I do not protest when he moves forward and puts the blindfold over my eyes. The world goes dark, and as he said, it is only him that I know. The sound of his breathing. The feel of his hands upon me. The touch of his breath upon my skin.
He caresses my body with hands and kisses, a sweet seduction as he moves back onto the bed, making the mattress shift as he does. And then he is lightly caressing my sex, his fingers teasing and exploring, making me even hotter than I already am. Opening me. Readying me.
Without warning, he lifts my legs, and I feel the sensation of being stretched as he raises them onto his shoulders. I gasp at the sensation of his cock pressing hard against me, seeking entrance, and I relax, welcoming him. Wanting him.
And then, when he grabs my ass and thrusts into me, impaling me without warning, I scream just as he wanted me to, lost in the incredible sensation of being filled by this man.
He is huge, but I am so damn wet that it hurts only for a bit. Now he moves in a sensual rhythm, holding my hips with one hand as he guides my motions to work in tandem with his, and at the same time using his other hand to tease my clit so that I am overwhelmed by the sensation of both being filled and of catching fire.
I’m alive with pleasure—wild with desire. And the fact that I can see nothing only adds to the vastness of what I feel, just like Jackson had said it would.
“Come for me,” he says, thrusting harder and deeper. “Christ, Sylvia, I want you to come for me now.”
I cry out in surprise when I feel his own release, and then in pleasure when every bit of sparkle in my body seems to center on my sex, only to burst out again and send me spinning. I arch up, feeling as though I could fly, and then fall back down on the bed, wanting nothing more than to have Jackson beside me.
I fear for a moment that he will not come—that he will punish me by leaving me alone and bound in this bed. But he does not. Instead he unties my arms, then removes my blindfold. And then, to my surprise and delight, he brushes a tender kiss across my lips before sliding into bed beside me.
“Sleep now,” Jackson says.
I lay there breathing hard, my back against his chest, my body exhausted and my mind content. And as he holds me in his arms, I sink into his warmth, entirely unprepared for the cold fingers of memory when they creep up to fill my sleep and haunt my dreams.
I watch myself in the red dress, as Bob circles the other me who stands in the soft lighting.
“Lovely,” he says as his camera clicks. “Just perfect. Now let’s add a little heat to these photos.”
The other me shakes her head. “I don’t think—”
“Hush,” he says as he steps closer. “I need these photos to stand out, and how can they miss with you in them? Innocence mixed with passion. And if there’s arousal … oh, Elle, that photo will pop.” His hand brushes her nipple, and I watch as the other me gasps. But I don’t feel it. Over here, away, I don’t feel a thing.
His smile is slow. “There you go. You see? That beautiful flush. The camera loves it. And I’ll tell you a secret, Elle. I do, too. There aren’t many fourteen-year-old girls as mature as you. With such a natural heat. Do one more button for me. For the camera.”
“Don’t,” I say to the me in the dress.
But she bites her lip and lifts her hands to the dress. And I suck in air because I know this. I’ve seen it.
I remember what happens. The way he finishes the rest of the buttons for her. The things he says so that it seems okay but really isn’t. The way it feels when his hands are on her—when he touches her. When he’s inside her.
And the shame and loathing that come after.
I remember it, and so I scream for her. I yell for her to fight it. To stop him.
But I don’t hear me. Only Bob does. And when he turns to me with a victorious smile, it’s Jackson’s face that I see.
I sit up, gasping for air, then jump when Jackson’s hand strokes my thigh.
“Syl?” His voice is sleepy, concerned.
But I don’t answer. Instead, I run to the living room and throw on the dress, ignoring the ripped underwear and not bothering with the bra.
I stand for a second, unsure, then I tiptoe back into the bedroom and dig in the pocket of his khakis for his wallet. I find the valet ticket, and I clutch it tight, breathing hard.
“Syl? What’s going on?”
I look up to see him blinking at me as he switches on the bedside lamp.
Fear clutches me, and I can barely breathe.
I spring to my feet and race out of the bedroom, then out of the suite. I jab my finger on the elevator button and will it to whisk me to the lobby at something close to the speed of light.
The young man at the valet stand doesn’t question me when he brings me the Porsche, and I’m grateful that I remembered my purse so that I can tip him.
I slide behind the wheel, lock the doors, and peel out of the driveway.
I have no idea where I’m going. I only know that I want to escape.
But since it’s my own skin I want to leave behind, it’s never going to happen. And all I can hope is that somehow, someway, I can drive fast enough to leave the nightmares behind.
thirteen
I race up Coldwater Canyon, hugging the road’s curves, watching as the spray of light from the headlights turns the tree-lined road into a fairy tale path of dark shadows and witches’ fingers that are reaching out to claim me.
But it’s not the shadows I’m running from. It’s not even Jackson. Not entirely.
It’s Jackson and myself and the whole fucked up situation.
Because damn me to hell, all Jackson wants is to punish me. I know that—I know it. And yet all he has to do is crook a finger to make me melt.
Just like Bob did all those years ago.
Fuck.
This was a mistake. Such a huge mistake. I should never have gotten in Jackson’s bed, and if that meant abandoning the resort, then I should have just walked away. Because I cannot be this woman. I can’t be the girl who surrenders. Who gives in. I have to hold on tight to control, because it is the only protection I have.
I hate that as well.
And so I drive, taking the curves wildly, trying desperately to lose myself in the thrill of danger, burying my fear under this rush of pure adrenal sensation and absolute concentration.
Except it doesn’t work. My head is too full, my thoughts too wild, and with one violent turn of the wheel, I whip the car into a turnaround and slam on the brakes. The Porsche jolts to a stop dangerously close to the drop-off, and for a moment I wonder what that would have been like, soaring out into space and then dropping down, down, down into nothingness.
I push the thought away. That is not me; not who I am at all. And it never has been.
Even as a teen, when I so desperately wanted it to end, I never wanted to end me. Instead I wanted to get lost inside myself, to find that safe place and to cling to talismans that would protect me from the nightmares.
My whole life, I’ve managed to keep a tight hold, with only two exceptions—Atlanta and right now.