Say My Name (21 page)

I can walk—and I can lose the resort, which is the only thing that has truly mattered to me in years.

I look at him, struck hard by the irony. Because five years ago, Jackson mattered to me. He’d bent time with me, cramming what felt like a lifetime of emotion into just a few short days.

But that’s the past, and the resort is my present. And I cannot risk losing it if I have the chance to save it.

And so I do as he asks. This was the deal I made, after all. And, yes, I cannot deny that despite the memories that I fear will creep back into my dreams, I want what he has promised. I want the release. And, god help me, I want to shatter against this man again even though it is not real, and even though in the end, I know that I will get hurt.

“Good girl,” he says once my head is on the pillows. “Now stretch out your arms.”

I do, though I’m not sure what he’s planning. I find out soon enough, though, because he steps into the bathroom, then comes back with the white cotton sashes from two hotel robes.

I shake my head, feeling panic rising. “No,” I say, but he doesn’t stop. He simply takes my wrist and knots one end of a sash around it. The other end he ties to a lamp that is fastened to the wall right at the side of the headboard.

“Jackson …”

My protest seems to echo in the room, but he does not heed it. Instead, he moves around the bed and repeats the process with my other arm.

I lick my lips, not liking how vulnerable I feel. I squeeze my thighs together, then whimper when he shakes his head.

“No,” he says. “Wide. I want to see how wet you are. I want to see how much you want me.”

I swallow, but I say nothing, because what is there to say? But as he draws his fingertip along my leg and up my inner thigh, I feel my body clench with need. I see the small smile touch his lips. And I know that he has seen the extent of my arousal. That he knows what he is doing to me. That he has damn well won because no matter how much I want to keep a tight rein on myself—my body has its own response, and I’m desperately, hopelessly, completely turned on.

He touches me mercilessly, trailing his fingers over every inch of my body until I feel as though my skin is alive with need, and all the more so because I cannot move. I can only submit to this pounding of desire.

And when he goes to the living room and returns with a glass of wine and a small bowl of caviar, I cannot help but wonder what new torment he has in store for me.

And torment it is.

He slowly dribbles the thousand-dollar wine over my belly button, then uses the tip of his tongue to taste it. He lifts the glass to me and lets me have a small sip, and the tang of it on my tongue seems to match the way my entire body tingles with need for him. And when he puts a tiny spoonful of caviar on each of my breasts and then closes his mouth over me to suckle, I cannot help but arch up from the pure, overwhelming, erotic sensations.

He moves lower then, kissing his way down my belly until he reaches my sex. He looks at me, his eyes hard on mine, before kissing me oh-so-intimately.

“For a man who wants to punish me,” I say on a wild breath, “you’re doing a terrible job.”

“I told you,” he murmurs, “I want you to remember. I want you to know pleasure. And I want you to think about everything you tossed away.”

“Jackson—”

But he is not listening, and when his tongue attacks my clit once more I really don’t even care. He takes me to the edge, his mouth working magic on my senses, turning my body into nothing but sensual awareness, a mass of erotic energy just waiting to explode.

Waiting … and waiting still …

And when he pulls his mouth away—when he sits up on his knees to look at me—I think that I really will scream.

“Tell me what you want,” he says, but there is such tension in his voice, I have no doubt that he wants exactly the same thing. And I want it badly enough that I have no shame.

“Fuck me. Please, Jackson. Just fuck me now.”

He gets off the bed and comes to stand closer to me. For a moment, I fear that he is going to deny both of us. “Please tell me you have a condom,” I say.

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he takes something out of his pocket and sets it on the side table before stripping off his clothes. I turn my head, managing to see that he’s put a condom packet there. But there’s something else beside it, and that’s what he picks up now.

It takes a moment, and then I realize that it’s a blindfold.

“Oh, no,” I say. “No way.”

“Oh, yes,” he says. “My rules, remember? And right now, I own you,” he says as his fingers dance over my skin, highlighted by the sensual tones of his voice. “You’re mine to pleasure. To take. To fuck. And right now I want you to experience nothing but the feeling of me touching you,” he adds as my body clenches with need in response to this new seduction. “Of me inside you. You’re mine, remember, and tonight, I want you to know it. Fully and very, very completely.”

His words seem to crash over me, echoing through my memory.

While you’re here, you’re mine.

You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine …

Familiar words that once made me sick, but right now I can’t deny that I am wet. That I am on fire.

And that the goddamned flame on my breast is a symbol not that I am the one in control … but that if I’m not careful, Jackson will reduce me to ashes.

I do not protest when he moves forward and puts the blindfold over my eyes. The world goes dark, and as he said, it is only him that I know. The sound of his breathing. The feel of his hands upon me. The touch of his breath upon my skin.

He caresses my body with hands and kisses, a sweet seduction as he moves back onto the bed, making the mattress shift as he does. And then he is lightly caressing my sex, his fingers teasing and exploring, making me even hotter than I already am. Opening me. Readying me.

Without warning, he lifts my legs, and I feel the sensation of being stretched as he raises them onto his shoulders. I gasp at the sensation of his cock pressing hard against me, seeking entrance, and I relax, welcoming him. Wanting him.

And then, when he grabs my ass and thrusts into me, impaling me without warning, I scream just as he wanted me to, lost in the incredible sensation of being filled by this man.

He is huge, but I am so damn wet that it hurts only for a bit. Now he moves in a sensual rhythm, holding my hips with one hand as he guides my motions to work in tandem with his, and at the same time using his other hand to tease my clit so that I am overwhelmed by the sensation of both being filled and of catching fire.

I’m alive with pleasure—wild with desire. And the fact that I can see nothing only adds to the vastness of what I feel, just like Jackson had said it would.

“Come for me,” he says, thrusting harder and deeper. “Christ, Sylvia, I want you to come for me now.”

I cry out in surprise when I feel his own release, and then in pleasure when every bit of sparkle in my body seems to center on my sex, only to burst out again and send me spinning. I arch up, feeling as though I could fly, and then fall back down on the bed, wanting nothing more than to have Jackson beside me.

I fear for a moment that he will not come—that he will punish me by leaving me alone and bound in this bed. But he does not. Instead he unties my arms, then removes my blindfold. And then, to my surprise and delight, he brushes a tender kiss across my lips before sliding into bed beside me.

“Sleep now,” Jackson says.

I lay there breathing hard, my back against his chest, my body exhausted and my mind content. And as he holds me in his arms, I sink into his warmth, entirely unprepared for the cold fingers of memory when they creep up to fill my sleep and haunt my dreams.

I watch myself in the red dress, as Bob circles the other me who stands in the soft lighting.

“Lovely,” he says as his camera clicks. “Just perfect. Now let’s add a little heat to these photos.”

The other me shakes her head. “I don’t think—”

“Hush,” he says as he steps closer. “I need these photos to stand out, and how can they miss with you in them? Innocence mixed with passion. And if there’s arousal … oh, Elle, that photo will pop.” His hand brushes her nipple, and I watch as the other me gasps. But I don’t feel it. Over here, away, I don’t feel a thing.

His smile is slow. “There you go. You see? That beautiful flush. The camera loves it. And I’ll tell you a secret, Elle. I do, too. There aren’t many fourteen-year-old girls as mature as you. With such a natural heat. Do one more button for me. For the camera.”

“Don’t,” I say to the me in the dress.

But she bites her lip and lifts her hands to the dress. And I suck in air because I know this. I’ve seen it.

I remember what happens. The way he finishes the rest of the buttons for her. The things he says so that it seems okay but really isn’t. The way it feels when his hands are on her—when he touches her. When he’s inside her.

And the shame and loathing that come after.

I remember it, and so I scream for her. I yell for her to fight it. To stop him.

But I don’t hear me. Only Bob does. And when he turns to me with a victorious smile, it’s Jackson’s face that I see.

I sit up, gasping for air, then jump when Jackson’s hand strokes my thigh.

“Syl?” His voice is sleepy, concerned.

But I don’t answer. Instead, I run to the living room and throw on the dress, ignoring the ripped underwear and not bothering with the bra.

I stand for a second, unsure, then I tiptoe back into the bedroom and dig in the pocket of his khakis for his wallet. I find the valet ticket, and I clutch it tight, breathing hard.

“Syl? What’s going on?”

I look up to see him blinking at me as he switches on the bedside lamp.

Fear clutches me, and I can barely breathe.

I spring to my feet and race out of the bedroom, then out of the suite. I jab my finger on the elevator button and will it to whisk me to the lobby at something close to the speed of light.

The young man at the valet stand doesn’t question me when he brings me the Porsche, and I’m grateful that I remembered my purse so that I can tip him.

I slide behind the wheel, lock the doors, and peel out of the driveway.

I have no idea where I’m going. I only know that I want to escape.

But since it’s my own skin I want to leave behind, it’s never going to happen. And all I can hope is that somehow, someway, I can drive fast enough to leave the nightmares behind.

I race up Coldwater Canyon, hugging the road’s curves, watching as the spray of light from the headlights turns the tree-lined road into a fairy tale path of dark shadows and witches’ fingers that are reaching out to claim me.

But it’s not the shadows I’m running from. It’s not even Jackson. Not entirely.

It’s Jackson and myself and the whole fucked up situation.

Because damn me to hell, all Jackson wants is to punish me. I know that—
I know it.
And yet all he has to do is crook a finger to make me melt.

Just like Bob did all those years ago.

Fuck.

This was a mistake. Such a huge mistake. I should never have gotten in Jackson’s bed, and if that meant abandoning the resort, then I should have just walked away. Because I cannot be this woman. I can’t be the girl who surrenders. Who gives in. I have to hold on tight to control, because it is the only protection I have.

I hate that as well.

And so I drive, taking the curves wildly, trying desperately to lose myself in the thrill of danger, burying my fear under this rush of pure adrenal sensation and absolute concentration.

Except it doesn’t work. My head is too full, my thoughts too wild, and with one violent turn of the wheel, I whip the car into a turnaround and slam on the brakes. The Porsche jolts to a stop dangerously close to the drop-off, and for a moment I wonder what that would have been like, soaring out into space and then dropping down, down, down into nothingness.

I push the thought away. That is not me; not who I am at all. And it never has been.

Even as a teen, when I so desperately wanted it to end, I never wanted to end
me.
Instead I wanted to get lost inside myself, to find that safe place and to cling to talismans that would protect me from the nightmares.

My whole life, I’ve managed to keep a tight hold, with only two exceptions—Atlanta and right now.

And there’s Jackson Steele right in the middle, sending me battering about as if he is a storm and I am nothing more than a cork bobbing in violent waters.

I get out of the car and walk to the edge, then look down at the lights of the world. The houses where happy people sleep through dreamless nights.

I am jealous, I realize. And I am alone.

I close my eyes against a sudden, powerful longing for Jackson. To let him hold and soothe me.

You’re a fool
, I think.
A goddamn, messed up fool.

The purr of an engine pulls me from my thoughts, and I turn to see a black sedan pull into the turnaround.

I frown. I’m not looking for company, and I’m not stupid. I’m a woman alone in the dark standing beside a pretty damn expensive car. All of which means that this is my cue to leave.

I get back into the Porsche, lock the doors, and back out.

The sedan is still there, its engine off, its interior dark.

But as I turn the wheel so that I can maneuver back onto the street, my headlights sweep over the sedan, and for a moment the interior is illuminated.

It’s Jackson.

Somehow, he followed me.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, expecting a wave of anger.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel a little less lost. A little bit safe.

And because of that, I feel a little bit scared.

I don’t go back to the hotel. Instead, I go home.

I feel like a sleepwalker as I stand in my front hallway and press the button to open the back patio door. It rolls up, and I move forward in time with the motion.