"
I close the distance between us, then breathe in the scent of him, all soap and shampoo as I watch the fire flare in his eyes. He takes the paddle from me and tosses it onto the bed, then grabs my wrist and pulls me close. "Don't you get it? I pushed you in Atlanta and you ran."
"We talked about this on the way to Malibu. About why I ran. About what I was running from. You're the one who said it. Bondage. Kink. Toys. That's what you promised me. And you were right."
"That was before--"
"Before I told you the full story?"
I see the affirmation in his eyes. "I don't want to push too hard," he says.
"I want you to push," I counter. "I want you to push harder and farther. I want you to take me as far as you want, as far as you need. You're holding back because you think I need you to. Reining in what you want. Who you are. Control and power, remember? That's what you told me you are."
He says nothing, so I rush on.
"You said you could anchor me. That I get off on being used, but only by someone I trust. That you like control. That it makes you hot and hard." I take a breath and try to slow down. "You told me you wanted me to submit to you. Do you still want that?"
"Desperately." The word sounds as though it's been ripped from him. "But I'll tell you again what I said before. Not if the price is breaking you."
"You won't. You can't." I slide my arms around his waist and tilt my head back so that I can look at him. At this man who is strong enough to hold back so that he doesn't hurt me. "You're my glue, Jackson. My glue, my knight, my hero."
"That's a lot of responsibility."
I narrow my eyes and grin, because I've finally heard the acquiescence in his voice. "Can you handle it?"
"I think I can struggle through."
"Then we start slow," I say. "But we go large."
He takes a step back so that he can see all of me with just a flick of his gaze, from my heels all the way up to my eyes. "What do you have on under my shirt?"
"Nothing."
His eyes darken with the kind of passionate promise that makes my sex clench in anticipation. He walks around me slowly, and though I don't move, I can feel his eyes upon me, and every inch of my body tingles with awareness.
He moves to the bed and retrieves the paddle he'd thrown there only moments before. "You have been naughty. But I don't want this."
I'm surprised by the wave of disappointment that crashes over me. I'm not sure how I can miss something I haven't yet experienced, but I cannot deny that I want it. Like a tattoo, I want Jackson to mark me, and I am about to confess that to him when he steps up behind me and bends his mouth to my ear. "When I spank you, sweetheart, it will be my palm on your ass. Not leather. Not a tool. Nothing at all between you and me. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"Have you been bad?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I should have trusted you."
"Do you trust me now?"
I turn, because I need to see him. "Completely."
My answer seems to spark something in him, because he grabs my shoulders and pulls me close, as if he is going to kiss me. He doesn't, though, and the anticipation leaves me breathless. When he backs away to sit on the storage bench at the foot of the bed, I am left gasping from the force of my rising desire.
"Here," he says. "Over my knee."
I do as he says, positioning myself across his lap so that my rear end is right there for him. And, I realize with interest, I can feel his erection beneath the towel as it presses against me--and right now he is fully aroused, as turned on by this as I am.
Gently, he pushes up the shirt to reveal my ass. He keeps one hand on my back, but with the other, he strokes the curve of my rear, and just that simple motion makes me squirm.
"Still," he says, and I obey immediately. Or I try to, because his move
ments have changed. They're slower. More sensual. And when he slides his finger down to find how wet I am, I can't help but wiggle with pleasure. "You like this," he says. "Let's see if we can't make you like it more."
He lifts his hand, then brings his palm down on me. The sting is local at first, then seems to spread, a million tiny sparks that start out hot and then fade to a pleasurable glow. He repeats it, and this time a moan of pure pleasure is wrenched from me.
"That's it, baby," he says as he dips his finger lower to explore my drenched and ready sex. "Oh, yes, you definitely like that."
He lands another spank, then another, then soothes my ass with gentle strokes as fire seems to fill me, making me burn with a wild need.
Once again, he slides his hand down, but this time instead of simply teasing my sex, he thrusts in hard and I rise up on my toes, lifting my ass and giving him better access, because right then all I want is this. This feeling of spiraling off as Jackson pours pleasure through me. Of knowing that I can go as far as he can send me, but that he is my anchor and will bring me back.
He finger-fucks me, moving in and out in a rhythm that makes my pleasure rise, and as his cock twitches beneath me, I imagine that he is over me, pounding inside me, and I moan from the overwhelming pleasure of it all.
"Do you feel that?"
"Yes."
"That's me, baby. My cock. My hand. My skin. You brought the vibrator, and that's fine. I promise I'll make good use of it with you one day, but not now. Today, nothing gives you pleasure other than me. Do you understand?"
"Yes," I say as my muscles clench tight around his fingers, wanting to draw him in deeper. I'm close and so wet and my head is spinning and all I want right then is for Jackson to take me over, hard and fast and very thoroughly.
And then, because this is all about punishing me, he withdraws his finger.
I whimper, and he responds with a chuckle. "Patience, sweetheart." He gives my rear a very light swat, but even that simple contact sends sparks through me. "Bed," he says, and I know that I'm going to have to wait a bit longer for the sweet pleasure of release.
Then again, I'm on fire from what he's doing to me, dancing along a precipice, with my body primed and ready to fly. And oh, dear god, I want to know what he will make me feel next.