He says nothing, but the muscle twitch in his cheek and the set of his jaw is answer enough. The man is seriously not happy.
"Promise me," I say.
"How long?" I can hear the control he's working to keep in his voice.
"Tomorrow," I say. "I just want to think. I don't want to go in hot. She'll expect that."
He nods slowly, already calming. "She will. You're right." He draws another breath, then looks at Wyatt. "Sorry."
"I get it," Wyatt says. "And since you pulled your punch, we're all good."
Jackson chuckles. "So what the fuck? How does she have these pictures? How are you involved?" he asks Wyatt. "And what the hell is her endgame?"
Wyatt explains what he'd told me. As for the endgame, though, he looks at me. I shrug. "She doesn't like me. Maybe she just wants to have one over on me."
"No," Jackson says with certainty. "We're still waiting for the other shoe to drop."
He's probably right, I think, as Wyatt says that he's going to leave us alone. "I should have come sooner," he adds. "And I'm so, so sorry."
"Wyatt--" Jackson begins, his voice gritty with apology.
"It's okay, man. I get it. Really." He turns and heads for the front door, not waiting for us to reply.
Jackson stalks toward me, circumventing the glass on the floor, and I see the fire in his face. Anger. Need. Concern.
"Whoever did this. Whoever sent you those goddamn photos, I'll--"
"Jackson, we--"
But I don't finish the sentence. He pulls me to him, silencing me with a hard, consuming kiss. My pulse kicks up. My skin burns. I want his touch. Want him. Christ, how much I want him. But it's heat. It's desire.
It's not from fear.
And it's not because I'm lost, knocked under by the threats against me.
The realization startles me, and I gasp, pushing away so that I can look in his eyes.
"I'm okay," I say, the words full of amazement.
I see the acknowledgement on his face along with the desire. And, yes, an undercurrent of wild, untamed pain.
"I'm not." His words are growl. A confession. A demand.
And that's when full understanding hits me. I want this--his touch, his heat--but Jackson needs it. He told me once that he channeled anger into fighting, and the scar across his eyebrow that I find so damn sexy is only one remnant of that trait.
So I understand what he's saying now. He needs to cool the fear and the anger. He needs to lash out. To go wild.
I want him to go wild with me. More than that, I know he wants it too. My submission. My surrender.
"Jackson." His name is soft. Barely a breath. But he hears the invitation, and his groan of power and passion cuts through me, firing all my senses.
He spins me around, then pulls my shirt off. Next, he slides my gray jersey skirt down my hips. It's a favorite of mine, casual and comfortable, and now it pools around my ankles. "Kick it off," he orders. "Kneel on it. Leave the shoes on. Hands on your thighs."
I do as he asks, going down on my knees on my skirt in front of him. "Eyes closed," he says. Again I comply, and when he speaks again, to say simply, "Good girl," his voice sounds farther away.
He must not have gone far, though, because within moments, he's back, and he puts something soft over my eyes. For a moment, I'm confused, then realize it must be one of the decorative scarves I keep in the drawer of the contemporary-style chest that is the focal point of the foyer.
He ties it firmly, then tells me to lift my hands. I do, and he positions my fingers on his fly. I know what he wants, of course. But it's not just my mouth on his cock. He wants to demand it. He wants me to obey. And so I wait, more than willing to play this game. Excited by it, in fact, as I'm sure he can tell from the way my nipples are tight against the thin lace of my bra.
My breathing is ragged, and I'm desperately wet. I want this as much as he does. I want to give myself to him. To submit to him. Not because I need it in order to fight off childhood demons, but because I want the pleasure it gives both of us. The satisfaction that my submission gives him, and the glorious sensation of being free that it gives me. The undiluted pleasure of a trust so pure I can go to the limit, balance on the precipice, and know that I will always be safe because Jackson will never push me too far.
"Go on, baby," he says, his voice rough. "You know what I want."
I do, and I carefully unbutton his slacks and then ease down the zipper of his fly. He's rock hard, and I draw his cock out, stroking the length of him before easing forward and teasing the tip with my tongue as my hand curves around his shaft, stroking in slow, steady motions.
He groans, the sound deepening when I draw his cock into my mouth. And though I've started out slowly, teasing him and playing with him, it's soon clear that he has no intention of letting me remain in control. His fingers cup my head, and he holds me steady, then thrusts into me, fucking my mouth. Giving me no respite. Silently demanding that I take it--take him.
And oh, dear lord, I love it.
I can feel the thrusts through every inch of my body. A wild burning that seems to start in my blood and seep out to my skin. That fires me up and makes me burn. I want his hands on me. I want his cock inside me. I want to take him all the way, to feel him explode in my mouth, and then I want to use my hands and tongue and teeth to bring him back. To make him hard. And ride him this time until our bodies are fused together and whatever explosion comes take us both over the edge and spinning off into space, trapped together in each other's arms.
He's close--so very, very close. And I think that I'm going to have my wish.
But then he pulls my head back away from his body, leaving me gasping and unsure. The scarf is still around my eyes and though I hear movement, I don't know what he's doing. I'm completely aroused, the thong panties I still wear totally soaked.
"I want to be inside you," he whispers, stoking the flames inside me once more.
And the next thing I know, I'm in his arms, and he's carrying me. Then he's lowering me to his lap, and I'm straddling him. He's still dressed, and I fist my hands in his shirt even as his mouth finds mine. The kiss is hard and hot and deep, and I squirm in his lap, rubbing myself against his erection until I don't think I can stand it anymore.
Apparently he can't either, because he reaches between our bodies, tugs the thong aside with one hand, and growls, "Now, dammit, Syl. I have to be inside you now."
I need no more encouragement, and I ease down, taking him in, biting my lower lip in defense against the wonderfully sweet sensation of this man filling me. And then, as if he can't take it anymore, he grabs my hips and pushes me down, impaling me on his erection. I cry out in surprise, then gasp and arch back wanting to feel all of him. Hell, wanting to simply feel.
His fingers tease my clit as I rise and fall, but it's when his hand snakes behind and his fingertip teases my anus that I really lose my mind.
"Take off the blindfold," he demands, and when I do, I see the heat in his eyes and know that it matches mine. "Touch yourself with me," he says, urging my finger down to curl around his as he strokes my clit, my pussy so warm and slick.
I moan and start to close my eyes. "No," he orders. "Watch me." And I do. My eyes on his as he teases me--as we tease me. My hips rising and falling. My body on fire from all of the assaults on my senses. And then, when he claims my mouth and takes me hard--when his finger slips hard into my ass even as his fingertip brushes my clit with a featherlight touch--the cacophony of sensation is too much for me, and I break apart, my body throbbing as my cunt clenches hard around him, milking him, desperate to take him over the edge, too.
And when he arches back and groans, I know I've succeeded. "Me," I demand. "Look at me." He does. And I hold his gaze as the two of us lose ourselves to passion in each other's arms.
Later, when reason has returned and I can breathe again, I curl next to him, safe and satisfied in the circle of his arms. "I love you," he whispers, and I draw in the words like oxygen, u
nderstanding the unspoken message, too--that he will always protect me.
"I thought it was over," I whisper. "After my dad, I mean. I thought all the bullshit about those pictures--about Reed--I thought it was done." I shift in his arms to face him. "But it's never really done, is it?"
Jackson kisses my forehead gently. "I don't know, baby. I just don't know."
Chapter 10
++
"That fucking bitch!" Cass says, the moment I slide into her favorite booth at the Blacklist Bar.
I grimace, then take a long swallow of my martini. Cass has already ordered for us--and is on her second drink, since my drive is longer than her walk. She'd finally called me back. And since Jackson understands the extent of our BFF bond, he'd kissed me hard and told me to go meet her. Since he'd seemed calmer--especially after an hour of playing with the kids--I'd agreed.
Blacklist Bar is a Venice Beach icon. Since it's located just a few doors down from Totally Tattoo, it's also Cass's favorite after-work hang-out. According to the back of the cocktail menu, the bar has been around since the nineteen-thirties, but didn't acquire its current name until the sixties when the name was changed as an homage to the blacklisted movie stars who became regulars during the age of McCarthyism.
I have absolutely no idea if the story is even a little bit true, but I do know that the bartenders are friendly, the happy hour is awesome, and the kitchen makes the best cheese fries on the planet.
Today, however, I'm having a hard time enjoying either the alcohol or the carbs, and I poke my last olive with the plastic toothpick as Cass tells me over and over again that she just can't believe what happened.
"That bitch," she says for the umpteenth time, the anger in her eyes as red and fierce as today's hair. "That psycho bitch."
"Not arguing," I say.
"That explains the constipated look on her face when I saw her the other day. I just figured it was because you'd fired her delusional, troublemaking ass."
"I'm thinking now that might have been a mistake." I stab the olive, then pop it into my mouth. "What's that saying about keeping your enemies close?"
"Yeah, but then you'd have to hang out with her. And can I just say--Mila? Not such great company."