Say My Name (12 page)

His words shocked me. Not because they were so coarse and bold and unexpected, but because instead of feeling used by the things he suggested, I felt special. Instead of feeling dirty, I felt powerful. As if I was somehow the one in control and not this man who was demanding such supplication and submission.

“Jesus, that’s hot,” he said, as I stroked my fingers over my own slick heat. A tremor rocked me, making me moan. I was close—so very close, and all I wanted was to explode in his arms. I wanted more, deeper,
harder.
And with the low command of his voice in my head, I did as he asked, touching my clit, thrusting my fingers deep inside myself, and fighting the urge to beg him to stop the car and just please, please, please fuck me.

“Jackson,” I moaned, as I felt the tingling begin along my inner thighs. The precursor to the explosion I so desperately craved.

“Not just yet, baby,” he said, then closed his hand over mine, the mere brush of his hand over my inner thigh was almost enough to make me come anyway. “Not until I tell you to.”

“Please,” I murmured, more wild, more needful than I’d ever felt in my life.

“Please, what?”

“Please fuck me.”

“Oh, baby. Believe me, I’m very much looking forward to that. But right now, I think, it’s time.”

“Time?”

“To go inside,” he said. “And so much more.”

I opened my eyes and looked around, surprised to see that we were in the visitor parking area for my apartment building. I’d had no idea that we’d exited the freeway, much less that we’d parked.

Without another word, Jackson leaned toward me, then very slowly buttoned my dress. As he got out of the car, I stayed there, breathing hard and trying to grasp hold of reality. Every bit of reason told me I should race for my door and shut myself inside, locking out Jackson and the world.

But reason didn’t seem to have any bearing on this moment. Instead, I was running on pure emotion, and for the first time in a long time, I trusted that. Craved it. Wanted to just let go and feel the moments flow over me, one after another after another, leading to some wondrous but unknown pinnacle that I’d never reached before.

“Your expression,” Jackson said as he opened the passenger door and reached out his hand to help me out. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not,” I said, then laughed at the giddy sound of my voice. “Isn’t it wonderful? I’m not thinking at all.”

“Then what are you doing?” he asked as he pulled me to him.

I hooked my arms around his neck. “I’m feeling,” I said. “Please, Jackson. Make me feel more. Make me feel everything.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, “I’m at your service.”

I laughed, delighted and surprised, when he scooped me up and carried me to my door. I clung to him, my head nestled against his shoulder, trying to figure out what the hell had happened to me.

Me, the woman who was always so careful. Who kept such a tight lock on control, and who never let a man get under her skin.

He was different, somehow, I thought. He could keep me safe. And if my demons ran free, well then maybe he was the man who could slay them.

“Stand there,” he said, putting me down in front of my coffee table. He looked around, then put his foot against the table and gave it a quick shove sideways so that there was nothing between where he’d placed me and the couch. “Good,” he said. “Now wait.”

“Wait—for what?”

But he just shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips. “You asked me to make you feel, Sylvia. And I promise you that I will.”

I almost answered, but the truth was I didn’t know what to say. And he was gone anyway, disappearing into my galley-style kitchen. I stood in my living room, shifting my weight from foot to foot, wondering what he would do if I sat down, but afraid to try it for fear that he would leave. And I really didn’t want him to go.

When he returned, he held two glasses of wine. One he set on the coffee table. The other he held as he sat on the couch.

I glanced sideways at the wine on the table, then raised a brow. He took a sip from his own glass before giving me a single, one-word answer. “After.”

“After what?”

“After you’re naked.” His voice had shifted. It was low. Commanding. And very, very sexy.

I drew in a breath, waiting to feel the icy fingers of the nightmares slither up my back. But there was no chill. There was only warmth and desire and the intensity of his eyes, so powerful it seemed that I didn’t need to strip at all, because he had already seen me bare.

“I—I’m not sure,” I said, but even as I spoke, I knew my words were only for form. I wasn’t tense—on the contrary, I felt loose. Warm. Even eager.

The cold fear I had expected was far, far away, replaced by a burning anticipation. Because I wanted the sensation of his hands upon me and the luxury of him looking at me.

“Not sure?” he said as he stood up, holding his wine. He moved to me, then dipped his finger in the liquid before dragging the pad gently over my lower lip. “I think you are, Sylvia.”

He trailed his finger gently down my neck, then traced my collarbone, making me shiver from the soft sensuality of his touch.

“I watched you in the car, remember? So bold. So wild. I told you what I wanted, and it made you hot. I told you what to do, and it made you wet.”

I pressed my lips together, forcing myself not to whimper.

“You want to give yourself over to me, Sylvia. You want to put the power for your pleasure in my hands.”

His words scared me. Not only because they were true, but because I didn’t understand why I so badly craved exactly what he was demanding. For years, my relationships with men had been few and far between. And when I did go out—when that pounding need for release and escape finally hit me with so much force that it drove me to action—then I was the one with the power. I was the one who set the terms and called the shots.

And on those rare times, I never felt anything more than the physical release of an orgasm and the hard burn of one hell of a cardio workout.

Most important, I was the one who walked away.

That was the way it worked, the way I protected myself.

And yet here I was, open and vulnerable.

And god help me, I was desperately, wildly, incredibly turned on.

“You want this as much as I do,” he said as he circled me, stopping so that he was behind me when he bent close to whisper in my ear. “I see it in the way you look at me. The way you respond to me. What was it you said in the car about my work? That it’s power and control? You were right. But that’s not just what I do. It’s who I am.”

He slid his arms around my waist and pulled me close, so that my back was against him. I could feel his erection against me and the corresponding tingle between my thighs. And in that moment, I regretted not having already done what he said, because I wanted nothing more than to be naked with his hands upon me.

He moved his hands up to cup my breasts. “It excites me to know that I hold the leash on your pleasure. That I can take you to the edge or not. That I hold your trust and your passion in my hand.” He released me then, and it was all I could do not to whimper.

“So tell me, Sylvia,” he said, as he moved back to the couch. “What do you want? Do you want to surrender? Or do you want me to leave?”

I didn’t answer in words. Instead, I slowly lifted my hands and once again unbuttoned my dress.

This time, however, I didn’t simply spread it open. Instead, I let it slip over my arms and off my body so that I stood before him in only my brand-new lingerie and shoes.

The shoes went next, even though I lost a good two inches of height and felt all the more vulnerable for it.

I needed to do the stockings next, and started to bend over to roll them down. But I lifted my head and the heat I saw in his eyes fueled my imagination. I took a step toward him, then another. Then I lifted my leg and put the ball of my foot on the edge of the couch, right between his thighs. And then, I very slowly started to roll down the stocking. When I reached my foot, I carefully eased off the silk. I rose slowly, letting the stocking dangle, and very casually let the wisp of silk play lightly over his crotch.

“Naughty,” he said, but the smile suggested that he liked naughty just fine.

At the moment, so did I.

I repeated the process with my other foot, only this time I extended my leg so that my foot wasn’t on the edge of the couch but on the cushion. Now, my toes brushed against his cock, straining against his jeans. And I knew that because of the way I stood with one leg up and the other leg down, the tiny thong was doing very little to hide how incredibly wet I was—and right then Jackson had a front-row seat with a view.

And then, because I wanted to make sure he didn’t miss a thing, I trailed my finger from my ankle to my sex. I moaned as I slipped a finger deep inside myself, and I kept my eyes on him, not wanting to miss even a single spark of passion that fired on his face.

“How do you taste?” he asked, and I slowly lifted my finger to my mouth, drew it in deep and let him watch as I sucked. “Sweet,” I finally said. “Do you like candy?”

“Oh, yes,” he said as he reached out and put his hands on my hips even as he slid off the couch to kneel in front of me. “Maybe just a little taste.” He leaned forward and closed his mouth over my sex, then licked and sucked with such intensity that I think I would have collapsed right there if he hadn’t been holding me up.

“Delicious,” he murmured when he pulled away and I whimpered with regret.

“Please,” I said.

“Trust me.” His hands roamed down, finding the band for the thong, then easing it down until I could step out of it.

He stood, then made a circular motion with his finger. “Turn around.”

I complied, then sucked in air when he unfastened my bra and peeled it off my body. He let it drop to the carpet, leaving me standing there completely naked and entirely aroused. “This,” he said. “I like this a lot.”

He reached around, then cupped his hands over my breasts. From behind, he trailed kisses over my body, tracing the outline of my tattoos, but never asking about them. Slowly, slowly down each vertebra, then a soft brush of lips over the dimples above my ass. Then he was on his knees and his tongue was dancing gently along the soft line of flesh that marked the juncture between the back of my thigh and the curve of my ass.

He had turned my entire body into an erogenous zone, and I trembled, so unsteady that I reached up and cupped my hands over his, as if holding on to my own breasts would somehow keep me steady.

When he told me to turn again, I did so without hesitation. His mouth was even with my sex, and I saw the way his mouth quirked in a teasing smile as he tilted his head back and looked up into my eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he said, then slowly traced a finger down, down, over my breasts, my tats, my belly button.

“A ribbon,” he said, when he reached the red ribbon tattoo that scrolled along the crease of skin between thigh and torso. “And a lock,” he added, touching the first tattoo on my pubic bone that Cass had inked so long ago. “Why? What’s written on the ribbon?”

“Nothing,” I lied. “I just liked them in the artist’s book.”

He held my eyes for a moment as if in challenge, but I stayed silent. How could I share the extent of the lie? How could I explain that contrary to what I told him, those tats were far from nothing. Instead, they were everything. Marks of both shame and power. A reminder of who I was, and who I would never be again.

“Someday you’ll tell me the truth,” he said, as he stroked his thumb lightly over my sex. “But right now, all I want is to taste you.”

And then, with no more warning, he closed his mouth over my sex, then drew his tongue so delicately over my clit that I saw the world turn gray and stars explode in front of me. “It won’t stay this way,” he said.

“What?”

“Gentle. Just a taste, sweetheart, and then I’m going to make you scream.”

He was as good as his word, and his tongue played and teased as his hands roamed, holding on just tight enough to keep me from toppling over. But I felt the shift in him when he cupped my ass in his hands, then demanded that I spread my legs as he laved me in long, liquid strokes, then slid his tongue inside me, tasting and teasing and making me squirm against him, desperate for him to take me harder, to take me further.

I was shameless, standing there with this man on his knees in front of me, his mouth so violently tormenting me. And yet all I wanted was more. All I craved was everything.

“Please,” I begged, when I was certain that I could take it no more. “Please, Jackson.”

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, pulling his mouth away just long enough to murmur the words against my skin.

“You. Oh, god, please. I want you.”

“At your service,” he said as he stood and drew me to the couch. With casual ease, he tossed off his shirt, then took off his jeans. He wore briefs, and before he removed them I could see the hard, thick bulge of his erection. And when he did take them off, I drew in a breath, awed by the sheer perfection of this man’s body. A man who’d surely been carved by the gods on a particularly good day. He’d taken a condom packet out of his pocket, and I watched, mesmerized, as he rolled the condom on.

Then he sat on the couch and held out his hand. I went eagerly, then straddled him, feeling the hard, enticing heat of him at my core. “I want to watch your face when you come,” he said. “And I want you to take what you need.”

I licked my lips, realizing that he wanted me to be in charge. To thrust myself down on him. To ride him. To bring us both to the peak.

And oh, dear god, I wanted that, too.

It was familiar territory, being the one in control. Except with Jackson, I knew damn well that he’d never truly relinquished his hold.

And in his arms, I really didn’t care.

“That’s it, baby,” he said, as I moved over him. Teasing both of us with the tip of his cock.

He took my mouth then, kissing me rough and deep, and I thrust downward, so wet that it was easy to take all of him, and then to rise up on my legs and then ease my body down again. Slowly. Torturously. Letting the pleasure—and the anticipation—build.