eleven
I'm in the short hallway leading to my bedroom when the intercom buzzes promptly at eight.
I've been standing there, my dress open, my body angled to put the lingerie to best effect as I look at myself in the mirror. As I do, my fingers touch my tats. Or, at least, the ones that will give me strength tonight.
The flame that Cass put on my breast, now slightly slick with the ointment I applied to soothe and protect it.
The lock that hides just under the tiny thong panties.
And the ribbon of initials marking the men I have claimed.
Each reminding me that I know how to do this.
Each a symbol that I can keep control. That I can prove to myself and to Jackson that I'm the one using him to get what I want, and not the one being used.
I start to button up the dress, expecting another buzz of the intercom. An annoyed second try, because how dare I make him wait.
But the next sound is not a buzz. Instead, it's a sharp rap at my front door, and I tense because just that tiny deviation from the plan is enough to rattle my nerves.
Get it together, Syl. Just keep it the fuck together.
"One sec," I call, and then I button the dress slowly. Not because I want to make him wait--though that is an unexpected side benefit--but because my hands are shaking just enough to make the task more difficult than it should be.
I take one deep breath followed by another. And then I go to the door.
I stand tall as I pull it open, because I want to look confident. Nonchalant. Like this is just any other date on any other day. But all of my good intentions go to hell the moment I see him.
He is leaning casually against the door frame in khaki slacks and a faded denim button-down. His hair is slicked back from his face, and his eyes are hidden behind aviator style glasses that partially cover the cut on his cheek. He hasn't shaved and I can't help the way my fingers itch to stroke the stubble that makes him look even more masculine and delicious.
Without a word, he takes off the glasses to reveal eyes that are filled with so much wicked promise it makes me aware of how very little I wear beneath this dress.
It's not the reaction I want--tonight, he is supposed to melt for me, not the other way around. And so I cock my head and keep my face blank, the kind of expression I've relied on to get me through so many of Damien's business meetings, where my role is to simply take notes and not react to the progress of negotiations.
"How did you get through the security gate?"
"I'm a man of many talents," he says, then steps past me into the foyer. As he does, our hands brush, and though I don't want to feel anything, there is no denying the sparks that this man generates in me. I tell myself that's okay. I can use that. I can let my own attraction to him fuel my performance.
And I can let his attraction to me cement his fall.
"The dress looks lovely on you," he says, examining me with a look so incendiary it's a wonder my blood doesn't boil. "But I knew it would. The memory of you looking innocent in yellow is burned in my mind. But you weren't innocent at all, were you?"
My foyer is little more than a short hallway, and now I lean against the wall beside the door, feeling a bit trapped as he stands in front of me, just close enough to be inside my personal space. Just close enough for me to catch his scent.
Just close enough that I can't help but remember.
"Don't tell me you've forgotten." His words are an eerie echo of my thoughts, and as he reaches out, I draw in a breath, unprepared for his touch. But it is not me he's reaching for, and when I realize that all he is doing is closing the door, I release a shaky breath--and curse the wave of disappointment that crashes over me.
"I haven't," he continues, apparently unconcerned that I have yet to say a word. "You in yellow, as bright as the sun shining through the car window. You unbuttoning your dress, revealing yourself to me. Touching yourself, teasing yourself. And it was me you imagined, wasn't it, princess? Me who filled your thoughts. Who made you hot. Who made you need. Open your eyes," he demands, and I do, surprised to realize that I had shut them in the first place.
He is right there, so close I can feel his heat. So near that all I would have to do is lean slightly forward to feel him warm and hard against me.
I do the opposite, leaning back, my palms flat against the wall behind me as I desperately wish that I could sink into the drywall and simply disappear.
"Tell me you remember, princess. Tell me you remember how it felt."
I want to stay silent--to prove to him that even though he thinks that he took control the moment he walked through my doorway, it isn't true.
Except, of course, it is. I may have hoped to keep the upper hand, but I should have known better. I know the man, don't I? And I know myself, too.
"Tell me," he repeats.
I tilt my head back. I meet his eyes. And I give him the answer he's looking for. "Yes. I remember. And I remember you wanted me, too."
"I did. I do." His smile is thin and cunning and just a little bit wicked. "Looks like I'm about to get what I want." As gently as a summer breeze, he brushes his fingertip over the swell of my breast.
I draw in a breath, determined to fight against the heat that even so simple a touch is fueling in me.
"I think you're going to get what you want too, princess."
"I want the resort, Jackson." I meet his eyes, making sure that mine show nothing but cold calculation. "The resort. And like you, I'm willing to do whatever it takes to get exactly what I want."
As far as I can tell, my words don't faze him at all. If anything, he seems amused. "And that's why your new dress is red. You've lost your innocence, princess."
"Stop calling me that."
He cocks his head, as if considering. "My rules," he says. "Or had you forgotten already?"
"Dammit, Jackson." I don't know why the nickname bothers me when his touch did not. There's nothing in a name, after all. And it is his touch--and my reaction to it--that reveals so much.
Even so, I don't like the endearment. And the extent of my distaste bothers me enough that I push away from the wall and then push past him, away from this corner in which he's trapped me and where my face and body reveal far too much.
I hurry through my small living area and stop by the patio door. It's down, and I place my hand on one of the glass panes as I look out at the world. That's where I want to be--out there, not trapped in here with my past and a man I cannot deny I want, but can no longer have. A man whose mere presence makes me just a little bit crazy even though I need to hang on tight to cold rationality.
I do not hear his footsteps, but I see his reflection, and I am expecting it when he places his hand on my shoulder. Even so, I close my eyes as if in defense against the powerful surge of longing that cuts through me when he bends his head and kisses the back of my neck.
"Don't," I whisper.
"Don't? I believe the terms of my offer were clear." He takes a step back as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. His eyes meet mine in the reflection. "So you tell me. Do we have a deal? Or should I call Damien and tell him I'm not your guy, after all?"
"Dammit, Jackson. Why are you doing this?"
"You know why."
I shake my head, though that is a lie. Because I do know. It's retribution. It's punishment.
I saved myself from one type of hell only to be thrust headfirst into another.
"No? Well then, let me tell you. I'm doing this because I want you to remember." His lips brush my neck again, then move up to dance lightly upon the curve of my ear, making me tremble with sensual longing.
"I'm doing this because I want you to understand what you gave up." His hands stroke my shoulders, then down over the short sleeves of the dress until he reaches the bare skin of my arms. He continues, finally finding my hands and twining his fingers with mine.
"I want you to know the future that you threw away, princess," he says, as he lifts our joined hands to cup them over m
y breasts.
I stiffen, my body a riot of emotions and sensations. I want to lash out against him--to tell him to go to hell, because I damn well know what I gave up. I know it as well as I know that I had to. And at the same time I want to melt into him. To let his touch take me all the places that I've imagined over the last five years. To let him have me so fully and completely that I am used up and there is no room for fear or nightmares or memories.
But that, of course, is impossible.
Most of all, I want to turn in his arms and kiss him. I want the Jackson I once had, not the one who stands here today. Not the one who sees only the woman who hurt him, and not the woman who could have fallen in love with him.
And so I do nothing. I just stand there, trying hard to ignore the sensation of my hands upon my body--of his hands upon my own. Trying to breathe. Trying to get centered.
And trying desperately to remember that it had been my plan all along to take charge of this night, and wondering how things could have turned so horribly sideways.
Finally, I push my hands back down to my sides, then force myself to turn around even though he doesn't step back. He's so close that our bodies are brushing, and I have to tilt my head back in order to see his face.
"That really is what this is about, isn't it? You just want to punish me."
"Hell yes," he says. "And I think that's what you want, too."
"Excuse me?"
"Maybe you feel guilty about ending it the way you did. Maybe that's why you've agreed to my terms."
"I haven't agreed to anything. You ambushed me."
For a moment, I think I see compassion in his eyes. Then they go cold again. Good. I want them to be ice. I want them to freeze me. I don't want to melt for this man. I don't want to feel the heat. I don't want to succumb to the guilt that he is so damn right about.
"I see right through you, princess," he finally says. "And you can play games all you want, but you and I both know that you're fighting. Well, guess what? I am, too. And I'm not accustomed to losing."
He reaches out and ever so slowly undoes the top button of the dress.
"What are you doing?"
"What you're letting me do."
"I--"
"You can stop me, princess. Just say the word."
I lick my lips, but I do not move and I do not protest. I tell myself that I cannot back down--I cannot give up the resort.
But that isn't the only truth, and I know it as well as he does.
The truth is I want this, too. And since I can't willingly give it, then I will acquiesce to letting him take it.
"Good girl," he says, as he flips open the second button, then the third to reveal the black lace of the demi-cup bra, the swell of my breasts, and my very erect, very sensitive, nipples.
"Like I said," he murmurs, then bends close to take my nipple between his lips. He sucks, drawing it in, then grazing the tender flesh with his teeth and sending coils of red-hot desire spinning though me to throb with violent intensity between my legs. "You want this as much as I do."
"You bastard," I say, and he only laughs.
"Princess, you don't even know the half of it."
He returns his mouth to my breast, his lips skimming my cleavage as he moves to find my other nipple. "Why don't you finish those buttons?" he murmurs, his lips never leaving my skin.
"What?" His words haven't quite registered with me, at least not until he takes my hand and places it on the fourth button, then lets his own fingers trail up to tease the nipple that he'd abandoned, cool and tight and still wet from his tongue.
Oh, god.
His teeth nip me, and I arch in pleasure, understanding that this is not just a sensual tease but a silent demand.
And so help me, I comply, moving my fingers down the dress with slow, steady movements. I keep my back to the patio door, because what he is doing to my breasts is making me crazy, and I'm afraid that if I don't have that support my legs will simply give out.
When I'm almost done with the buttons, he pulls back, remov ing his mouth from my breast and forcing me to bite back a whimper of protest.
"Don't fight it, princess," he says. "I see it on your face, in the flush of your skin. Even in your eyes, that you're trying to keep so cool and hard. Don't you know that I see what you want? That I feel what you need?"
My traitorous body aches with the desire for him to touch me, and I can only stand there frozen, unable and unwilling to give in to his games.
"Go ahead," he says, as if reading my thoughts. "Touch yourself. Show me how you like it. Show me exactly how to put my hands on you."
I shake my head. "Jackson. No."
"My rules, princess, remember?" He reaches for the dress and eases me out of it. He tosses it backward so that it lands on the couch. And there I stand, clad only in the sexy underwear and fuck-me red heels.
"Christ, you're gorgeous," he says, and there's such honest arousal in his voice that I'm overcome with a sense of deja vu. I've stood like this before. Dressed like this--or, rather, undressed like this. Hot and wet and wanting, and Jackson's eyes on me, so full of desire that I could drown in them.
But that night I'd wanted everything he had to give--and I hadn't been afraid. Not then. The fear had come later.
Tonight--god help me--I want it, too. And that scares me to death.
"Go ahead, princess," he says, lifting my hand and placing my palm against my stomach. "I want to watch you melt."
I meet his eyes, expecting to see heat. But all I see is the mask of a man holding tight to his emotions.
Fuck that--if he's going to force me to play, then I'm going to play to win.
"Is this what you want?" I ask, sliding my hand up to my breast and finding the nipple that he just abandoned. I close my hand over my breast, squeezing and teasing, then so slowly it is almost painful I trace my fingertip over my tight areola. "Or maybe this?" I ask as I roll my nipple between my thumb and forefinger. I suck in air, more turned on by my performance than I'd intended to be, but I see the flicker of heat in his eyes.
Touchdown.
"Do you like to watch, Jackson?" I slide my other hand down my belly, all the way to the elastic band of the tiny thong panties and the little triangle of lace that barely covers my sex. Then lower and lower still. "Or do you want more? Is that it, Jackson? Do you want to touch me? Do you want to fuck me?"
I see the way the muscle in his jaw clenches. I watch his throat move as he swallows. And I wallow in the pleasure of my victory.
"Do you know how wet I am? How good I feel?" My words are not a lie. Despite the situation--hell, maybe because of it--my body is traitorously aroused, and as I stroke my clit, I can't deny the simple reality that I am all the more turned on because I know that he is watching me.
I tell myself that's okay. The only goal here is to keep the upper hand. If I can manage an orgasm in the process, well, I'll just call that a perk.
I keep my eyes on him, watching his face and relishing the tightness in his jaw that signals he is fighting for control. Good, I think as I shamelessly stroke my sex. I want him on edge. I want him off kilter.
I close my eyes, telling myself to go with it. To push the envelope. To push him.
But then his hand closes around my wrist. And when I open my eyes, he is right there--right in front of me.
"No," he says, and there is steel in his voice. "That orgasm belongs to me, baby."
And just like that, he's turned the tables on me again.
Fine. I'll turn them back. "Does it?" I say, then reach over and cup his cock. "Then this belongs to me."
He laughs as he takes a step back, breaking contact. "You think you're the one in control? Think again, princess."
I meet his eyes and see that he has known all along what I have just fully figured out. That I do not have the upper hand. That I never did. And that so long as we are playing this game, Jackson is setting the rules.
"No touching," he says. "Not unless it's me touching you. But do
n't worry," he adds as he strokes a finger up my bare belly and over the curve of my breast. "I intend to do a lot of touching."
His hands are like a live wire sending sparks of electricity to crackle over my tender skin, and despite myself I let my head tilt back and close my eyes to this onslaught of pleasure.
"So damn beautiful," he murmurs as his hands touch and stroke and tease and caress. "I wonder," he says, as he cups my sex. "Do you still taste as good as you look?" He drops to his knees, his hands on my hips, then very gently kisses the juncture of my thigh. I whimper, expecting his mouth on my sex, but he teases me by sliding a fingertip under the thong to find me hot and wet and so very ready. "Oh, yes," he says. "I think you like this."
He torments me with his finger, sliding it over my sensitive flesh, then thrusting inside me while my body clenches tight around him, wanting so much more than that simple, complicated, wonderful touch.
When he withdraws, he stands, then traces the finger he'd penetrated me with over my lips. "Suck," he demands, and I do eagerly, tasting my own arousal and watching the reflection of his in his eyes.
After a moment, he withdraws his finger, then takes my hand. He leads me toward the couch, only to pause by the coffee table. I'm confused at first, and then I realize that he has seen the photographs that litter the tabletop.
I wince, because those are a secret that I am not ready to share.
He releases my hand, then goes to the table. He looks down at the spray of photos that I'd left lying there, then reaches down to pick up several. "Who took this?" he asks, holding up a photograph of the Union Bank building in Las Vegas.
I consider lying, but the photo is important to me, and I do not want to deny it.
"I did." I meet his eyes, mine defiant.
"When?"
I don't bother to answer; the picture says it all.
"You were at the grand opening?"
"I was in Vegas for work." That was a lie. I was in Vegas for the grand opening.
His eyes linger on me long enough that I think he has seen the lie. Then he holds up the photo of the Winn Building. "This one?"
"I go to New York with Damien all the time. And photography is a hobby. I think I mentioned that back in Atlanta. Or had you forgotten?"
"I haven't forgotten a thing about Atlanta." His voice is low and steady and his eyes never stray from mine. "Not a single moment."
I say nothing, but my mouth has gone strangely dry.