I don’t remember answering, but I must have, because I remember distinctly that he put his hand on my thigh and started unbuttoning my dress while I was telling him about how Damien blew off his tax-planning meeting.
I froze, the words stumbling over my tongue. I had the ridiculous urge to scoot away, but damn me, hadn’t I been craving this very thing, despite all my good sense and judgment?
So I stayed, and I talked, and I was talking still when the waitress came in, and I realized that was what Jackson had planned all along. Not simply the touch, but a forbidden one.
Not simply desire, but the need to fight it. To hide it.
And goddamn him, I couldn’t deny the fact that the secret pleasure made the sensation of his finger playing with me, fucking me, that much more incredible.
“Galway,” Jackson urges now as his finger strokes small circles on my clit, making my head spin and my thoughts scatter.
“Jackson, I—”
“Tell me,” he repeats, and so I do. I tell him about the phone call and Galway’s laughter when he thinks that Damien is joking, then his surprise when he learns that Damien really does want to acquire the island.
“Stark sounds like a man who gets what he wants,” Jackson says.
“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.