On My Knees (Stark International Trilogy 2)

He is tight with contained energy, and the thought that I will be the woman in his arms when he lets himself go makes me wet with anticipation.

Dear god I want this. Want him. I want the release of abandonment. The safety of giving myself to him. I want the delirium of being swept out of myself.

And I want the hours of bliss in which the photographs and the threat and the horror that surround us are, if not forgotten, at least pushed aside. Diminished by the power of the explosion that will erupt between us.

As he leads me through the hotel toward the elevator, I practically vibrate with need. I feel it from Jackson as well—the intensity and effort with which he is holding back—and I fear that we will both succumb before we even make it to the room.

I’m far from wrong, and the moment that we are through the doors, Jackson slams me against the wall with such force that a picture falls from its hook to the floor. His hands cage me, and though he doesn’t touch me anywhere else, he is so close that my entire body sizzles from the heat of him.

“Tell me you want this.”

“I want it. Please, Jackson, you know I want it.”

“Tell me what you want.”

I swallow, but I know that I have to say it, because he will not touch me until I do. And so help me, I cannot stand to wait even another second to feel this man against me. “I want you to take me. To use me. You feel out of control because of what that bastard is doing to us? Then take control now. Take it from me, Jackson. I want you to.”

As I finish speaking, I hold my wrists together and out to him.

He tilts his head and breathes softly. I can almost see him thinking—and I can definitely see the desire rising in his eyes. And when he unbuckles his belt and rips it off, I know that I have won—and my body throbs in anticipation.

Every part of me is sensitive now, as if my entire body is simply one erogenous zone waiting for his touch. So much so that when his fingers brush my arms as he wraps the belt multiple times around my wrists and forearms, a wild tremor cuts through, and I know that I am on the verge of having the most explosive orgasm of my life.

He takes his time making sure the belt is secure, and when my wrists are bound tight together and there is no way that I can wriggle free, he gently eases them up above my head. I hold them there, understanding what he wants, as he gently traces his fingers over my still-clothed body.

I tremble, wanting so much more than this soft pleasure. This sensual tease.

“Now tell me why.” He pulls me close to him so that I feel his erection against my abdomen. I am breathing hard, my senses on overdrive.

Why? Because right then I think that I will die if he doesn’t take me.

I don’t say that though. My mind is a whirl, my thoughts scurrying.

“Tell me,” he repeats. His voice is a low tease, a gentle whisper. But there is a hard undercurrent, and it is a demand. Either I answer, or he backs off. “Why,” he repeats. “Tell me, baby.”

He runs his hands up my side, and then along my arms that are stretched above my head. His fingers reach the belt that has bound my wrists together and he grabs hold, jerking it upward so that I gasp and rise up onto the balls of my feet. “Why give yourself to a man like this?”

“Not a man,” I whisper. “Just you. Only you.”

I watch his face, and I see the way his mouth curves up in a flicker of a smile in response to my words.

The smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They are still hard and hot and demanding. “Why?” he repeats.

I know what he wants to hear. He wants me to tell him about my need to feel in control. About how I need to surrender it to him—I need to give it, rather than having it ripped from me. He wants to hear me speak about fear, and about how submitting to him is our way of giving me back control and battling the nightmares that these horrible photos will unlock.

And all of that is true.

But there is one reason that is more so.

“Because I love you.”

He closes his eyes and draws a long, deep breath. And his cock, already hard against my abdomen, pushes almost painfully against me.

I’d worn a dress to work today, and the low neckline dips to a V between my breasts. He draws his fingers down over the swell of my breasts, following the path of material and flesh. His eyes are on mine, as blue and deep as the sea.

“Mine.” The word is hard and harsh and full of passion and power. And in one bold, wild move, he fists his hands into the material, and rips the dress open, exposing my breasts and my stomach, all the way down to the band of my thong.

I gasp. I’d liked that dress, but I like this feeling—wild and abandoned and taken by Jackson—a hell of a lot more. And right now, I’m certain that I have never been so wet and so aroused in my life.