by J. Kenner
I don't have to ask to understand why. I'd run that first night in the hotel. He'd bound me and blindfolded me, and now Jackson fears that combination is too much.
It's not, though. I am certain of it. Even if the nightmares come, I'm not going to run again. Not unless I'm running to Jackson.
"Will you tell me what's in the trunk?"
He smiles as he comes toward me with the length of black silk. "I'll do better than that. I'll show you. But not tonight. Tonight, I don't intend to let you see anything." He motions for me to sit up. "Kneel," he says, "but keep your knees apart, your hands behind you."
"You're going easy on me," I say as he puts the blindfold around my eyes and secures it. I try to keep my tone teasing, but some accusation comes through.
"Easy?" he retorts. "Or starting slow? Giving us something to build to? But if you have complaints, be sure to tell me." As he speaks, his finger slides inside me, and I arch up, reacting to this unexpected pleasure.
He had touched me nowhere before, and the penetration surprises me, sending shocks of awareness through me, and heightening my senses. It is as if I am a spring waiting to pop, and as he withdraws his finger, I moan in protest, because now there is no contact at all, and I am left to the mercy of awareness and anticipation.
It's a state I've never been in before, and I am more aroused than I have ever been. So no. I'm definitely not complaining.
"You're so beautiful," he says. "Your breasts," he whispers as he touches my lips. "Your cunt," he murmurs as he flicks my nipple. "Your lips," he says, as he strokes my clit. Every touch is in contrast to his words, and I bite down on my lip trying to keep a grip on the sensual symphony that he is playing across my body.
"This is how I want you," he says. "Open to me. Trusting me. So aroused and beautiful. You fit me, Sylvia. We fit each other. Every time I touch you it's a gift. Every time I kiss you, I find myself just a little bit more."
"Jackson ..." His words are melting me, squeezing tight around my heart.
"Lean forward," he orders. "Knees and forearms."
I do, and I feel the bed shift as he gets on beside me. I try to judge where he will touch me from the shift of the mattress, but it's no use. I feel his lips on the back of my neck, then traveling down my spine. Then his hands cup the curve of my rear.
"You have the most perfect ass," he says, and then kisses each cheek as if paying homage before silently urging me to spread my legs.
I hesitate, but not because I do not want to comply. On the contrary, I'm astounded by how much I want to do exactly that. By how easily and perfectly Jackson pegged me. The control I'd been grabbing with the men I'd claimed at places like Avalon was only an illusion. A bandage over pain and memory. But this--this is what I want. What makes me feel. And I trust Jackson enough to let go and do exactly that.
"Now," he urges, and I comply, then quiver with delight as he cups my sex, then strokes me all the way up, over my perineum, my ass, then along my spine, moving his own body in closer as he leans over me. The feeling is delicious, as if he is tracing a cord across my body, and with one quick tug he will light me up.
At some point, he stripped off his clothes, and the new sensation of skin upon skin makes sparks skitter all over me. "I should draw this out," he says. "I should tease you until you're close to breaking. But dammit, Sylvia, I've wanted you all day. Imagined you at that damn party with your cunt slick and hot and waiting for me. Had my mouth on your cunt. Held you naked in my lap on the deck. I've imagined fucking you so many times today, that I can't wait any longer."
"Then don't," I say, bending my arms so that I'm right there, open for him. Wet for him.
"Oh, Christ, Syl. You're going to destroy me."
I feel him move. Feel his hands grip my hips. And then the sweet pressure of his fingers teasing me, opening and stretching me before he takes me. His cock is thick, but I'm so ready for him, and when he thrusts into me, at first slowly, and then with increasing wildness, I cry out in welcome and abandon.
I am bent over as he pounds into me, from this position unable to match his thrusts, and so I am at his mercy, letting him hold me still and use me to find his rhythm, letting his fingers reach around to stroke my clit in time with his thrusts. I've never been fucked like this before, and I like it. It makes me feel open and wild. It makes me feel like I'm his.
And when he explodes inside me--when he continues to tease my clit and urges me to "let go, baby, just let go"--I find my release, too, and explode so violently that my body goes limp and I collapse onto the bed, still blind, but thoroughly and completely sated.
I feel him withdraw, soft now, then use a tissue to clean me up before spooning against me. He gently removes my blindfold and I roll over to face him. I start to speak, but he cuts me off with a kiss that is so wild and deep and passionate that it fills me as much as his cock had before, and is at least as sensual.
"Now," he says softly when he breaks the kiss. "This time you really do have to get under the covers and sleep."
"Only if you're with me."
"Sweetheart, you couldn't kick me out if you tried."
He pulls the covers down, but I'm so wasted and limp that he has to help me under. And then, when he gets in beside me, I curl up against him, our legs twined together, then fall asleep content in his arms.
I wake hours later to the scent of coffee and cinnamon. "I could get used to this," I say as I sit up against the pillows and accept the tray that has coffee, cream, and a warmed up cinnamon roll.
"I could, too," he says, then kisses me softly.
I take a sip of my coffee, enjoying it, but enjoying more the view of Jackson changing into a pair of khaki slacks and a casual linen shirt.
"Shall I hurry?"
"Take your time. I've got some work to do on the computer, and the island's not going anywhere."
He squeezes my hand, then heads out. I lean back against the pillows again, relishing this sense of belonging. Of being part of this space. His space.
Once I'm done with breakfast, I shower and change into the same yoga pants and shirt I'd borrowed last night. Then I head up top to find him in his office. He has three huge computer monitors and there is drafting software open on one, a topographical map of the island on another, and a word processor open on the third.
I glance at the map and see that it's one of the naval maps that Nigel sent over upon acquisition. "How'd you get that?"
"Aiden," he says. "I called while you were in the shower and he sent it over. He also said it should be in your area on the Stark directory, but that I would understand that he couldn't give me access to your files."
"You're very efficient," I say, squeezing in beside him so that I can access the company website and then the private, secure area. I've got my files open in under five minutes, and I transfer all the various maps and surveys and photographs of the island to a folder on Jackson's computer.
"And now you know what I know."
"This is good information," he says, opening files and sending them to the printer. "Let me just pull this stuff together and we can get going. I packed some snacks already, but if you'd grab some water bottles, that would be great."
Since that's a good idea, I do that. I consider taking a bottle of chilled wine, but decide against it. This may be a romantic, secluded island, but it's also work. And probably best if we keep the line from getting blurred.
We leave the boat and walk down the floating dock to the helipad and the section of the island that's been earmarked for storage and staging.
I point to the same path I'd followed to find Nikki and Damien just a few days before. "So I figure we can head that way and follow the island's perimeter. It's not huge, but it's not tiny. It takes about three hours to make the full circle, more if we're stopping to take notes or photos."
I wish I had my camera, but Jackson has brought a pocket-sized one that has a decent zoom lens, so at least we'll be able to document areas to accompany his notes.
I'm thinking about that--and wondering if I need to run back for an extra notepad--when Jackson takes my hand and tugs me to him, then draws me into a long, intense, bone-melting kiss. One hand is twined in my hair, the other sliding down the waistband of my pants. He cups my ass, then squeezes as his tongue teases me, and I know that I am already desperately wet.
I break away, breathing hard. "Not exactly workplace behavior, Mr. Steele."
"And there won't be a repeat performance, Ms. Brooks. But I thought a long kiss to tide us over was in order. After all, if I'm not going to get my From Here to Eternity moment in the cold Pacific, I at least wanted a kiss under the hot sun."
I can't help but laugh. I'd told him we need to focus on work, especially since we have to be back in the office tomorrow. Apparently he took my admonition to heart.
"Then again, I'm not sure it's worth trying to keep a professional demeanor," I say. I point to the security camera that has surely captured that moment.
"Never fear. Your reputation is safe with me." He goes to the pole, finds the control that raises and lowers the camera, then opens the weatherproof housing and pulls out a memory disk.
"Jackson!"
"Problem?" He flashes me an innocent look, and I do my best to appear stern.
"You realize that's just a backup? The feed goes live back to the security office at Stark Tower."
He just shrugs and grins and tucks the disk in his pocket. "Souvenir," he says. "I think I'll pull that image and make it my screen saver."
I laugh, but point to the pole and the camera. "You must have been a handful when you were a kid."
"You have no idea," he says. "Hang on."
And then he jogs back to the boat while I'm left waiting, and wondering what the hell he's doing.
When he doesn't come back immediately I consider following, then decide to spend the time checking the equipment stored here. I'm just about to open the shed when he returns. I cross my arms and tap my foot.
"Just following directions," he says, then pops the disk back in place before returning the camera to its original position.
"Let me guess. You have a new screen saver."
"You," he says as he taps the tip of my nose, "are a very smart woman."
"You're very playful."
"Why wouldn't I be? I had an extremely excellent night. I woke up beside a beautiful woman. And now I've been handed this exceptional canvas." He sweeps his arm out to encompass the island. "Thank you," he says, and the genuine sincerity in his voice makes my knees go a little weak.
"I always wanted you," I confess. "Glau was a very poor substitute."
"Hell yeah, he was," Jackson says, and we both laugh.
He picks his rucksack up from where he left it by the security camera, then nods toward the path. "Show me our island."
Our island.
I like the sound of that.
As it turns out, I'm right about it taking more than three hours to walk the circumference. Instead, it takes six. We spend the time discussing my vision for the resort. The section of the island carved out for couples, the area devoted to families. How the various recreational activities will be woven in. The number and type of restaurants I anticipate.
"This resort will be family oriented, but there should still be some areas that are private. I don't want someone on a honeymoon or anniversary to feel this isn't the place for them."
We've made it back almost full circle, and now we're on a sandy beach a few hundred yards from the dock. "Maybe one exclusive area with upscale bungalows and private beaches. The area with the inlet would be perfect," he says. "Let me show you."
He pulls out a notebook and sits in the sand, completely unconcerned about the way his pants are getting soaked or the water coming in to tease his feet, now bare since we tossed our shoes up by the dunes.
I watch his face and the sketch that is coming to life on the paper. He is completely absorbed, lost in this new world that right now lives only in his imagination.
His intensity is compelling, and I drop down beside him, then watch, enraptured, as he continues to put his vision on paper. Even as a sketch, it captures everything I've told him I want and yet makes it bolder, better.
He pauses and looks up, his eyes just a little glazed as if he has forgotten where he is. When he focuses on me, though, his eyes clear, and he lifts a brow in question.
"Perfect," I say. And when I press a kiss to his cheek, I hope he understands that I mean so much more than the resort.
twenty
"I see what Glau was getting at with the consolidation of all the recreation facilities in one area," Jackson is saying as the elevator doors open and we step into the office's penthouse foyer. We'd spent the morning on the twenty-sixth floor in the previously empty space that Stark International has made available to Jackson and his team for the duration of the project.
Now, we're on our way up for a meeting with Damien, but Jackson's mind is still on the designs that he'd taped to the wall and then immediately started revising with bold blue pencil.
"It's not only a terrible use of the natural space, but it also limits the flexibility of the resort as a whole." He glances up, sees Rachel waving us over, and gives her a halfhearted wave as he flips more pages in the notebook he's holding. "I also want to discuss the construction crew. Unless you're contractually locked in, I'm more comfortable with my own team."
"If we hit a snag, we can bring Aiden in, but you and I can work it out. Is Mr. Stark ready for us?" I ask Rachel as we reach her desk.
I glance down and can see by the light on the phone that he's not. I glance at my watch and then frown. Damien is exceptionally prompt, and I can't help but wonder why he's still on a call when we're scheduled to meet with him right now.
Not my problem.
The reminder isn't easy to swallow. I've sat at this desk for so long that it's strange not to be behind it on a weekday, even if the reason I'm not behind it is management.
"How's the desk?" I ask Rachel, my curiosity getting the better of me.
"Busier than on the weekends," she says. "Thanks for letting me pick up Monday and today."
"Don't thank me. I'm thrilled, too. Gives me more time on real estate."
"Speaking of, guess who I had drinks with last night."
"Aiden?" Rachel's pretty and fun, and I've always thought they would make a cute couple. But she just shakes her head and says, "I wish! No, Trent." From her smile, I can see that she does not consider Trent to be sloppy seconds.
And while I would be less than enthusiastic about him myself, I have to agree that Trent is both nice and competent, if rather dull. I keep my mouth closed about that last part.
"So?" I say. "Details, please."
"No big deal, really," she says, but her blush suggests otherwise. "But he was up here last night. I was, too, because Damien had one of his international conference calls from his house, and I was here in case he needed me to pull files or something."
"Why was Trent here? Was the call about the Century City or Bahamas projects?" Those may not be my projects, but I'm hoping to be officially in that department soon, and if there's something cooking, I want to know about it.
"Oh, no. He didn't say why he was here, but since he asked me out, I think that was the real reason. And he hung out for the whole call. Even watched my desk when I had to run into the apartment to get some files that Damien left in the kitchen," she adds, referring to the private residence that covers half of this floor. "After that, we split an entire bottle of wine down at the Biltmore's bar. And I think that if we both hadn't needed to get up early, I might still be on a date."
My smile is genuine. "Good for you."
"I know, right? It's been forever since I've had s-e-x." She glances at Jackson as she spells, as if that's going to somehow keep him from picking up the thread of our conversation.
I'm about to ask her what happened with the last guy she was dating when the intercom buzzes.
"Are they here?"
"I was just about to send them in," Rachel says.
As Jackson levers himself off the reception couch, I give Rachel a quick nod, and she pushes the button to open the door.
Damien is standing by the window when we enter, and as the door shuts behind us, he hits a button on the remote he is holding. Immediately, the automatic blinds that cover the wall of windows start to close, shifting the room into dark.
The projection screen begins to descend and a tabloid-style headline splashes onto it:
Sex, Sand & Starkalicious Scandal!
"Would one of you care to tell me what the hell this is?" Damien's voice is taut to the breaking point.
I look at Jackson, who does not look at me. Instead, he studies the screen where an article is now scrolling beneath the headline, complete with hyperlinks to other LA Scandal website articles.
Damien Stark--whose place in the scandal firmament was assured by both his recent murder trial (the charges of which were dismissed--the scandalous Stark was not acquitted!) and the sexilicious deal he made with his now-wife Nikki Fairchild (more here)--just might be at it again!
Has he opened up his problem-plagued, not-yet-operational resort on the recently purchased Santa Cortez island to investors for use as their own private playground? A secret hideaway for illicit affairs? Take a look at this footage of scandal-magnet Dallas Sykes and "friend" Melissa Baronne and draw your own conclusions. We can guess what Ms. Baronne's husband is thinking!
"Oh my god," I say, as a looped image of Sykes in a lip-lock with a twenty-something bombshell starts to play. "How--"
"A very good question," Damien says, his dual-colored eyes reflecting the tight grip he is keeping on control. His attention is laser-locked on Jackson. "We don't even have plans from you, Mr. Steele, and we already have scandal. Not only does this play against the family resort atmosphere we're aiming for, but this company now has a part in putting out gossip about one of our key investors. Not to mention a man with whom I'm currently in other negotiations."