Jackson slams his hand down hard against the polished wood paneling, making me, Cass, and Siobhan jump.
“Goddamn motherfucking son of a bitch.” He sucks in a breath, then another. I start to take his hand. But something holds me back. Not yet, I think. Not just yet.
“I blew it.” He grinds out the words as if each and every one cuts a slice out of his heart. “I lost my temper. I made it worse.”
“You may well have.” Evelyn’s voice is firm. “I can do the spin—you were looking out for your daughter, keeping her safe from scandal, the whole big push—but you just rammed your fist into a reporter’s face, Jackson. And our detectives may want to take that little media clip out for a ride.”
“You think they’ll arrest him?” My voice sounds like a squeak.
“I think Harriet will have a better sense. But they know he was in Reed’s house and that they argued. They know he assaulted Reed once before. They know he had motive. And now the whole world knows just how quick a temper he has. Honestly, kids, you need to be prepared.”
I look at Jackson, who is dragging his fingers through his hair. He looks both angry and exhausted. “I know,” he says, as the limo pulls to a stop in front of a house I don’t recognize. “I get it.”
“Try not to dwell on it. Let me worry about this for now. I’ll get in touch with Charles and Harriet. All you need to do is stay away from the press and calm yourself down. Get tonight out of your system. Your daughter is going to be fine. Do you understand me?”
“Yes. Fine. Sure.” He ends the call, cutting off whatever else Evelyn intended to say.
What I notice, though, is what she didn’t say. She didn’t say that Jackson would be fine.
I’m trying to ratchet back my fear when I realize that Siobhan is scooting toward the door. She opens it and steps out, and I look up curiously at Cass, who is crouched down to give me a hug. “Siobhan’s house,” she whispers. “She figured you two could use the time.”
And before I can reply or say thank you or anything at all, she’s following Siobhan’s path out of the limo.
She slams the door shut, the limo pulls back out onto the street, and I am left beside Jackson who sits perfectly, dangerously still.
I swallow, my skin prickling from the rising heat.
I’m breathing hard, my breasts rising and falling. My skin is warm, and beads of perspiration have gathered at the nape of my neck.
He turns his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine, wild and feral and hard. There’s a hungry glint to them, and for a moment I fear that he will tear me to pieces. That I will truly stand as proxy for the bastards who leaked the news about Ronnie. For the fear that I know must be consuming him, just as it is consuming me.
But haven’t I repeatedly told him that I can handle it, no matter how bad it gets? That I will be his release valve, his safety net?
That I’ll willingly take in his pain—and then we’ll turn it around into passion.
I am still holding his gaze, and I feel locked in place simply from the force of his will. He has not touched me, and though we haven’t spoken, I know that he will not until I acquiesce. Not tonight. Not when he needs to push. To go as far as he needs, and then some.
“Yes,” I say.
A muscle twitches in his cheek, but he doesn’t otherwise move, nor does he say a word to me. He simply watches me for one beat, then another. It is as if he is sizing me up, testing my resolve. I stay where I am, looking back at him. But slowly—very slowly—I part my thighs.
Jackson sucks in a breath through his nose. Then he twists at the waist so that he can reach the intercom button. He jams his finger down on it.
“Don’t go home, Edward.” His voice is hard. Tight with control. “Just drive. I don’t care where. Just drive until I tell you to stop.”
twenty
“More,” he says, in a voice so full of desire that it would melt my panties if I’d been wearing any. “I want to see you. I want to see how wet you are.”
I lick my lips, then raise my ass just enough so that I can get a grip on my skirt, then I shimmy it up over my hips before sitting down again, my legs spread even wider. The leather is warmer than I’d anticipated, and I know why—my entire body is hot, fired by my own desire.
“Oh, Christ, Syl.” There is heat in his voice, and his eyes swoop over me, his attention focused on my sex, now very, very exposed. And, yes, very, very wet.
“Do you want—”
“You.” Just one word, but it holds everything. Passion. Pain. Fear. Longing.
