“Does it? How so?”
I hesitated, then told him the truth. “Because you’re a little bit arrogant.”
“Oh, really? And here I expected to be flattered.”
“You should be. It’s like the way you’re handling this car. All confidence and zip, in and out of traffic.” I shrugged. “That’s how I think of architects, I guess. It goes back to the pyramids, right? I mean, some Egyptian architect had the audacity to say that his design would rise up to the sky, and that they would figure out a way to make that happen. It’s like building a skyscraper to the heavens or a bridge that spans a canyon.”
I looked out the window at the Atlanta skyline, shining over the city. “It takes my breath away, you know. There’s such control and precision to creating something like that. It’s—I don’t know.”
“I think you do,” he said softly.
I glanced over at him, saw him looking back at me with both interest and understanding on his face.
I shrugged. “Maybe. It’s just—okay, I used to skip school sometimes and take the bus downtown. I lived in Los Angeles,” I added. “My parents had no idea, but there were days when I just couldn’t deal with all the crap that was going on in my life. And so I’d stand there, my head tilted back, and I’d look at the city rising up around me. And it would fill me. I didn’t understand it then—all I knew was that it gave me hope.”
“Do you understand it now?”
“Yes,” I said softly. “I do.”
“So do I.”
“Really?”
“You were right about the hope,” he said. “But you were only a kid, so you didn’t get the core. That understanding came later when you realized that the clean, soaring lines of an office building are a testament. A reminder that circumstances and the world can be controlled, no matter how futile and lost some moments might feel.”
My throat tightened, because he knew. He truly got it. And in that moment I was grateful I never cried, because I didn’t want to shed tears in front of him. “Yes. Exactly.”
“Why didn’t you pursue it? As a job, I mean?”
“I would have,” I admitted. “But I don’t have the skill set or the vision. I can see a building and understand its greatness, but my mind isn’t set up to conceive of it in the first place. So I guess it’s more of a hobby with me, and why I’ve got a job in real estate. And I like to walk cities and look at the buildings. Read books. Take photographs. I take a lot of photographs,” I added.
I didn’t ask why he became an architect. I didn’t need to. I could tell simply by watching him that he was doing exactly what he’d been born to do. Even something as simple as his confident precision when he handled the Porsche proved that he embodied everything I admired. He was a man who didn’t shrink from the world, but walked proudly within it, both capable and eager to reshape it in accordance with his own unique vision.
Had I seen that quality in him from the first moment? I must have, because why else would nothing more than a look from him have brought me to my knees?
I was still wondering as we climbed the steps to my second floor apartment in Buckhead.
I broke the silence as we arrived at my door. “I don’t do this. Not usually.”
“Go home?”
He was teasing, of course, but I remained serious, and with my hand I gestured between the two of us. “This,” I said. “I don’t date. Not very much. It’s not—it’s not really on my radar.”
“Good. I don’t want you to date. But, Sylvia, you’re on my radar now. And I think that’s a very good thing.”
My cheeks flushed as I fumbled in my purse for my keys. “So, I’ve only got wine inside. Do you like red?”
“I do. But I’m not coming in.”
“You’re—but—” I stopped talking, afraid I sounded as gobsmacked as I felt. He’d asked me if I wanted more, and so I’d been expecting everything. Wanting it. Even craving it.
Now I stood in front of my doorway, confused, off balance, and uncertain where exactly I’d gone off the rails.
“I’m not coming in tonight,” he clarified, as his fingers brushed my cheek. “But make no mistake, Sylvia. This isn’t over. It hasn’t even begun.”
“I don’t want it to be over,” I admitted.
“And what do you want?” he asked. “Because I will tell you right now that when I want something—or someone—I pursue it relentlessly and don’t stop until I have possessed it fully. Do you want sweet words and chocolates? You’ll have them. Hand-holding and gentle kisses? I welcome them. But I want so much more, Sylvia, and you need to know that I will have you in my bed.”
My mouth had gone completely dry. The rest of me was hot and wet, and I had to reach out and press my hand against the doorjamb simply to keep from melting onto the floor.
I expected the dark to take hold, my fears to pull me down, and the cold, unforgiving fingers of memory to yank me back into myself and away from this man and his words that were both a seduction and a demand.
But there was no cold, and the only dark came from the night sky, and was bright with stars. That tingle I felt wasn’t fear, it was excitement. And when I met his eyes, I was certain that he could see in mine how much of a miracle he was to me.
“Christ, you tempt me. My fingers itch to take you right now. To strip you bare and just look at you, naked and hot and wet for me. And I will, too. I’m going to touch you. I’m going to stroke every inch of you. I’m going to bury myself deep inside of you. And I’m going to memorize the way you look when you find release in my arms. All of that,” he said as my body went limp and hot under the force of his words. “But not yet. Not tonight.”
He reached out as if to stroke my face, but his fingers hesitated just millimeters from my skin. I sucked in air, well aware of the heat between us, and wishing desperately for even the lightest touch of skin upon skin.
Then he withdrew his hand and looked straight into my eyes. His were inscrutable. Mine, I’m certain, were wild and pleading and just a bit confused. Because with Jackson, everything had flipped. Instead of grabbing control, I’d surrendered it. And that really wasn’t me.
I didn’t understand why—and while that might scare me, what scared me more was the fear that he would go away.
“You want me, too.” It was a statement, not a question, but I answered anyway.
“Yes.” The word seemed too small to encompass so great a need.
“All right, then.” The smile barely touched his mouth, but I saw pleasure light in his face. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Ten-thirty.”
“Oh.” I blinked at the sudden shift from the seductive to the esoteric. “Okay.” I ran through my schedule, grateful I had no conflicts. Not that it mattered; I would have blown off anything that stood between me and spending the morning with Jackson.
The corners of his eyes crinkled, as if he knew my thoughts. “You’re mine tomorrow,” he said as he brushed a fingertip over my lower lip, and then turned and walked away.
I went inside, so full of light and anticipation that I actually did a little twirl. And I am really not the twirling type.
I peeled off my clothes, and every brush of material against my overheated skin was like a sensual treat. I slid into bed naked, wanting nothing but the sheet between me and my memories of Jackson.
Then I closed my eyes, slid my hand between my legs, and let thoughts of this gorgeous, sexy, enigmatic man carry me off to sleep.
A sharp knock at my door awakened me, and I stretched in bed, enjoying the fading memories of some truly spectacular dreams.
Dreams.
Not nightmares.
The thought brightened my smile even more. So far, Jackson Steele was proving to be the embodiment of the perfect man. Charming, funny, utterly gorgeous. And despite that whole takecharge vibe, he wasn’t the least bit nightmare inducing.
Pleased, I hummed a little as I tossed on a robe. I didn’t hurry—it wasn’t yet eight on a Saturday morning. Anyone who needed me was just going to have to wait. Still, I called out, “Hang on,” as I tied the sash and walked to the door.
I checked the peephole, but no one was out there. Curious, I opened the door to look back toward the street, only to find a beautifully wrapped box on my doormat. I picked it up and found a simple tag tucked in under the bow.
Wear Me.
I laughed, feeling a bit like Alice as she stumbled into Wonderland. But I had no doubt that the package was from Jackson, and when I went inside and took the lid off, my suspicions were confirmed.
The dress I found cradled in tissue paper was sunshine yellow and absolutely darling, with a fitted bodice, a loose and breezy skirt, and big white buttons from cleavage to hem. It also came with matching low-heeled sandals that actually fit when I tried them on. But it was the last part of the present—the part hidden beneath a thin fold of tissue paper—that made my entire body tingle. Sheer silk stockings accompanied by a black garter and black thong panties that were nothing more than a tiny triangle of lace. The bra was equally tiny, with almost nonexistent cups that were designed so that a woman’s breasts spilled over the top, adding fullness while keeping her nipples exposed.
I licked my lips, then put on the lingerie, careful not to run the stockings as I rolled them up each of my legs. Then I stood in front of my full-length mirror and tried to see myself from all sides.
I looked like sin.
More important, I felt like it. Hot. Wild. Daring.
And there was no denying the tingle between my legs when I imagined Jackson buying this. Watching me in it. And then watching me out of it.
Without thinking, I slid my hand down into the panties, my finger barely stroking my clit before finding my center.
Oh, holy Christ, I am wet.
And when that familiar electric tingle started to shoot through me, I yanked my hand away, as guilty as a teenager.
Not because I didn’t want to get off, but because I wanted Jackson to be the one to take me there.
Both aroused and anxious, I slid into the dress, pleased to see it fit perfectly. Then I hurried through my hair and makeup routine, only to find myself dressed and impatient well before Jackson’s scheduled arrival at half-past ten. I spent the time feeling the way I had when I was thirteen and waiting for Billy Tyson to take me on my first date—a movie and a burger, chauffeured to both by his parents. That was back when my life was full of anticipation and wonder. When I trusted my parents to keep me safe and whole. When I lived in a solid middle class bubble that I’d thought, foolishly, was impenetrable.
That was before my brother got sick.
That was before
him.
Stop it.
I clenched my fists and forced the memories away. I was about to go out on a real date, a very rare occasion for me. And dammit, I liked the way I felt. I wanted to hang on to the feeling. More than that, I deserved to hang on to it.
I busied myself with making coffee, then didn’t want to drink it for fear it would linger on my breath. When the quick, firm knock sounded promptly at ten-thirty, I just about sprinted to the door.
“Hey,” I said, breathless as I flung it open, and even more breathless when I saw him standing there, tall and lean, his dark hair windtossed just enough to give him a sexy, reckless vibe. When he stepped inside, his primal, raw scent enveloped me. Earth and wood and rain, blending together in a way that was uniquely Jackson.
“Don’t move,” he said as he stood just inside my apartment. “I want to look at you.”
“I like the dress,” I said. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said as his gaze raked over me with such intensity that I was certain he was seeing both the dress—and what was underneath.
“I like the lingerie, too,” I said boldly, and was rewarded by the heat in his eyes and the way his jaw tightened, as if he was fighting for control.
“Do you?” he said, and those two simple words seemed to hold a world of questions.
I lifted my chin slightly, and when I spoke, my voice was breathy. “Yes. Do you want me to show you?”
“Very much. But not until tonight. In the meantime, I’ll think about just how I’m going to reveal it.”
“Jackson—” There was no disguising the need in my voice.
He shook his head, his eyes full of passion and promise. “Tonight. Right now I’m taking you to lunch.”
I bit back the flurry of questions—where were we going, what were we eating, when would we be back—and forced myself to simply go with it. To let Jackson take the lead. Strangely, it wasn’t hard. Though I rarely slid out of the driver’s seat, with this man it just seemed natural. As if something inside me knew that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t push me too hard.
But whether that impression was accurate or simply wishful thinking, I really didn’t know.
Back in the Porsche, Jackson easily maneuvered the Saturday morning traffic. We ended up at Centennial Olympic Park. I’d only been in Atlanta for a few weeks, but I knew the park well. Reggie’s office was only a few blocks away down Marietta Street, and I’d come to the plaza during my lunch hour once or twice. It’s a big space, with grassy areas, a reflecting pool, and the famous Fountain of Rings.
“A picnic?” I asked as we got out of his car. “There’s no basket.”
I half-expected him to open the trunk and pull one out. Instead, he just took my hand. “Burgers,” he said, and I laughed. “Is that bad?”
I shook my head, still laughing. “I went out for burgers on my very first date. And I was feeling some of those first date nerves when I was waiting for you. I guess it just struck me as funny. What?” I added, noting the intense way he was looking at me.
“You just surprise me. There are things you’re holding back—no, don’t worry, I’m not going to press you—but then there are times when you’re disarmingly honest.”
“Not usually,” I admitted. I didn’t say that I felt comfortable with him. Too comfortable, perhaps.
I didn’t say it, but I was certain that he knew it.
“Should I point out that we’re in a park?” I asked brightly, hoping to signal a change of subject. “Unless you’re planning to grill, that’s not the traditional location for a burger and fries.”
“I thought you already realized that I’m not the traditional sort.”
I narrowed my eyes, but he didn’t explain further. Instead, he led me across the plaza, the Fountain of Rings shooting water high into the sky as children watched and ran and splashed in the jets. “Want to?” he said, eyeing the streams.