Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy 1)

I draw in a breath, determined to fight against the heat that even so simple a touch is fueling in me.

“I think you’re going to get what you want too, princess.”

“I want the resort, Jackson.” I meet his eyes, making sure that mine show nothing but cold calculation. “The resort. And like you, I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get exactly what I want.”

As far as I can tell, my words don’t faze him at all. If anything, he seems amused. “And that’s why your new dress is red. You’ve lost your innocence, princess.”

“Stop calling me that.”

He cocks his head, as if considering. “My rules,” he says. “Or had you forgotten already?”

“Dammit, Jackson.” I don’t know why the nickname bothers me when his touch did not. There’s nothing in a name, after all. And it is his touch—and my reaction to it—that reveals so much.

Even so, I don’t like the endearment. And the extent of my distaste bothers me enough that I push away from the wall and then push past him, away from this corner in which he’s trapped me and where my face and body reveal far too much.

I hurry through my small living area and stop by the patio door. It’s down, and I place my hand on one of the glass panes as I look out at the world. That’s where I want to be—out there, not trapped in here with my past and a man I cannot deny I want, but can no longer have. A man whose mere presence makes me just a little bit crazy even though I need to hang on tight to cold rationality.

I do not hear his footsteps, but I see his reflection, and I am expecting it when he places his hand on my shoulder. Even so, I close my eyes as if in defense against the powerful surge of longing that cuts through me when he bends his head and kisses the back of my neck.

“Don’t,” I whisper.

“Don’t? I believe the terms of my offer were clear.” He takes a step back as he pulls his phone out of his pocket. His eyes meet mine in the reflection. “So you tell me. Do we have a deal? Or should I call Damien and tell him I’m not your guy, after all?”

“Dammit, Jackson. Why are you doing this?”

“You know why.”

I shake my head, though that is a lie. Because I do know. It’s retribution. It’s punishment.

I saved myself from one type of hell only to be thrust headfirst into another.

“No? Well then, let me tell you. I’m doing this because I want you to remember.” His lips brush my neck again, then move up to dance lightly upon the curve of my ear, making me tremble with sensual longing.

“I’m doing this because I want you to understand what you gave up.” His hands stroke my shoulders, then down over the short sleeves of the dress until he reaches the bare skin of my arms. He continues, finally finding my hands and twining his fingers with mine.

“I want you to know the future that you threw away, princess,” he says, as he lifts our joined hands to cup them over my breasts.

I stiffen, my body a riot of emotions and sensations. I want to lash out against him—to tell him to go to hell, because I damn well know what I gave up. I know it as well as I know that I had to. And at the same time I want to melt into him. To let his touch take me all the places that I’ve imagined over the last five years. To let him have me so fully and completely that I am used up and there is no room for fear or nightmares or memories.

But that, of course, is impossible.

Most of all, I want to turn in his arms and kiss him. I want the Jackson I once had, not the one who stands here today. Not the one who sees only the woman who hurt him, and not the woman who could have fallen in love with him.

And so I do nothing. I just stand there, trying hard to ignore the sensation of my hands upon my body—of his hands upon my own. Trying to breathe. Trying to get centered.

And trying desperately to remember that it had been my plan all along to take charge of this night, and wondering how things could have turned so horribly sideways.

Finally, I push my hands back down to my sides, then force myself to turn around even though he doesn’t step back. He’s so close that our bodies are brushing, and I have to tilt my head back in order to see his face.

“That really is what this is about, isn’t it? You just want to punish me.”

“Hell yes,” he says. “And I think that’s what you want, too.”

“Excuse me?”

“Maybe you feel guilty about ending it the way you did. Maybe that’s why you’ve agreed to my terms.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything. You ambushed me.”

For a moment, I think I see compassion in his eyes. Then they go cold again. Good. I want them to be ice. I want them to freeze me. I don’t want to melt for this man. I don’t want to feel the heat. I don’t want to succumb to the guilt that he is so damn right about.