On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

“Stark-owned, huh? Does that mean you’re comped at the bar?”

My chest feels a thousand times lighter, because whatever storm was threatening to build has dissipated, and I feel only the sweet warmth of sun between us. “Not just me,” I say. “My entire party.”

“In that case, this will be a celebration. Let’s go partake of my brother’s alcohol.”

Traffic is uncommonly light, and we maneuver the surface streets easily. Before I know it, we’re on Sunset, idling in a line of cars waiting for the valet. As I’d expected, there’s a crowd waiting to get in, even on a Thursday. This is a Stark property, after all, and like all things Damien, it’s done right, making Westerfield’s one of the city’s most popular nightspots.

“Just pass the line,” I say. “We’ll park in the back in the owner’s slot.” I’m looking ahead, pointing toward the turn into the driveway, and so I see Cass in line behind the velvet rope too late. I frown, but figure that’s okay. We’ll park, go through the building, and usher her in through the front.

The driveway leads to a small, gated parking area in the back. I give Jackson the code to punch in, and once the gate lifts, I point him toward the owner’s slot, then take my Stark International parking pass out of my purse and hang it from Jackson’s rearview mirror. As far as job perks go, that pass is one of the most useful. Parking in Los Angeles is a nightmare, but Stark owns enough property around the city to ease the pain.

“This will be staying here overnight,” I tell Jackson. “But don’t worry. The security on the lot is first rate.”

“Are we camping out?”

“No,” I say, grabbing his collar and pulling him toward me for the kind of long, slow kiss that makes my toes tingle. “But I intend to get you very, very drunk.” I hold up my phone. “I’ll text the office to send a car when we’re ready to go. Okay?”

“So long as you’re getting me drunk in order to have your wicked way with me, I have no objections at all.”

“Then we’re all good.” I grin, delighted, and reach for the handle to open my door.

“Wait.”

I pause and look back at him, expecting him to say something else. But all he does is reach out for the chain around my neck. He pulls out the vibrator and lets it hang outside my shirt.

“Jackson! What if someone realizes what it is?”

“It’s a bold statement. It says you like sex. You do like sex, don’t you?” His voice has dropped, and so has his hand. It’s cupping my breast now, and I feel my heart flutter beneath his touch and my nipple harden simply from the feel of him.

“And since I’m the only one who gets to enjoy the pleasure of touching you, all it does is make people realize that I am a very lucky man.”

I swallow, but I don’t protest again. Even when we’re not in bed, this thing between us—control and submission—is like a game. And I always play to win.

We enter through the rear service area. The kitchen and storerooms are back here, along with lockers for the employees. The area is relatively quiet and definitely not crowded, and going from this back area to the main floor of the club is like being thrust into Fantasia.

The music is loud, the dance floor crowded. The guests at the bar are stacked three thick, and the bartenders are moving with a controlled, exuberant efficiency. They’re all excellent at what they do; to survive a night at Westerfield’s, they have to be.

I grab Jackson’s hand and tug him across the dance floor toward the front door, adding in a few moves as we make progress in that direction. Right before we get to the front seating area, he pulls me close, spins me, then dips me, just like in an old Ginger Rogers movie.

I laugh, even more so when the couple beside us starts applauding.

“Don’t say I never took you dancing,” he quips as we move counter to the flow of traffic toward the front door. Right now, it really just serves as an entrance, since it’s early enough that no one is leaving yet. Which explains why the crowd waiting in line starts to buzz happily when Jackson and I step outside—two people leaving means two more spaces in the club.

I shatter their dreams, though, when I bend down and explain to the bouncer that we need to get someone halfway down the line inside the club.

To be honest, it would be easier to go in through the VIP entrance. But I forgot to tell Cass to go there, and now she’d have to walk all the way around the building to get to it.

There is a general grumble when we wave her up from the middle of the line, and she’s allowed in past the dozens of people waiting ahead of her.