I know his eyes are grey, steely grey and swoon-worthy, but right now they are as dark as the night outside and glittering with so much... I want to say passion, but I know my hope is soaring past the realms of possibility. I tell myself it’s the low light of the room, the ambient lighting from the low-hung chandeliers sparkling in their depths, giving the impression of it, rather than its existence. But the wild state of his dark, overlong hair only adds to the dizzying effect, convincing me, pushing me to believe he wants just as I do.
I wet my lips. His eyes flicker again and his fingers on my lower back flex.
‘Jackson?’
I’m not sure what the question is on the tip of my tongue, I only know one exists.
One I couldn’t ask of him in London.
One that has the power to end this night doing what I’ve dreamed of since I accidentally fell into his lap that first night at Blacks, six years ago.
His lips quirk to one side—strong, masculine, full, and so perfectly edible I can almost taste them.
‘Caitlin?’
His voice is low, husky, as unrecognisable as his jawline is, devoid of its usual stubble. I want him to say my name again, in that exact same tone, with that exact same fire burning in his gaze. He’s never looked at me this way, never given me this much of himself in a simple look, a simple word—my name.
A tiny tremor runs down my spine as my brain replays it, inserting all the meaning I believe exists within it and I lean into him closer, stroking my hands up his chest to entwine them behind his neck.
‘I never knew a kilt could be so sexy,’ I say, my smile all sultry as I toy with the hair at his nape.
His laugh is gruff, the cock of one eyebrow so sexy and sure, and my stomach somersaults, my every response to him magnified this close.
‘You know, it’s polite to offer a compliment in return...’
Another chuckle rumbles through him and he looks away with a shake of his head. ‘You don’t give up, do you?’
‘Oh, I gave up ages ago, Jackson.’ I see no reason to lie. ‘But now we’re hundreds of miles from London, your argument has lost its hold.’
‘My argument?’
I tilt my head to the side and wait for him to meet my eye. He does so, eventually, and I don’t miss the betraying little pulse that ticks away in his gritted jaw. He doesn’t want to want me...but he does.
‘That you won’t sleep with the clientele.’ I run my teeth over my b
ottom lip, savouring how his eyes darken over the gesture, his arms tensing around me. ‘Club rules and all that frustrating jazz.’
He scoffs. ‘You’re still a client, Cait. That hasn’t changed.’
‘Well...’ I stroke a hand into the hair at his nape as I bring us to a pause on the dancefloor. ‘There’s a simple fix to that.’
He doesn’t prompt me. I sense he’s holding his breath, waiting, wanting. I’m so close I can almost taste victory. I wet my lips, swallow past the need choking up my throat and blink up at him. ‘I can revoke my membership, Jackson, effective immediately.’
‘It’s not that simple,’ he rasps.
‘And why not?’
‘It’s just not.’ I hear the strain, the desperation even, and start to smile anew. ‘You have to give notice, Cait, and there are payments, arrangements...’
‘Excuses, excuses, Jackson. Surely those things only apply when one has behaved well and stuck to the pesky rules...’ I catch the rising heat in his gaze and victory pumps hot and fast in my veins. ‘You see, I have no intention of being good...’ I reach up on tiptoe, brush my lips beside his ear, all breathy. ‘In fact, I have every intention of being bad, Jackson. Very. Very. Bad.’
‘Jesus, Cait.’
His hands are on my hips so fast, their grip flexing and pulsing as he forces me down and spins us back into the music.
‘What, Jackson?’
He shakes his head, diverts his gaze, but I see enough to realise this isn’t about the club at all. It hits me, winds me, makes me frown. Something else is coming between us, something so profound he’s tormented by it.