Текст книги "Under My Skin"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

“Tiny, but on the beach.”

“Of course I’ll help.” As I’m speaking, the elevator opens, and Jackson steps off.

“Cool. Love you.”

“I love you, too,” I say, and when I hang up the phone, I’m smiling.

“I hope that was Ethan or Cass,” Jackson says as he crosses the reception area to my desk. “Otherwise you and I are going to have words.”

“My secret lover,” I say, grinning. “But if you work very hard, maybe you can make me forget all about him.”

“I’ll certainly do my best.” He leans against the wall between Damien’s door and my desk. His hands are in his pockets and he has the kind of smile that suggests he has things on his mind that aren’t remotely related to work. The kinds of things that send a nice little tingle through me.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, Mr. Steele?”

“I’ve been thinking about tonight.”

“What a coincidence. So have I.” We’re planning to go to the island tomorrow afternoon to check in with the cleanup crew and stay overnight. Tonight, though, we’re staying at my apartment again. I had been looking forward to sipping wine on my balcony and relaxing, but looking at him now I’m thinking that a more active evening would be very, very welcome.

“How important to you is our night in?” he asks.

I cock my head. “You have another plan?”

“Remember the Dominion Gate concert I mentioned?”

“Yes.” I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. “Why?”

“I forgot that the tickets were by lottery. I found out today that I scored four. I thought it would be a fun way to escape reality for a bit.”

“I guess it would.” I frown. “Wait. You’re saying the concert is tonight?”

“At The Rafters,” he says, naming a relatively new club in Burbank.

“All the way in the Valley?”

“That’s where the music’s happening. You want to go?”

“Of course,” I lie. “I’ve been wearing the T-shirt. I ought to see the band.”

He starts to push away from the wall to stand up straight, but doesn’t. Instead, he remains still, his attention on my face.

“What?” I finally demand.

“You really don’t want to go.” It’s not a question.

I hesitate, but then concede. “I really don’t. But you do, and I really love you. And I know I’ll have fun once we get there.”

“You’re sure?”

I stand up and go to him, then hook my arms around his waist. “I’d do a lot more than that for you. Yes, I’m sure.” I brush a kiss over his lips. “And you’re right—escaping reality sounds like a damn good plan.”

He cups my chin, holding my head in place as he looks into my eyes, his irises moving slightly as he studies me. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

Pleasure sweeps through and around me, as soft and warm as a blanket, and I realize that I’m grinning so widely it hurts. “Yes,” I say simply. “I do.”

I press my head to his chest, breathing deep as he strokes my back, and in that moment, I think I know what heaven must be like. Safe and warm and wonderful.

I sigh with pleasure, then lean back after a moment. “Did you say you have four tickets?”

“I’d originally thought we could invite Nikki and Damien.”

My brows rise. “Really?”

“Hey, I’m all about the brotherly bonding. But Damien’s in Palm Springs tonight, and Nikki’s already got plans.”

“Spa weekend with Jamie,” I say.

“You’re very well informed.”

“It’s my job. Plus Nikki invited me. I told her I’d rather stay here with you.” I rise up on my toes so that I can whisper in his ear. “I’m hoping you’ll give me a very thorough massage. Since I’m not getting my spa visit, I mean.”

“You can count on it,” he says as his hand slides around to cup my ass. He squeezes, and I squeal, then laugh. “You’re going to need one after standing for a few hours.”

I take a step back, eyeing him dubiously. “Standing?”

“No seats at The Rafters,” he says. “But lots of good beer and definitely a lot of good music.”

He looks so excited that I can hardly deny him, especially considering the hell he’s been living through. “All right,” I say. “It’s a date.”

“Then we’ll do it up right. I’ll pick you up at seven. The show starts at ten. We’ll have dinner and get there by nine-thirty. Sound good?”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Should I invite Cass and Siobhan? I’ve got the two extra tickets.”

The question—asked so simply and with complete sincerity—sends an unexpected wave of pleasure washing over me.

“Yeah,” I say. “That would be great.” And then I ease back into his arms and kiss him softly. “As a matter of fact, you’re great, too.”

nineteen

When we’d first arrived at The Rafters—a nondescript building near the North Hollywood/Burbank border—I’d assumed that Edward had pulled up at the wrong location. It had the appearance of a shack that someone had put up in their backyard and then painted black. Albeit a very large shack.

Jackson assured us that this was the place, though, and when I took a closer look, that was clear enough. Not only was there a sandwich board sign in the parking lot announcing Dominion Gate, but there was also a line of concertgoers that snaked around the building.

I’d glanced at Jackson, dubious, but he’d only laughed and told me it would be fun.

Honestly, he was right.

Now that we’re inside, I’m not certain how the place managed to pass all the various required inspections because I am absolutely certain that the reverb from the band’s bass is going to make all the walls collapse on us. Even the concrete floor is moving, though that may be an illusion. Or it may be the result of hundreds of people dancing madly to the earsplitting music.

But despite all that, I am having a great time—and considering we are jammed in like sardines in an under-air-conditioned building and standing way too close to the speakers, that says a lot. About the music, maybe. But it’s more about Jackson. He’s clearly having a great time—worry free, loose. Hell, almost boyish.

And I’ll put up with a lot to see him happy.

The crowd is thick, and I’m smushed in between him and Cass, who leans over to say something to me. I have no idea what, though, because I can’t hear a damn thing. I hold up my hands in question, and she rolls her eyes, then points to a girl who’s dancing a few people away. At first I think Cass is checking out the girl—which seems very un-Cassidy-like considering Siobhan is jamming to the music at her opposite side.

Then I realize that the girl is taking pictures with her camera phone. Not of the band, but of Jackson.

I’d like to think that’s because he looks so incredibly hot in faded, threadbare jeans and a short-sleeved Henley shirt that sticks to his sweat-slicked body in a way that makes me sigh.

Unfortunately, I know otherwise. Someone had recognized him as we were coming in—and I’d heard the rumble of gossip about “that architect who offed the producer” as it rolled through the crowd before the opening band took the stage.

No one has actually approached us, though, and so Jackson is taking it in stride.

I look back at Cass and shrug, silently letting her know we’re not going to worry about it. Tonight is about the four of us having fun, and so long as nobody gets right in his face, they can take all the snaps they want.

By the time the concert ends, I’m practically deaf. I’m also covered in a thin layer of sweat and the sleeveless mock turtleneck that I’d paired with a thin leather jacket and matching mini skirt is clinging to my body. I’m also thinking that despite the cool November evening, the leather skirt was a mistake, as it’s stuck to both my ass and thighs.

And as for my feet—well, I have no one to blame but myself. Jackson warned me we’d be standing. Apparently my favorite low black sandals aren’t the all-purpose shoes I’d thought they were.

All in all, I can’t wait for the blast of cool air when we get outside. So I’m thrilled that we’re heading toward the door, even if we are part of a human wave, so up close and personal that I can smell at least seventeen different shampoos and deodorants.

Jackson has his arm tight around my waist, and I can feel Cass pressed up behind me so as to not lose us in the crowd. The entrance is a set of wide double doors that open straight onto the parking lot, so the wave is actually moving pretty fast, and as soon as we step past the doors I sigh with pleasure as the cool air washes over me. And then I immediately cringe as the cameras start flashing.

Jackson grabs my hand and Cass presses her palm to my shoulder even as I register that these are not camera phones. These are Nikons and Canons and Ricohs, and they’re being held by photographers who stand next to reporters with microphones sporting logos like TMZ and ET and god only knows what else.

I turn to Jackson, confused and panicked, because this is a step up from the paparazzi we’ve been dodging. I hope desperately that there is a movie star inside. Surely this isn’t all about Jackson.

Except it is. They’re calling his name. They’re mentioning Reed. They’re talking about the movie. About Damien. The assault. The Fletcher house in Santa Fe. And I don’t get it because Jackson hasn’t been arrested and nothing has changed, and—

“Is it true that Arvin Fletcher’s granddaughter is your daughter?”

“Why is she hidden away?”

“Is Veronica the reason you’ve been trying to block the movie?”

“Is it true the movie’s been green-lit? Do you think Reed’s death drummed up more interest?”

Behind me, Cass gasps, pulling me out of the weird tunnel vision funk I’d slipped into when the questions started flowing. I hear Siobhan mumble something, and then take off running, shoving her way past us and through the crowd.

I have no idea what she’s doing, but it doesn’t matter, because I can’t seem to move. My hand aches, and I realize Jackson is squeezing it tight, and I think that’s good. Because if he’s grabbing on to me, he’s not pummeling someone else.

When I look at him, though, I’m certain that is exactly what’s going to happen. And when another question rings out—“Did you kill Reed to keep your daughter a secret?”—I know that the paparazzi have gone too far.

I feel him tense beside me. I see the anger held tight in his face.

And, god help me, I feel the cool, helpless sense of loss when he lets go of my hand and bursts forward, undoubtedly to pound the shit out of the idiot reporter who has no idea what door he’s just opened.

I lunge for Jackson, then actually yank him back by the waistband of his jeans.

He turns to me, his face awash with anger, and I think, Oh, shit. That picture will be all over the tabloids, then he’s bursting forward again, his fist flying out, and before I even have time to scream his name, the reporter is flat on his ass, his hand pressed to his jaw, and Jackson is about to swoop down for another punch.

“No!”

I scream the word so loudly it hurts my throat, but it works. Jackson turns to me, his face eerily white under the flash of so many cameras.

He’s breathing hard, his eyes wild, and I’m really not sure how the hell to get us out of this mess. And then I hear someone calling for Cass, and then Cass is tugging at the back of my shirt.

It’s Siobhan, and her head is poked up out of the limo’s skylight.

“Go,” I say to Jackson, and the word seems to pull him back to himself. We push through the crowd, both Cass and I sandwiching him, and then we tumble into the limo through the door that Siobhan now holds open for us.

“Go!” Siobhan yells, her palm flat over the intercom button. As the limo starts to move, she looks back at us. “I figured we needed an escape route.”

“You’re brilliant,” I say, but she doesn’t answer. How can she when Cass has caught her in a wild lip-lock?

Outside, the cameras are still snapping, but I’m starting to breathe a little easier. Jackson is still wound up, though, and as I move to sit beside him, he pulls out his phone. He’s just about to dial when it rings. “Evelyn,” he says to me as he taps the button to answer.

“Goddammit, young man. What exactly does ‘mind your temper’ mean to you, anyway?” Her voice is tinny through the speaker, but her frustration is loud and clear.

Jackson ignores her question. “How the fuck did they find out?”

“You filed a paternity action, sugar. We knew this was a risk. You knew this was a risk. Now we have to handle it. The leak, and your lovely reaction to it just now. They got that whole fiasco on tape, children. And they’re already bombarding Damien. Wanting to know about his niece.”

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.

This is an escape. A release. A way to push past the terror of an impending arrest. A way for him to forget what he just did—that he may have actually made it worse for himself.

“You have me.” I meet his eyes, knowing he can see how completely I mean that. “Just tell me how you want me.”

He shakes his head, pressing a fingertip to his lips as he does. Then he is on his knees in front of me, his hands on my bare thighs. He grabs me, and in one motion lifts my legs so that they are on his shoulders even as he slams his mouth against my cunt, the ferocity of his assault forcing me back against the seat and making me cry out in both surprise and pleasure.

His tongue torments me, and when he sucks on my clit, I whimper, shifting my hips as I try to squirm away from this wild, relentless assault. He’s having none of it, though, and he holds me firm, refusing to let me escape even one iota of the pleasure that is battering me, raising me, taking me right to the brink.

And then—right as I am about to explode—he pulls away, leaving me gasping and frustrated and desperate for the heat of his mouth against my clit.

“Jackson,” I begin, but he cuts me off with a stern look and I remember his order of silence.

He eases backward, replacing my feet on the floor of the limo. I’m sprawled against the seat, my legs wide, my cunt bare and wet and throbbing with need, and though he doesn’t ask me to, I pull off my shirt and shimmy out of the skirt, leaving me clad only in a lacy black bra and the vibrator necklace that he told me to always wear. I start to reach behind me to unfasten my bra, but Jackson shakes his head, his mouth curved up in a hint of a smile, and I wonder what else he has in store for me.

He eases forward, then slowly pulls the necklace over my head. He presses the button to start the device vibrating, ramping it up to the maximum intensity. Then he hands it to me, his eyes dipping down to my spread legs.

I know what he wants, of course. He wants me to finish what he has started. He wants to watch as I use the vibe on myself. And even though I have no boundaries where Jackson is concerned, I cannot deny that this feels wild. Decadent.

And, yes, pretty damn compelling. Because when you get right down to it, there’s nothing that I won’t do with him, and there’s never a time when the knowledge that he is watching me doesn’t set me on fire.

I keep my eyes on him, then hold the thin cylinder as I drag my teeth over my lower lip. Then I very, very lightly trail it over my belly, along my pubis, and down to tease the sensitive area around my clit.

I’m so close already that the maximum vibe he set it on borders on painful, but doesn’t quite cross the line. Still, it’s almost too much, and I close my eyes, making little sounds of pleasure and pain without even thinking about it. I’m trying to find that right place, that right touch. I’m close—I can feel the storm growing inside me, sparking through my veins to converge at my center.

As I am breathing hard—not even sure if I’m trying to make the sensation last or push me over the edge—I open my eyes and am struck by the naked, blatant hunger on his face. He’s on his knees in front of me, his hand pressed over his cock through his jeans, and I know that he is fighting a primal need, forcing himself to sit still and watch instead of taking and claiming.

His desire is so palpable it fills the limo, sweeping over me like a current and electrifying the air between us. I want to match it—I want to go further. Make it hotter. I want to make him wild.

I want to break him. I want him to be unable to do anything but fuck me.

With sensual purpose, I keep the vibe at my center, teasing myself for his pleasure and my own. But with my other hand I reach up and yank down the cup of my bra to expose one breast. I stroke it, tracing little circles around my nipple, teasing it, tugging it.

Jackson says nothing. And other than a tightness in his features that I know means he is fighting for control, he doesn’t react. At least not at first. But then he unbuttons his jeans and takes out his cock, then strokes it in long, quick movements. And as he does, I feel such a rush of heated victory that it’s a wonder I don’t come right then.

He meets my eyes, the heat burning a hole through me. And I not only whimper, but my cunt, open and exposed to him, tightens at the sight. I see Jackson’s brow raise and I know that he has noticed.

I look him in the eye, and before I can stop myself, I mouth two words: Fuck me.

I don’t expect that he will. This is his show, not mine.

So even though it had been my purpose to break him all along, I am not expecting the violence of the motion when he reaches across the space between us and pulls me to him, surprising me so that I drop the vibrator, which hums uselessly on the carpeted floor.

He moves from the floor to his own seat and settles me on his lap. And then, before I even have time to breathe, he turns me around so that my back is to him. Then he lifts me up until his cock is right at my core. “Go ahead,” he says. “One thrust. I want you to take all of me.”

It’s a challenge I gladly accept, and I lower myself slowly, just because I want to torture us both. Then I rise up again and repeat the process because, dammit, it just feels too good.

“More,” he demands, even as he slips his hands around to cup my breasts.

I arch back as he squeezes my nipples to the point of pain—and that coupled with the sensation of him so deep inside me is undeniably erotic.

“More,” he demands again, and this time his voice is a growl. “Harder,” he insists and I press against the roof for resistance as I slam myself down on him over and over, his cock filling me and his fingers teasing me until I am lost, my body nothing but sensation. Pleasure. Pain. Need. Hunger. I am reduced to primal urges, wanting everything. Wanting release.

Wanting Jackson.

And when the limo, which has been smooth so far, hits a bump, and I bounce a bit, I am thrown finally over the edge, and I come in a wild, violent release that has me crying out even as my vagina clenches tight around him. He comes, too, his mouth closing over my shoulder as he bites back a groan, his hands clutching my breasts, his cock deep inside me as he fills me with the force of his release.

And when his body stops trembling—when he turns me around so that I can see his face and the raw passion looking back at me—I can only breathe. “Better?” I ask when the power of speech returns. “You should be, because I feel deliciously used. But if you’re not, I’m more than happy to go again. You know, for the cause.”

He laughs out loud, the sound reverberating through my body in a rather delightful way.

“How do you do it?” he asks.

“What?”

“Brush it all away for me. All the shit and craziness. All the anger. All the fear. You’re as cathartic as punching some asshole in a ring,” he says with a wicked grin. “And one hell of a lot more fun.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

He meets my eyes, and the humor in his face fades, his words now soft and full of meaning. “You’re my miracle,” he says, as he pulls me close to cuddle against his chest.

I sigh, because he is mine, too. And while I know that nothing is perfect, and our world is still scary, in this moment at least everything is all right.