by J. Kenner
He pinches my nipple even as he bites down on my lower lip, swallowing my cry of pain and longing. Then his hand slides lower and lower. He cups my sex, and I cannot help the whimper that escapes me. Jackson hears it, too, and breaks the kiss long enough to meet my eyes, his hot and hard.
Then his mouth finds mine again, and goddamn me, I don't even protest for show. I take him, welcome him. I revel in the taste of him even as his hand urges my skirt up. Even as he finds my sex, hot and wet and throbbing with need.
There is no romance. There's no tenderness. He roughly shoves my lace panties to the side, exposing my flesh to his fingers. He thrusts his fingers inside me, and I moan as my body clenches tight around him, wanting him deeper, wanting more. Wanting to get lost in this moment and cling hard to everything I am feeling, but know that I cannot have.
His fingers are slick when he teases my clit, playing and stroking, teasing me to the edge and back. My body is alive with electricity, sparks dancing over me, my lips tingling, my nipples hard and tight and so painfully aroused. I want his touch, I want him inside me.
I simply want.
"Now," he growls, making me forget both fear and reality. "Dammit, Sylvia, you come for me now."
I do. And when I shatter in his arms--when I spin out and explode into the light-splattered night--I can only wish that I could stay like this, lost in pleasure with this man. But I know better than to believe in wishes, and when reason returns to me, I lean back, once again relying on the car and not Jackson to keep me steady.
His eyes stay on me for an instant longer, but I cannot read his expression. Then he takes a single step back. "Goddamn you, Sylvia," he whispers, holding his hands up as if in shock. "Goddamn you all to hell."
I tremble, lost and light-headed and confused. "I--I thought you said we were done."
"We may be done, but we're not over. We're a hell of a long way from over." His tone is still harsh, but beneath it, I hear something more. Regret? Resignation?
I don't know, but whatever it is rips through my heart, leaving it ragged.
He drags his fingers through his hair, then exhales. He looks me up and down. He says nothing about what just happened. Nothing about our past. Nothing about the present. His expression is harsh and hard and unreadable.
But his eyes ...
His eyes don't lie, and the tenderness I see there comes close to destroying me. Because tenderness from Jackson is something I can't handle.
"Come on," he says, then surprises me by taking my arm.
"Where are we going?"
"Unless you want to make poor Louis walk home, we should probably get away from his car. I imagine he's hiding around here somewhere."
"Right. Of course." I take a deep breath and force my thoughts back in the right direction. This isn't about me. This isn't about Jackson. And it's not about us, because there is no us.
It's about the resort, and I'd do well to remember that. "There's gotta be a coffee shop open back on the boulevard," I say. "Let's have some coffee and dessert and we can talk about the project."
"I already gave you my terms, princess."
I don't bother to answer. I tell myself he can't be serious. He's too accomplished a businessman and this is too plum a project. And once his temper cools down we can move on to serious discussion.
From his expression, however, I think that the resort is the farthest thing from his mind. Still, he starts heading toward Hollywood Boulevard, and I consider that a victory.
But we don't make it that far. Instead, he shifts right past the nightclub and leads me to the door of the Redbury Hotel, a luxury boutique hotel that Cass has raved about a few times.
"No way," I say, but I remember the way his fingers felt inside me just moments ago, and I have to forcibly plant my feet outside the main entrance. "No fucking way."
He turns around and I expect to see either frustration or irritation on his face. Instead, I watch him melt a little. "No," he says simply, almost gently.
Then he leans in and kisses me, this time so softly and gently that I think I will melt. "I'm not the man you think I am."
"You are," I say. And that is the heart of the problem.
He hesitates only a moment, and then continues through the doors. I consider protesting more, but I'm both confused and exhausted. I have no more fight left in me. And so I will stay beside him and see where this is going.
"Jackson Steele," he says to the clerk. "Is Jennifer working tonight?"
"Of course, Mr. Steele. One moment." A short while later, a stunning woman in a pencil skirt joins us in the lobby. She has a name tag pinned to her jacket lapel--Jennifer Trane, Night Manager.
"Jackson," she says, shaking his hand in a manner that I'm certain would have been a very deep kiss were she not on the clock. "I didn't realize you were checked in."
"I'm not. I finally bit the bullet and got my own place. But my friend needs a place for the night. Could you see about getting her a room? Sylvia Brooks," he says. "But I'll take care of the charges."
"The hell you will," I say.
"We'll get her settled," Jennifer Trane the night manager says, as if I hadn't spoken at all. If there is any jealousy lurking there, it is well hidden. Even so, I can't help but wonder how they know each other. And as I wonder, I want to swiftly kick myself in the ass. Because I really don't need to be going there.
"All set," the night clerk says, then passes Jennifer a small envelope with my card key. "Right this way, Ms. Brooks," Jennifer says, and I start to walk after her. For one moment, I consider simply bolting and getting a taxi. But my Santa Monica condo suddenly seems very far away, and the thought of a soft bed nearby is incredibly enticing.
I turn back, expecting to see Jackson behind me. Instead, he is still standing in the lobby. "Goodbye, Sylvia," he says. And for the second time that night, Jackson Steele walks away.
eight
Sylvia ...
Sylvia ...
Sylvia!
I sit bolt upright, breathing hard. I'm in a strange, dark room, and something is buzzing repeatedly, sounding to my tormented mind like my name being called over and over and over again.
But it's not my name. It's my phone. And as I scramble to find it, reality returns.
I'm in a hotel room. I'm by myself.
And Jackson is standing firm on his ultimatum about the resort.
Well, hell.
As for the rest of it--the memories, the zoning out, the way he touched me--I really don't want to go there.
But even though I tell myself that, I can't help the jolt of disappointment when I finally squint at my now-silent phone and see that the call wasn't from Jackson.
Damn.
I sit up, stretching as I play the voice mail from Cass.
"Hey, girl, I tried to find you last night, and then someone said they saw you leaving with Jackson right behind you. So I hope that Jackson said yes to the resort and you're home sleeping the sleep of victory. Or he said no, and you're home sleeping the sleep of defeat. Either way, I hope you didn't do something stupid. Zee and I are about to crash for a few hours, but if you get this right away, then call me. It's, um, not quite eight. And if I don't hear from you by ten, I'm going to be supremely pissed. No excuses, Syl. Call me."
The phone goes dead.
Well, I think. All right then.
I hesitate, because I'm not entirely sure I want to talk. But this is Cass and she loves me and even though she didn't outright say it, I also know that she's worried. So I bite the bullet and call.
"You bitch," she says without preamble. "You didn't even text me. Where were you? Were you with Jackson?"
"I'm sorry. I just didn't think. And no. I mean, yes. I mean, later. I was with Jackson later."
"So you're home now?"
I glance around the hotel and frown. "I'm at the Redbury."
The pause is so long that I pull my phone away from my ear so that I can make sure we haven't been disconnected.
"Did you fuck h
im?"
"No!" My tone is full of righteous indignation, which, considering Jackson had his fingers in my panties, is a little bit disingenuous. "I wasn't even with him most of the time. I--oh, shit, Cass. I went to Avalon."
"Fuck me sideways, Syl. Seriously?"
Now the worry is plain in her voice, and it's clear that she understood my meaning--I didn't go there just to dance.
I rush to reassure her. "It's okay. I'm okay."
"Am I giving you another tattoo?" Her words are controlled and evenly spaced. Not anger, I think. But fear.
"No," I say, grateful that Jackson showed up when he did. "Almost," I admit. "But no."
"I'm on my way," she says.
"No, Cass, really. I'm fine. I'm going to get cleaned up and get to the office. See if I can find another architect who will make the investors happy." I say it lightly, even though I know there's no way in hell.
"You're sure? You don't have a car, and I'm not that far away."
"I'm sure," I say. "And you don't want to leave Zee, and she doesn't want to spend the morning with me. Seriously, it's all good."
"Okay. Listen, Zee lives in Silver Lake, and my cell signal is for shit here, so if you call and I don't answer, leave a message and I'll call you back from her landline."
"I won't. I'm fine. Quit playing Mommy."
"I'm worried about you."
"Don't be," I say gently. "It's all good."
I can practically see her dissatisfied expression. "Fine. Tonight, then. I've got a one o'clock that should take a couple of hours, but after that I'm free. Meet me at the shop at three?"
And because we both need reassurance that I'm all right, I nod. "Yeah," I say into the phone. "We can grab a late lunch."
"Forget the late lunch. I'm going to want an early drink."
I laugh, and we end the call.
I briefly consider whether I should go back to sleep for a few hours or just grab a taxi and get out of here. After I hit the bathroom, though, I decide to compromise on a shower. Because this bathroom is truly fab. With black tiled walls, ultra-modern fixtures, and a walk-in rain shower.
I turn the water on and wait for the temperature to adjust, standing naked in front of the mirror as I do.
Am I giving you another tattoo?
Cass's words seem to echo in the small room, and I slide my hand down until my fingers brush the lock that Cass inked just above my line of pubic hair. The first of so many. The mirror isn't a full-length style, but if I stand back far enough I can see most of myself. And the truth is, I don't need to see anyway. I know where they all are. Every souvenir. Every mark. Every pain, and every memory.
I turn my leg out, revealing the curving red ribbon inked onto the soft skin between my torso and left thigh, the ribbon curling from my pubis to my hip. And on it, the ornately scripted initials, TS, KC, DW. Small and intricately designed, like the text of a medieval manuscript, so that the letters appear to be little more than a random design. Of course, they are anything but.
I remember that night with Jackson--one night that held all the force and emotion of a lifetime. He'd traced his finger on the ribbon, and asked what it meant. I'd told him that it meant nothing, but that was a lie. The initials mean everything. They are a mark of both shame and power. A reminder of who I was, and who I will never be again.
They represent men like Louis. Men I'd gone after in those years before Jackson. Men I'd taken to bed so that I could use instead of being used.
I drag my teeth over my lower lip, silently thanking Jackson for stopping me last night. Preventing me from going so far that I would have no choice but to add LD--Louis Dale--to my collection.
I haven't done that--trapped a guy in my sights and gone after him like that--since before Atlanta. But last night, I'd craved that release, that control. This morning, I would only have regretted it.
I shift sideways so that I can glimpse my back. From this angle I can tell only that something has been inked in red between the two dimples above each of my ass cheeks. But that's okay, I know the tat. Even though I have never seen it except in reflection, I know the line and the curves. An ornate J intertwined with an S, like a fancy monogram.
Jackson's initials--and they are marking me.
I sigh and reach back, pressing my palm flat over the tat. I'd gone to Cass the day I returned from Atlanta. I didn't explain, didn't say a word. It was at least a month before I told her anything about Jackson and me. But I'd needed the ink right away. I'd needed the pain that marked the memory. And I'd needed a piece of him to be with me always.
There are other tats. On my breasts, between my shoulder blades, marking my hips. A silent path winding through the pain in my life. All discreet, so that no corporate skirt and blouse would ever reveal my secrets. But all there when I need them.
Right now, I tell myself, I don't need them. I'm doing fine. I have a career in which I'm advancing, good friends, a great boss. I'm moving forward in my life; I no longer have to stand naked before a mirror and trace the path of my triumphs and tragedies to give me strength.
And for years, I've felt strong and capable and in control.
But now the world is getting gray around the edges again, and the control I've always clutched so desperately is slipping away as if I'm holding tight with buttered fingers.
Fingers of panic are creeping back in through the cracks in my veneer, and I know why. Because instead of conquering them, I hid from them. I ran as fast as I could from Jackson, and then curled up into a little ball, living an anesthetized life.
But he's back now, and I'm tingling all over, just like a numb limb coming back to life, and I honestly don't know if I can handle this.
No, that's not true. I know that I can't handle it. I know, because I couldn't handle it the first time.
Somehow, I need to get Jackson Steele out of my head.
Except, dear god, I want him.
There, I've said it, even if only in my head. I want him.
Time and distance haven't lessened the desire any more than hurt and anger have.
I want his touch. I want his hands. I want everything he has to offer.
But god help me, I don't want to lose it again. I don't want to be so overwhelmed that control is ripped away from me. I don't want to be scared of my own reaction.
I can't handle that sensation of being lost outside myself--as if someone else is feeling things. Doing things.
And I sure as hell can't handle the nightmares that come with it. Nightmares that I've mostly left behind--and that I do not want coming back. Not now. Not ever.
Even more, I don't want to be used.
I don't want to be chattel.
Just the thought of it makes me panic, and I have to close my eyes and hug myself and breathe in slowly and steadily.
Hell, maybe I should be grateful he tossed me that ultimatum. Because I was an idiot to think that I could work with him, even if that was the only way to save the resort.
No. I can't give up. Not yet. Not until I've tried everything.
Which means that my plan is to dig into the extensive array of files that the company has on every building project around the world.
And even though I already know that every potential replacement is fully booked for years, I also know I have to try.
There's a red line station at Hollywood and Vine, and since the red line lets off just a block from Stark Tower, I decide that the best plan is to wear my cocktail dress to the office, change into the spare outfit I keep there, and get busy.
I skip the shower, dress quickly, then hurry to the station. Most of the outside is a matte gray metal, but the interior glows with yellow light from the dozens of golden and yellow-green glass tiles that line the interior, providing illumination as the escalator and stairs reach down into the actual station.
I don't have my pass, but I do have a credit card, so I grab a ticket and hurry to reach the train that's just pulling into the station. I'm lost in a crowd of tourists, and I let the m
ass push me along. It's standing room only, but when we reach the stop at Western, a guy in a business suit gets off. I collapse gratefully into his vacant seat, and as I do, I see a familiar face in the crowd.
Jackson?
I blink, and when I look again, he is gone.
I know it must have been an illusion. Someone with his eyes, his hair. But it doesn't matter. I still feel sad and more than a little lost.
Mourning, I think. And it's true. I'm mourning my career and the resort, which will never have the chance to be. But mostly I'm mourning the promise of Jackson that died five years ago. A promise that I soundly and painfully killed when I told Jackson to leave.
I'd awakened in a cold sweat, the sheets soaked through, memories of Jackson's face merging with Bob's still filling my mind.
Beside me, Jackson slept, and I rolled out of the bed, fighting nausea as I stayed on my hands and knees on the floor just breathing in and out until I was certain that I wouldn't throw up.
Didn't work. I clapped my hand over my mouth and ran for the bathroom, making it just in time. Then I turned on the shower, made the water just shy of scalding, and got in the tub.
I didn't stand. Just sat there with my knees up to my chest and my head down so that the water sluiced over me. And even as the steam rose around me, I shivered.
This was a mistake. I'd been so overwhelmed by the man that I'd forgotten what that would do to me. I'd ignored the warnings. The little sparks of panic and fear.
I'd thought that I'd actually kept some control. But that wasn't true at all.
I'd surrendered completely. Mind. Body. I'd responded to every touch, yielded to every whim.
There'd been pleasure--oh, god, yes, there'd been pleasure--but it was tainted by his demands. And, more, by my reaction to him. By the fact that whatever control I'd thought I still clung to was nothing more than an illusion, because all he had to do was tell me to spread my legs and I did so eagerly. Shamelessly.
I asked only one thing of myself, and all it took was this one dangerous man to shatter everything.
Jackson had come into my life like a storm, fast and wild and unexpected, and I'd been so overwhelmed by his power and intensity that I forgot to consider just how dangerous he was for me. For years, I'd worked so hard to keep such a tight rein on control. To fight back all the demons that Bob had planted inside me. And I had. I'd found a way. Maybe it wasn't perfect, but it worked for me. Or it had until tonight.