Say My Name (20 page)

“He is.”

“So am I,” Jackson whispers as he thrusts three fingers inside me, fucking me with his hand, and damn me, I writhe against the motion, wanting him to go deeper, trying to feel the brush of his skin against my clit as my thoughts continue to spin and my mind loses focus.

“What is it you want?” I gasp, as spirals of pleasure seem to burst around me.

“You,” he says. “At my mercy.”

And with those four simple words, he withdraws his hand and my pleasure. “I think,” he says casually, “that it’s time to eat.”

I am frustrated and antsy and thoroughly pissed off during the meal. He’d taken me right to the precipice, then left me dangling, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that the meal—though it has all my favorite rolls and sashimi—holds very little appeal.

There is instead something I want much, much more, and I put down my chopsticks and slide my left hand under the table to rest upon his thigh. He glances sideways at me, but doesn’t protest. Not even when I slowly ease my hand up, higher and higher until I find his cock, hard and thick beneath his slacks.

I smile, once again feeling powerful and in control as I slowly stroke him, then ease my fingers up to search for his zipper.

“Stop.”

His voice is low and simple and he does not look at me.

I find the zipper pull and start to ease it down. “What if I don’t want to stop?”

“Then don’t.” He turns now and looks straight at me. There is heat in his expression, and amusement as well. “That’s what free will is all about.”

“Exactly,” I say, happy to have finally turned the tables.

“But if you don’t stop, I will.”

I halt my effort to carefully unzip him. “What do you mean?”

“I mean it’s up to you. Do you want me to touch you? Stroke you, make you come?”

I do not answer, but I have also stopped moving.

“Do you want pleasure, Sylvia? Or do you want the more hollow satisfaction of thinking that somehow you’ve managed to best me, when we both know in the end I will have you naked and open to me, limp and sated. And the more you come in my arms, the sweeter my victory will be.”

I swallow, not entirely certain I could form words right then, even if I had to.

“Surrender, princess, and you’ll get the orgasm I denied you earlier. Don’t stop, and I’ll be the only one who gets off for a very, very long time.”

I believe him. And while I wish I had the strength to follow through and make him come—to sacrifice my own pleasure for the sake of a victory—I just can’t do it.

I pull my hand away.

“Good choice,” he says, and there is no denying both the heat and the victory in his voice. “I promise, sweetheart, that you won’t regret it.”

He nods at the table and I realize that we’ve finished the meal. “Dessert?”

I shake my head.

“No? I want dessert. I just don’t want it here.” He brushes his finger over my lower lip. “A moment,” he says, then stands. He goes to the door, slides it open, then signals for the check.

As he’s returning to the table, the theme from
Star Wars
starts to blare from my purse.

I wince as Jackson laughs.

“Yoda calling?”

I roll my eyes as I rummage for my phone. “My brother.”

I glance down at the screen and feel the blood drain from my face as I read the text message.

Hey, Silly!

Guess who’s finally moving back to the good old USA?

Arriving in three weeks—just in time for Halloween.

Pick me up at LAX? Then let’s shoot down to Irvine.

Mom’s all psyched about putting on a huge spread for us.

And Dad says he doesn’t see enough of you, either.

Love you, big sis.

Miss you.

See you soon.

“Something wrong?”

I realize that I’ve been staring at the phone for a hell of a lot longer than it takes to read one text message.

“I—no. Not a thing. Just give me a sec.” I manage a smile as I type out a response, but am frustrated to see that my hands are shaking.

So psyched you’re coming home! At a work thing, so more soon.

Send flight details—I’ll be there with balloons!

Not sure can swing Irvine. Crazy busy at work.

XXOO

I force myself to look up at him, then flash as bright a smile as I can manage. “So, check all taken care of?”

He hesitates, then nods. “We can go.”

I smile, trying my best to look normal, and follow him out of the restaurant.

Origami is one of the new, hot places on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills, just a few doors down from the entrance to the Beverly Wilshire hotel. Jackson had parked at the hotel, and I’d anticipated dinner in one of its incredible restaurants. But he’d surprised me by leading me through the lobby and to the street.

Now, we’re heading back, and Ethan’s text still weighs on me, along with all the tension and fears that just the thought of seeing my parents raises.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I turn to look at him, surprised. “I didn’t think that conversation was part of tonight’s program.” My words come out harsher than I meant, and I immediately regret them. Despite everything, there was genuine concern in his voice, and even though this night is all about punishing me, I truly didn’t mean to be a bitch.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “And no. I’d rather not talk about it. Really,” I add, because the expression on his face suggests that he is going to argue.

He nods reluctantly, and we continue walking in silence. But the odd thing is that I feel a bit better. The night is cool and clear, the air crisp and sweet-smelling. I’m on one of the prettiest streets in the world, with glitz and glamour lit up in the shop windows that we are passing.

And despite the fact that I hurt him so deeply, the man at my side still cares about me. At least a little.

It’s enough to sweep away my anger and fear. Three weeks is a lifetime away, and tonight is not the time to open the door to more memories. And, frankly, tonight I have enough on my mind with Jackson. I don’t need my family in my head, too.

I frown as we pass the valet stand. “Aren’t you getting your car?”

“Not just yet,” Jackson says as a liveried doorman greets us. With Jackson’s hand pressing gently against the small of my back, we enter the stunning lobby. It’s awash in a golden light that makes the polished marble floor glow in a way that draws out the iconic circular design that looks a bit like a target symbol. At the center of the circle stands a giant table with an enormous—and gorgeous—flower arrangement blooming bright beneath one of the most ornate chandeliers I’ve ever seen.

“I love this hotel,” I say. “It’s like stepping back in time with its mix of classical and art deco elegance.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Jackson says. “I thought we’d have a drink here.”

“Really?” I look around for the lobby bar.

“No. Not in the bar.” He heads toward the registration counter, and I follow, a little bit curious—and a little bit certain that I know exactly where this is going.

“Jackson Steele,” he tells the girl. “I booked a room this afternoon.”

“Of course, Mr. Steele.” She hands him his key. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I spoke with the sommelier earlier as well. I’d like a bottle of the Petrus Pomerol 1998 sent up to the room. Two glasses. And caviar, please.”

Her eyes have gone a little wide, and I understand why. I’d ordered five bottles of that very vintage last Christmas for Damien to send as gifts to some of his most important clients. Even with Damien’s wholesale sources, the bottles sold for over a grand each.

“Of course, Mr. Steele,” she says, apparently remembering herself. “I’ll have that sent right up.”

Up
turns out to be the penthouse, and I have to admit that even after all I’ve seen traveling with Damien, I have never stayed in such highbrow accommodations. I know I should play it cool, but I have to confess that I goggle a bit. So much, in fact, that I’m still standing near the ornate double doors when the room service waiter knocks. I scramble out of his way as he wheels in a small table with the wine, two glasses, and a spectacular selection of caviar. Jackson lets the waiter uncork the wine, but declines his offer to pour. And as soon as the man is gone from the room, he crooks his finger at me.

“Come,” he says, and I can’t help but think about how many meanings that simple word has.

“You have a very strange idea of revenge,” I say. “My favorite dinner. A penthouse suite. Caviar. And one of the most expensive bottles of wine in the history of the universe.”

“I don’t know that it’s quite that pricey.”

I merely look dubious.

“Like I said, princess. I want you to remember everything you gave up.”

“Dammit, Jackson—” I cut off my words.

“No. I don’t want to hear that you had to. I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry.”

“No?” I hear the exasperation in my voice. “Then what the hell do you want?”

“I thought I was clear,” he says as he pours a glass of wine and strides toward me. He pauses just inches away and hands me the wine. I take a sip, barely even noticing the incredible palate. I’m too intent on watching Jackson to notice something as unimportant as wine.

He is looking me up and down with the kind of intensity designed to make a woman melt, and it’s clear from his expression that while he is hungry, it is not for caviar.

“I want to take you to the edge and back,” he says as he unbuttons my dress. I stand perfectly still as he peels it off my body. “I want to watch you lose control,” he continues, and now he unfastens my bra and slowly removes it. “I want to make you come,” he says as he eases me out of my shoes and stockings, then unhooks the garter and lets it fall to the floor. “And, princess,” he adds as he hooks his finger in the band of the thong and pulls so hard the elastic snaps, making me flinch, though I do not otherwise move. “I want to make you scream.”

He leans in and kisses me, soft and sweet, like a man seeking sanctuary, and in sharp contrast to the brutality of his words and the way he stripped me from the last of my clothes. “But first things first.”

I stand there, my mouth tingling from his kiss, not entirely certain what just happened. One moment I was standing there, facing a slow seduction with caviar and wine. The next, I’m naked and hot and more turned on than I want to be by the wildness of his words.

“With me,” he says, then leads me into the gorgeously appointed bedroom. It’s done in beige and brown, with some cream thrown in, and looks both comfortable and elegant.

He nods toward the bed, and I sit on the edge. He looks at me a moment, as if considering, and though I try to discern his thoughts, I cannot read his face.

He moves to the window and lays his hand flat on the glass. I see his eyes in the reflection, and I know that he is looking at me. “I need you to tell me something.”

I am relieved by his words since now I will perhaps have some clue as to what is going on in his head. “Sure,” I say. “Anything.”

“Are you still fucking him?”

I’d been starting to stand, using my arms to help lever me off the foot of the bed. They go limp, and I fall back onto the mattress. I am more confused than angry, and my reply of “Who?” sounds lost and anemic even to my ears.

He turns his back to the window, his laser blue eyes now focused intently on me. “Stark’s married now,” he says, as if we were discussing the weather. “So I want to know if you’re still fucking him.”

Now anger launches me to my feet. “Damien? Are you insane? I never—”

“You
left
me.” Gone is the calm tone, the bland expression. He’s wild now, ferocious as he strides the short distance across the room to stand in front of me.

His anger is no match for mine, though, and our joined fury seems to fill the room, making the air buzz and pop. All we need is a lit match, and we’ll both go up in flames. “Five years ago, you left me so you could go fuck Damien Stark.”

Without thinking, I lash out, slapping him hard across his left cheek, right over the still raw cut. I hope it hurts. I hope it fucking brings him to his knees.

He grabs my upper arms, tight enough to bruise, and yanks me toward him. I can see the wildness in him, can feel the tempest building between us. For a moment I’m not sure if he’s going to hit me or kiss me, and he better not goddamn do either, because I am as close to losing it right now as he is.

I do nothing, though; I know better than to poke a wounded animal. And after a moment, he pushes me away.
“Fuck.”

I back off, breathing hard. I lean against the bed as I watch him pace the room. Once, twice, until he stops at the window again. Until he lashes out once more, the force of his hand against the glass making the images in the window shimmer, as if the fury of this one man has upset the balance of the world.

Slowly, very slowly, I walk toward him. I pause behind him, close enough to reach out and touch him, though I do not. “I told you before—I left because I had to.”

“You left Atlanta. You went to work for him.”

“Yes. Because after Reggie fired me I contacted human resources at Stark International and asked them to put my application back in the active file. I told you I’d applied for a job with him. And I got it. The old-fashioned way—by having a solid résumé. I didn’t leave you for Stark, and I swear on my life that I have never slept with that man.”

He pulls me to him, the motion so unexpected that I gasp, and as I do, he closes his mouth over mine. The kiss is wild and hard and almost painful. Teeth clashing, mouths burning. It is a claiming, not a kiss. A battle, not a seduction. And when he backs away, I am breathing hard, a little bit aroused and a lot lost.

And Jackson is himself again. Cool and controlled as if the last few moments haven’t even happened.

“This is the way it’s going to work. You’re mine. Wholly and completely. You’re ready for me when I say. How I say. Do you understand?”

“Do I have a choice?”

He doesn’t even bother to answer. We both know what the answer will be.

“On the bed,” Jackson says, and for a moment I do not move.

This really is it
, I think. I can walk away right now, and save myself the pain of my memories. The misery of being with a man who wants only to punish me for our past.