“I thought I’d show you some of my favorite places. You said you grew up in LA, right? How long have you been in Atlanta?”
“Not long. I came right after I graduated in August. I met my boss out there—he was brokering a deal for Damien Stark, so I knew that Reggie was legit. Reggie Gale,” I added. “He needed an assistant, I wanted real estate development experience, and so it just worked out.”
“Stark,” Jackson said, his voice flat.
“You’ve heard of him, right? Retired from the tennis circuit not long ago, and he’s exploded onto the business scene. He made a huge profit with some real estate investments before he retired, and he parlayed that into a tech company and a whole bunch of other ventures.”
“I’ve heard of him. I’m not entirely sure what to think of him. Or of his success.”
“Really?” I shrugged. From what I’d seen Stark was damn talented. “I actually applied for an assistant job with him, but when Reggie offered me this position, I took it. Closer to real estate.”
“And Gale brought you to Atlanta.”
“So it’s only been a few weeks. And everything’s been so busy with the Brighton Consortium project that I haven’t had much time to get to know the city. So, yeah,” I said. “This is perfect.”
I didn’t mention that it was especially perfect since I knew that my time in Atlanta might be short. Once Reggie had fired me, I’d sent an email to the HR department at Stark International asking them to please consider my application if the assistant position hadn’t already been filled. Even if I didn’t get that job, I knew I’d probably end up back in LA. I had friends there and connections. And at the end of the day, it was all about finding a job.
Right then, though, I didn’t want to angst about my job prospects. Instead, I simply wanted to enjoy the time with Jackson.
It ended up being an even more wonderful day than I imagined, with Jackson taking me around the city, showing me his favorite buildings, and telling me why he liked them.
We started by having a post-lunch drink at the Marriott Marquis with its alien-looking atrium that rose up to dizzying heights. We hit the Georgia Aquarium next, which had that same futuristic Googie quality. We entered, then went to the largest tank and sat in the dark. I couldn’t say what creatures lived inside that massive habitat. All I knew in that moment was Jackson. His heat, his scent, his presence. I could barely think, much less focus, and when he brushed his lips against my temple, even that sweetly innocent touch was enough to have me writhing with need and anticipation.
From under the water at the aquarium, he took me underground to a subway station. “This one is my favorite.” Jackson spread his arms out to encompass the Peachtree Marta station one hundred and twenty feet below the ground. The ceiling and floor were finished, but the sides of the tunnel were rough, blasted rock.
“This is where men shaped the world the way they saw fit,” Jackson said, his words echoing my earlier ones. “Seemingly simple, but now thousands of people can move through bedrock, and the design—with the exposed rocks—drives that home.”
He ended our tour at the sleekly stunning High Museum of Art with its original design by a Pritzker-winning architect and subsequent enhancement by an Italian architectural maestro. We wandered its galleries, exploring it thoroughly, but spending most of our time checking out the current Cézanne exhibit and studying the prints in the permanent photographic exhibit. Our Day of Architecture finally ended at Table 1280, the fresh-to-table restaurant inside the museum.
“There’s more,” Jackson said, as he lifted a strawberry to my mouth. “But the more time I spend with you, the less interested I am in architecture, and the more interested I am in getting you naked.”
I almost choked on the berry. “Not very subtle, are you?”
“I know what I want,” he said. “I know it, and I go after it. I told you that last night. And, Sylvia, I thought we were clear that I wanted you.”
“What you want? Sounds a bit one-sided.”
“It’s not,” he assured me. “I know what you want, too.” The way he smiled reminded me a bit of the wolf with Red Riding Hood. The better to eat you with, my dear. “Don’t I?”
Oh, dear god, yes.
I ignored the wild pounding of my heart as I pushed my plate away, the slice of cheesecake uneaten. I didn’t understand the intensity of my reaction to this man. All I knew was that Jackson shifted something inside me. And so help me, I liked the way that felt.
The short walk to his car seemed unbearably long, and the drive was almost painful. The thrum of the engine drove through me, and every time he shifted gears, I felt the shift in power between my legs. My nipples were hard and painfully sensitive as they rubbed the lace of my bra with each movement.
I was on edge and frenzied and just a bit out of control. I wasn’t a woman who swooned around a man. Just the opposite, in fact. Usually I clenched up or went cold if a man came after me with as much intensity as Jackson had. Granted, he wasn’t demanding or forcing or giving ultimatums. Hell, he’d even pulled back that very first time when he’d ordered me to take a walk with him.
But that didn’t change the fact that his entire persona was control and power. Exactly the kind of thing that usually made me edgy and off center.
So why wasn’t I feeling that way now?
Then again, right then, I really was on edge. But a different kind. A better kind. My skin tingling, my sex throbbing. My entire body was primed in anticipation of his touch. A touch that I wanted. Maybe even needed.
“Go ahead,” Jackson said, his voice soft but with a subtle hint of authority.
I turned to look at him, not understanding.
“Touch yourself.”
This time, there was no denying the command. Nor was there any denying my body’s immediate and visceral response. The instant firing of my blood. The sudden ache between my thighs. The tightness in my breasts.
I swallowed and forced myself not to clench my hands at my sides as panic began to bubble up inside me, all the more unwelcome because I’d thought with Jackson I was past it. “I don’t think so.”
My words were firm, and I was proud of myself for hiding my anxiety.
“You want to,” he said simply.
“No, I—”
“Don’t discount your desires, Sylvia. Do you think I can’t feel it, too, the heat you’re generating? Do you really believe that I don’t know damn well that if I slid my finger inside your panties I’d find you hot and wet for me?”
I pressed my lips together, both aroused and frustrated that he could so easily see what should have been hidden.
“I thought of you last night,” he continued. “I sat in my living room with a glass of bourbon and I thought of you.”