He didn't. He couldn't. Because though her lips remained silent, her eyes held him at bay. Those bright, whiskey-colored eyes that demanded his attention. That told him without words that she didn't blame him for going no matter how much he blamed himself.
But he also saw pain and a longing so intense it humbled him. Maybe she didn't blame him, but she damn sure needed him. "I shouldn't have gone," he growled, even though they both knew the words were a lie. "I didn't have to be there."
"Of course you did. And now you're back." Her words were simple, but her expression reflected a joyous relief. After a moment, her brow furrowed. "Actually, how did you get back? There aren't any commercial flights this early, and Grayson's not scheduled to return to Vegas to bring you back until noon," she added, referring to the Stark International pilot who'd flown him and Chess to Vegas yesterday.
"I rented a car and drove."
"Drove! It's five hours." She gaped at him. "Jackson, you drove all night? After working all day and getting next to no sleep the night before?"
"I'd have done more than that in order to get back to you." He cupped her face. "Don't you know that?"
Her eyes said "yes." But her voice said, "Why?"
He didn't answer. Instead, he let his eyes drift over her. Taking in the sweet curves of her body. The silk nightgown that hit mid-thigh. He wanted to take his free hand and trail his finger along the hemline and watch her shiver. Then he wanted to ease his fingertip up until he stroked her breast and teased her nipple, now hard against the material. He wanted to strip the gown off of her and feast upon her. Touching and teasing. Listening to her soft noises, watching as she submitted to pleasure, knowing that she was his.
Already she seemed softer than she had when he'd first seen her on the stairs, as if tension were a physical thing that had been drained from her body, leaving her light and free. He'd put it there by leaving, even though it had been a necessity. And his return had erased it, lightening her burden as he knew it would do.
Now he wanted to go the next step. To free her completely--even if only for a few precious moments--from fear and worry, nightmares and regrets. And not only because he knew she needed it, but because he needed it, too. Needed to feel her against him, to see her open to him. He needed to be certain she was okay. That he hadn't completely fucked this up.
Instead of answering, he led her into the master bedroom. He saw Ronnie sleeping in the chair, and a smile touched his lips, even as he changed his trajectory. He veered away from the bed and crossed to the balcony door. He quickly opened the childproof latch, then led Syl outside and down the spiral staircase to the rooftop patio he'd designed especially for her.
The moment they reached the landing, he drew her roughly to him, taking her by the wrist and bending her arm behind her so that she had no choice but to stand still and listen. "You asked me why I hurried back? Why I drove?" He tightened his grip, and she gasped as the position forced her even closer, the soft noise making his cock twitch. "Why do you think?"
"Tell me."
He bit back a smile. He heard the challenge in her voice along with her rising excitement. "Because you need me, need this," he said, releasing her wrist and cupping her ass. The shock of her bare skin against his palm shot through him, and damned if he didn't almost lose it right then.
She whimpered a little as he tightened his grip on her rear. And then, wanting to torment them both, he urged her even closer so his erection pressed against her belly, and he had to fight the urge to pull her to the ground and take her hard right then. Lord knew they could both use it. Him, taking control. Her, surrendering it.
How many times had they done that very thing? Fought each other's battles? Eased each other's demons? She was like a balm to him, the only thing sometimes that kept him from beating the shit out of whatever poor soul stepped into the ring, an unknowing proxy for all the demons in his life.
And he did the same for her, easing her pain by taking the control she surrendered to him, in marked contrast to the times in her youth when that control had been ripped away without her consent.
They eased each other, helped each other, loved each other. He knew the cause of every hesitation, the color of every fear.
And that was why, when she tilted her head back and he saw the shadow in her eyes, he was certain he knew what was troubling her.
What he didn't know was if Syl herself truly understood.
And so he waited, hating that his wife was in pain, but knowing that even though he was standing right by her, some of the distance she had to walk on her own.
"Syl," he said gently. "What is it?"
"I do want you," she whispered. "God, Jackson. I want you all the time. You know that. But now? Like this? I--I don't want to need it so much."
Her voice broke a little, and the sound was like a stab through his heart. He wanted to pull her close and take away all her pain, but he also knew that he had to let her finish talking. So he stayed perfectly still, even though the effort was almost more than he could bear.
"I should be past this. I'm so much stronger now." She dropped her gaze along with her voice. "At least, I thought I was. I shouldn't need your help to fight my battles."
"Oh, baby, you are strong. You're strong and fierce and amazing. But your father is getting out of prison today. Of course you're off kilter."
She managed a wry smile. "That's one way of putting it."
He pressed on, keeping his voice low. Steady. His eyes stayed on her face, making certain he didn't push too far. "There's nothing wrong with needing my support."
She nodded. "I know. I do. And that's not even all of it. I'm just--I don't know..."
She drifted off, and he cupped her chin, easing it up so that she was forced to look right at him. "Yes, you do," he said firmly. "And so do I."
Her eyes glistened as she blinked back tears. "Do you?"
"Oh, baby, of course. He's on your mind. Feelings. Memories. You think about what he did. How he went out and killed the son-of-a-bitch who abused you. Who stole your virginity and your childhood and your confidence. Do you think I don't realize that you feel like you're obligated to forgive your father for the past simply because he erased that piece of trash?"
She gasped again, but this time it wasn't the sound of desire.
"He killed Reed, baby. He did. And for that we're both grateful, because Robert Cabot Reed was human garbage who would happily have destroyed us both, and was using those vile pictures he took of you as a blunt instrument against the two of us. Your father ended that. But it didn't erase the past."
She looked up at him, her brow furrowed.
"We both know what you need right now. To give yourself over. To surrender control willingly, so you can lose yourself and know that I will always be here to lead you back.
"Jackson--" Her voice broke on a soft little sob.
"You need me," he continued, sliding his hand lower between her legs. "You need me to touch you," he said, his fingertip teasing her slick, wet core. "To take you. To battle back the monsters that I know still haunt your dreams. You need it, and so do I. And that doesn't make either one of us weak. It makes us honest."
As he spoke, he released her, turning her around so that she was facing the glass barrier at the edge of the rooftop. "Hands up," he ordered, not certain if she would comply or pull away because she was still afraid that she would be acting out of weakness. But then she lifted her arms over her head, and that easy, trusting compliance both excited and humbled him.
Slowly, he pulled the nightgown over her body, letting the material glide slowly over her bare skin in a sensual tease. When it was free of her, he tossed it aside, letting it flutter to the wooden decking while she stood naked, the ocean in the distance and their yard spread out before them.
"What about Stella...?" she whispered as he put her hands on the top edge of the barrier, then nudged her legs apart with his knee.
"Shhh." She was referring to their nanny and housekeeper who lived in a
bungalow that Jackson had built on the property. He'd designed it deliberately, so that its windows faced only the ocean and the property to the south, thus giving the family privacy in the main house unless Stella happened to be out in the yard.
She wasn't there now, and because Syl had taken the day off from work, he knew that she wasn't scheduled to come to the house for work until ten.
"No talking," he said, more firmly. "You do as I say, or you pay the consequences. Do you understand?"
"Yes, sir." Her voice came out breathy, so full of longing it made him ache.
"Good girl."
He let his eyes rake over her naked form. Her lush curves. The smooth skin of her back and hips. His gaze lingered on the tattoo between her shoulder blades. The one she'd told him she'd gotten after the horror with Reed had finally ended. His gut clenched, and he bent to kiss it, his lips on her skin the only physical connection between them.
"Jackson--"
"Shh. No talking. Not unless I tell you to. Understand?"
She nodded, and his lips curved into a smile as he dropped to his knees, then brushed a kiss over the intricately inked J intertwined with an S. Jackson and Sylvia.
When she'd gotten it, they'd been apart, and she'd believed they'd never get together again. The tattoo was a symbol, a reminder. All of her tats were. A map of pain and triumph. And it felt right to gently kiss each of them now, when the memory of her most tangible pain was pressing so hard against her.