Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy 1)

“This is where men shaped the world the way they saw fit,” Jackson said, his words echoing my earlier ones. “Seemingly simple, but now thousands of people can move through bedrock, and the design—with the exposed rocks—drives that home.”

He ended our tour at the sleekly stunning High Museum of Art with its original design by a Pritzker-winning architect and subsequent enhancement by an Italian architectural maestro. We wandered its galleries, exploring it thoroughly, but spending most of our time checking out the current Cézanne exhibit and studying the prints in the permanent photographic exhibit. Our Day of Architecture finally ended at Table 1280, the fresh-to-table restaurant inside the museum.

“There’s more,” Jackson said, as he lifted a strawberry to my mouth. “But the more time I spend with you, the less interested I am in architecture, and the more interested I am in getting you naked.”

I almost choked on the berry. “Not very subtle, are you?”

“I know what I want,” he said. “I know it, and I go after it. I told you that last night. And, Sylvia, I thought we were clear that I wanted you.”

“What you want? Sounds a bit one-sided.”

“It’s not,” he assured me. “I know what you want, too.” The way he smiled reminded me a bit of the wolf with Red Riding Hood. The better to eat you with, my dear. “Don’t I?”

Oh, dear god, yes.

I ignored the wild pounding of my heart as I pushed my plate away, the slice of cheesecake uneaten. I didn’t understand the intensity of my reaction to this man. All I knew was that Jackson shifted something inside me. And so help me, I liked the way that felt.

The short walk to his car seemed unbearably long, and the drive was almost painful. The thrum of the engine drove through me, and every time he shifted gears, I felt the shift in power between my legs. My nipples were hard and painfully sensitive as they rubbed the lace of my bra with each movement.

I was on edge and frenzied and just a bit out of control. I wasn’t a woman who swooned around a man. Just the opposite, in fact. Usually I clenched up or went cold if a man came after me with as much intensity as Jackson had. Granted, he wasn’t demanding or forcing or giving ultimatums. Hell, he’d even pulled back that very first time when he’d ordered me to take a walk with him.

But that didn’t change the fact that his entire persona was control and power. Exactly the kind of thing that usually made me edgy and off center.

So why wasn’t I feeling that way now?

Then again, right then, I really was on edge. But a different kind. A better kind. My skin tingling, my sex throbbing. My entire body was primed in anticipation of his touch. A touch that I wanted. Maybe even needed.

“Go ahead,” Jackson said, his voice soft but with a subtle hint of authority.

I turned to look at him, not understanding.

“Touch yourself.”

This time, there was no denying the command. Nor was there any denying my body’s immediate and visceral response. The instant firing of my blood. The sudden ache between my thighs. The tightness in my breasts.

I swallowed and forced myself not to clench my hands at my sides as panic began to bubble up inside me, all the more unwelcome because I’d thought with Jackson I was past it. “I don’t think so.”

My words were firm, and I was proud of myself for hiding my anxiety.

“You want to,” he said simply.

“No, I—”

“Don’t discount your desires, Sylvia. Do you think I can’t feel it, too, the heat you’re generating? Do you really believe that I don’t know damn well that if I slid my finger inside your panties I’d find you hot and wet for me?”

I pressed my lips together, both aroused and frustrated that he could so easily see what should have been hidden.

“I thought of you last night,” he continued. “I sat in my living room with a glass of bourbon and I thought of you.”

I shifted a little so that I was looking straight at him, but I said nothing.

“I imagined you in your apartment, in your bed. I imagined you naked, Sylvia. Your legs spread, one hand on your breast, the other sliding down until your fingers found your clit, so hot. So sensitive. Did you tease yourself, baby? Did you play with your clit, then slide your fingers down? Were you hot and wet and tight? Did you fuck yourself last night, Sylvia? Did you thrust your fingers deep inside? Did you imagine it was my cock inside you? Tell me, baby. I want to know.”

“Yes,” I murmured, both because it was true and because I wanted him to know.

“Then do it now. Why deny yourself a pleasure you so clearly want?”