On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

“Cass.” My voice is tight, urgent. I start to shove through the crowd toward him, but Cass gets in front of me. She’s taller than me, and bulldozes a path through the swarm.

As soon as we reach the edge of the dance floor, I burst past her, no longer shy about using elbows to shove my way to Jackson. He’s standing now, and his fist is clenched. And I have a sudden premonition of the front page of Variety showing him and me and Cass and Graham Elliott all in a sprawl with fists and feet and teeth and fingernails.

It’s not a pretty mental image. And one I very much want to avoid.

I grab Jackson’s arm, my fingers closing tight around him. “With me,” I say. “Now.”

For a moment, I think he’s actually going to argue. Then he surges forward, pulling me through the crowd with him until we reach the end of the bar. We round the corner for the hall that leads to the restrooms, and the instant we are past the turn, Jackson lashes out, slamming his fist against the wall and, fortunately, not injuring the hardwood paneling.

I’m not sure if the same can be said for his hand, and I cry out in surprise and worry. “Jackson! Are you okay?”

I start to reach for his hand, wanting to make sure he didn’t break the skin, but instead, he shoves me back so that I am pressed against the wall and his arms are caging me.

The unexpected motion has knocked the wind out of me, and I suck in a hard breath, then look up at his face. It’s raw. Feral. I feel a bit like his prey. And though I know that he is angry right now—that he is wild—I cannot deny the excitement that is arcing between the two of us. That is filling me. Making me wet and hot and oh, so very ready.

And before I can even form a coherent thought, his mouth crushes mine, hot and hard and demanding.

I open to him immediately, almost instinctually. Tremors of excitement course through me, and all I can think is that I need. But even as I spread my legs in response to the silent demand of his thigh pressing against me, a small rational voice in my head is yelling for us to get out of there. It’s reminding me of cameras and crowds and that this could be a very, very, very bad idea.

“Jackson.” His name is ripped from me when he breaks our kiss for breath. “The crowd.”

The word seems to bring him back to himself, and he takes a single step away from me. He is breathing hard—so am I.

“The office.” He grinds out the words. “Where?”

It takes a moment for the words to make sense, but once my mind starts interpreting English again, I lead him to the stairs that head up to the club manager’s office. It’s empty now, and I punch in the key code, then draw him in. One entire wall is one-way glass and looks out over the main dance floor. Through it, colored lights now burst in, filling the otherwise darkened office.

Right now, though, I’m not thinking about the dance floor or the lights or anything other than Jackson’s hands on me. His body pressed hard against mine as he slams the door shut with his foot.

He grabs me up, and I hook my legs around his waist. I cling to his neck as his mouth finds mine even as he stumbles backward, finally slamming us against that wall of glass.

I slide down his body until my feet find the ground. My skirt doesn’t follow, and it’s up around my waist, and somehow in the midst of all that, Jackson’s hand ended up between my thighs. “Did you mean it?” he asks as his fingers push aside the band of my underwear. “Did you mean what you said about using you when I want to beat the shit out of somebody?”

“Yes.” The word is hard and full of meaning. I want this—him. All I can think of right now is his hand inside me—and I shift my hips in silent, desperate invitation. “Oh, god, yes,” I say again as he thrusts deep into me. Two fingers, then three.

His mouth is over mine again, then on my neck, my collar, my breast. We’re pressed up against the thick glass, and I wonder if we cast a shadow, but I don’t care. Right then, I’m not even sure that I would care if the glass were fully transparent instead of mirrored from the perspective of the club. All I can think of is this. Pleasure. Ferocity. Passion.

Jackson.

“Here.” The single syllable is harsh and short, but I don’t think I have ever heard a word so full of need.

He pulls me away from the window, turning me so that I am facing the desk that is behind us. It’s large and the surface is mostly clear, just a few documents scattered about.

With one arm, Jackson sends the papers flying, then bends me over the desk so that my breasts are hard against its wooden surface. I’m still dressed—blouse, bra—and yet I feel the pressure of the desktop against my breasts so intimately that my nipples tighten painfully and red hot threads of sensation shoot from my chest all the way to my cunt.