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.
twenty-one
Since we’re leaving for the island in the morning, we decide to go ahead and brave the paparazzi at the marina. Remarkably, though, the herd is thin, and we pass easily through the gate and into the parking area.
“They’ve gotten used to me sleeping at your place,” he says. “After tonight’s show, they’re probably there, wanting me to comment on that poor defenseless reporter I slugged.”
“Don’t even joke about that,” I say, as he hooks an arm around my shoulder.
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He stops long enough to brush his thumb over my cheek. He’s calmer now. I know he’s still worried, but for the moment, at least, we can relax. If any more horrors are going to come, they can damn well wait until the light of day. And he knows damn well he doesn’t need to be reminding me of it now. “Join me for a shower?”
“I’ll join you anywhere, Mr. Steele,” I say, and am rewarded by his smile.
“Do you want wine?” he asks once we’ve reached the boat. He’s a few steps ahead of me now, as I’ve paused to take off my shoes. “It’s late, but I could use a glass.”
I don’t answer. Frankly, I’ve barely heard the question.
What I heard instead were footsteps, and when I turn to look back over my shoulder, I see Harriet standing on the dock, as if waiting permission to step onto the yacht. She’s on the approved guest list at the gate, but I have hoped never to see her here.
And seeing her now really can’t be good.
I reach out, managing to grab Jackson’s shirt. He turns back to look at me, his mouth curved into a question. Then he sees Harriet, and I watch as he goes completely stiff.
“Are you here about the concert?” I ask. “Because Evelyn already read Jackson the riot act.”
“No,” Harriet says. She glances down at the deck. “May I?”
I glance at Jackson, who nods stiffly. “Of course.”
She steps onto the deck, and I look around awkwardly. My nerves are raw, and I’m on edge. If someone were to sneeze, I’d probably leap all the way into orbit.
I know this must be bad. It’s well past midnight, and that is not the usual time for lawyers to make house calls. Something has happened, and while I desperately want to know what, I also don’t want to voice the question.
So instead, I say lamely, “Do you want to sit down?”
She shakes her head. “I’m sorry, Jackson. They want you to surrender yourself Monday at nine.”
My chest is too tight. I can barely breathe. So I’m not sure how I even force out the question. “If he doesn’t?”
“Either way, they’re arresting him. If he doesn’t, it will be a media circus. If he does, we can get him inside without the fanfare.”