Stark International: Under My Skin Part 4

I watch, relieved and aroused, as a rising heat melts the coldness in his eyes. I'm wet with desire, every bit of skin on my body a direct link to my c.u.n.t. Not only because I will always respond to Jackson's touch, but because it excites me to know that he needs me like this. That he is claiming me. Using me to make himself whole.

He crushes his mouth over mine, hard and wild, his tongue demanding, taking, f.u.c.king, before he pulls back, his teeth tugging at my lower lip.

I hear his breath, wild and fast like my own. And when he yanks up my T-s.h.i.+rt then flips open the front clasp of my bra, I gasp, both in surprise and delight, but also from the way my body clenches, wanting more. Wanting Jackson.

The air is cool, and my nipples tighten even more. He brushes a fingertip over one, the touch so light it is almost negligible.

But oh, dear G.o.d, what it does to me. It is as if he's touched me with an electric wire, and the sensation shoots all the way to my core. I explodethe o.r.g.a.s.m ripping through me, wild and incredible and completely unexpected.

I don't even realize I've closed my eyes, but when I open them, I see Jackson watching my face, his expression hungry. Yes, I think. More.

Those are the only two words in my head. The only thoughts I can form, and even when he tells me to turn around, my mind doesn't process it until he physically moves me.

"Bend over," he says as his fingers make easy work of the b.u.t.ton on my jeans. "Hands on the wall." He's right behind me, and I can feel his c.o.c.k straining against the denim of his jeans and pressing against my a.s.s.

He slides my zipper down, and then uses both hands to tug my jeans down. For a brief moment, the sensual fog that has surrounded me lifts and I realize where we are. But the truth is, I don't care. We're mostly blocked by our two cars and this section of the property is unused, this hangar devoted to storage.

Most of all, he needs this. I need this. And I'm not going to risk stoppingrisk sending him off to some d.a.m.ned boxing ring or who knows where else when I'm so close to having him back.

My jeans and panties are pushed down to just above my knees. I'm bent forward, my s.h.i.+rt shoved up and my bra open so that my b.r.e.a.s.t.s are exposed. I'm wetso d.a.m.n wetand when he slides his hand between my legs and over my c.l.i.t, I s.h.i.+ver with need.

I hear him take down his zipper, then feel the head of his c.o.c.k stroke the curve of my a.s.s. I whimper and try to spread my legs wider, but I'm bound by my jeans. I feel wild. Shameless. And if he wasn't running this show I would happily strip naked and f.u.c.k him on the asphalt.

"You need this as much as I do," he whispers. It's not a question, nor is it a statement. It's an expression of wonder. Of connection.

"Yes," I say. "Oh, G.o.d yes."

"You slapped me." Now there's a commanding edge to his voice, and I s.h.i.+ver in antic.i.p.ation, my body clenching simply from the heat and power in his voice.

I may have started this, but I cannot deny that I want Jackson to finish it. I want to lose myself in his demands. To go soft and wet with the pleasure of submitting. And more than that, I know that if we are going to get past this, he has to grab control.

And oh, thank G.o.d, he is.

"Naughty girl," he says playfully, and then lightly smacks my a.s.s. "Very naughty," and this time he spanks me harder again and again and again.

I gasp, both from the sting and from the sweet pleasure of it, and then I moan in wanton need when he uses his palm to soothe my heated rear before slipping his hand between my legs again and thrusting his fingers roughly inside me.

My muscles tighten around him, wanting moreand thankfully, so does Jackson. He's right there, the tip of his c.o.c.k pus.h.i.+ng against my core. His hands are on my hips and he holds me steady as he thrusts inside. Gently at first, and then harder, until he's pounding into me, wild and powerful.

I bite my lower lip to keep from crying out, but that goes all to h.e.l.l when he bends over me further, one hand crus.h.i.+ng hard against my breast as another teases my c.l.i.t. I keep my arms stiff, my hands flat against the side of the building so that there is little give as he thrusts into me, over and over, harder and faster. Using me even as he pleasures me.

I am lost in the sensation of being touched and filled by him. Of being needed by him. My fears have been tossed away, destroyed by the brutal power of this claiming. He needs me. And oh, how I need him.

I can feel his body tightening, readying for an explosion. His fingers close painfully over my breast, and I moan with pleasure as hot threads of sensation shoot from my breast to my c.u.n.t. I'm needy and hot and ready. And when he demands that I come with him, I submit even in that, my body breaking apart under this wonderful, sensual destruction.

I do not remember taking my hands off the wall. I don't remember sliding to the ground. I know only that I am curled up against him, my jeans pulled up but not fastened. My body glowing. My skin wonderfully sensitive.

"Thank G.o.d for you." His voice is low, rough. "Thank G.o.d you're a better fighter than I am."

I can't help my smile. But when I speak, I'm completely serious. "I won't ever stop fighting for you. You need to get that through your thick skull."

"I think you've managed to drill it in."

This time, my smile turns into a laugh. "I think you did that," I say, making him laugh, too.

His arms tighten around me, and I know we should get up. We're sitting on the hard concrete with the scent of gasoline and oil lingering in the air and the roar of planes in the distance. But I don't want to move and neither does he. Not yet. And so we simply stay still, lost in each other's arms.

I've closed my eyes and am drifting when his voice pulls me back. "I went there," he says, and I stiffen in his arms. "I was in his house the night that he was killed." The words are flat and firm. As if Jackson is simply taking care of business, announcing this bit of news like someone else might state the weather.

I open my eyes and swallow, not sure what I should say. Not sure that I want to hear more.

"I already told Charles. There will be evidence," he says. "A fingerprint. A security camera. Who knows? But they'll find it." He presses a kiss to the top of my head. "And whatever the police know, you will know first."

"All right." There is no point in arguing. Of that, I'm certain. I s.h.i.+ft on the ground, needing to sit up so that I can see him. "Why did you go?"

"Why do you think? To threaten him. To tell him to give me the photos or pay the consequences."

"You'll tell the police that?"

His smile is so tender it melts my heart. "No. If I tell them anything at all, I'll tell them it was about the movie. But the pictureswhat he was threatening to do to youthat much stays hidden. I promise."

He is already hugging me close, but I hug myself now, too, needing the comfort to support me for what I'm about to say. Then I draw a breath for courage. "Are you going to take the Fifth? Because if you don't, you have to tell them everything, Jackson. Hold something back, and if it comes out it'll bite you in the a.s.s."

"Sweetheart, they're going to swallow me whole, and we both know it."

"No." I grab hold of his arm and cling to him. "You're going to be cleared."

He makes a noise, somewhere between a laugh and a derisive snort. "We can try to believe that, baby. But we both know it's not true."

"It has to be." I say the words defiantly. And before I can stop myself, I hear myself asking the one question that I know I shouldn't. "Did you kill him?"

"What does it matter?" he asks. "The system is capricious. You know it as well as I do."

A faint dread washes over me, not because I'm afraid that Jackson killed him, but because he is right. If he did kill Reed, the system will make him pay, even for the death of a monster. And if he didn't kill Reed, it won't matter. He will be an innocent man falsely convicted, punished for the potency of his hate rather than the reality of his actions.

"Would it change anything?" he asks me. "If I killed him, would it change anything between us?"

"No." I say the word fiercely, because he needs to know how much I mean it. That there is even some small part of me that hopesmaybe even believesthat it is true. And, yes, that is humbled and excited by the knowledge that Jackson would kill to protect me.

He closes his eyesjust for a momentbut I see some of the tension escape him. When he looks at me again, I see a vulnerability that he rarely shows.

"I'm scared." His voice is low, and even this close, I have to strain to hear him. "And that's not an emotion I'm comfortable with. But lately I'm becoming more and more familiar with it. I'm afraid of losing you. Ronnie. My freedom."

I can hear the pain and the confusion in his voice, and I understand it. His daughter is in limbo as much as Jackson's freedom is. And for a man who needs to hold tight to control, limbo is a horrible place to be.

"I can survive anything. I'm certain of that. But that doesn't mean I'm not scared of where this is going. And I don't like you having to see me carry all this s.h.i.+t."

"You can't push me away because of this investigation. Not unless you want me to slap you again."

I'm rewarded with a wry smile. "I get that," he says. "But I'm not just talking about the murder. It's Ronnie, too. I don't like you seeing me flounder."

"Flounder?" I think about how good he is with herso naturally comfortable in a way I can't even fathomand am genuinely baffled.

"What the h.e.l.l do I know about being a father? G.o.d knows mine was no role model."

"You're amazing with her," I say, and though I'm being a hundred percent honest, I do understand what he means. Children have never been on my radar for exactly that reasonmy parents screwed me up so much that I'm not sure I have a decent parenting bone in me.

"She's the one who's amazing," he says. "But that's not even what I mean. It's like every decision is a test, and the wrong answer could mess up her life. Do I step in as her dad? Do I continue as an uncle? Do I leave her with Betty? There's an infinite number of choices at every juncture and then a whole new set of choices after that. And there's no way of knowing if I'm following the right path."

"You think the fact that you're struggling means you'll be a bad father? It's just the opposite, Jackson. Don't you see? It matters so much to youh.e.l.l, it's consuming youand every step you're taking is with her best interest in mind. That's the definition of a good father, Jackson. You and I know that better than anyone." I offer him a small smile and a gentle kiss on his cheek. "It's pretty s.e.xy, actually."

He doesn't laugh, but the tension in his face relaxes a bit.

"You're doing the right thing for Ronnie," I insist. "The best thing. You're focusing on Ronnie because you want her life to be better. Because you love her. Leaving her with Betty isn't a mistake. It's a choice, and it's the right one."

"Maybe. But that doesn't mean I haven't made other mistakes. And I'm afraid that I'm going to have to pay for them sooner rather than later. I'm afraid Ronnie's going to pay, too. And Syl," he says, sliding his fingers through my hair to cup the back of my head as he looks deep into my eyes, "I'm afraid that you're going to pay as well. I'm afraid you already are."

"No." I say the word fiercely, as if I can erase the shadows from his eyes simply by the force of my will. "Don't go there, Jackson. Don't you dare slide off into melancholy with me. Ronnie is better off having you in her life, and I am, too. I love you, and there is no price I wouldn't pay to be with you."

He looks at me then, as if he is absorbing my words. As if he's weighing the truth of them. He looks at me for so long, in fact, that I'm almost compelled to speak, but then he does that first.

"Being with you in Santa Fe . . ." He trails off.

"What?"

I see something like pain flicker across his face. "I know I was an a.s.s. It was because of Ronnie. Well, because of all of it. But I think it was mostly her."

"Oh." An icy chill snakes up my back, and I tense, certain I know where this is going. I'm not her mom. I haven't the faintest idea how to be a mom. And right now Jackson needs to focus on two things: getting cleared and being a father. Which means he needs to not focus on me.

"It's just that I caught myself thinking that it would be gooda comfort, I meanif I knew that Ronnie would be safe on the outside with you if the worst happened."

I frown, no longer sure where he's heading. "And that turned you into an a.s.s?"

The corner of his mouth actually curves up. "Have you not been paying attention? You found out about five minutes ago that I have a child. A child you've spent barely any time with. And yet in my mind I already had you filling the gap in her life when I end up behind bars. Auntie Syl, right there. Helping to take care of her. Protecting her. I mean, h.e.l.l, sweetheart, I practically had you in the role of Mommy."

My chest tightens, emotion flooding me. He wasn't pulling away from me because he didn't want me. Just the opposite.

"It's selfish of me, and unrealistic, and"

I can't help myself. I burst into tears.

"Oh, Christ, Syl. Oh, s.h.i.+t." Jackson wanted to kick himself. What the h.e.l.l had he been thinking?

That was easy. He was thinking that he wanted her. Forever. For always. He wanted her. And he had to go and run off at the mouth without thinking about what she wanted.

"I'm sorry," he rushed to say. "I shouldn't have told you. s.h.i.+t, I shouldn't have said anything. That's why she's with Betty now, because of course I don't really expect you to"

"You're such a fool."

Her voice was thick with tears, and for a moment, Jackson was certain he must have misunderstood.

"Do you have any idea what that means to me? That you have that much faith in me? That you'd trust me with the most precious thing in your life?"

He stared at her, a little bit sh.e.l.l-shocked. Had he heard her right? Did she understand what she was saying?

"I haven't got a clue how to play Mommy," she continued. "But I love you, Jacksonthose aren't just words, and they sure as h.e.l.l aren't temporary." She brushed her hand over his cheek. "Whatever you need, remember? And those aren't just words, either. For better or worse, we're getting through this. And we're doing it together."

He didn't answer. Not yet. All he wanted to do was look at her. To breathe her in and let her words fill his head. Because they were d.a.m.n good words.

For better or worse . . .

Someday, he thought. Someday she'd say those words to him again and he'd put a ring on her finger.

But first, they had to survive everything that was yet to come.

five.

Our destinationthe office of Bender, Twain & McGuiretakes up three floors in 2049 Century Park East, one of the two iconic triangular shaped towers that comprise the Century Plaza Towers in Century City. They rise up ahead of us, s.h.i.+ning against the night sky, as Jackson maneuvers his beloved black Porsche down Santa Monica Boulevard, cutting a straight path from my condo to our destination.

I've always loved these towersthe sleek, clean lines and the soft gleam of the aluminum facade. The towers truly s.h.i.+ne when they are set against the backdrop of the blue California sky. But even after dark, they stand like monuments, reflecting the power and prestige of the area and the people who live and work here.

"He's on my regret list," Jackson says, pointing to the towers.

"He? You mean Yamasaki?"

Jackson grins. "I should have known you'd be familiar with him. Along with Frank Lloyd Wright, Minoru Yamasaki is one of the people I always invite to dinner when I play that game."

"Who you'd have at your table, either living or dead?"

"Exactly. Wright pa.s.sed away before I was born, and I think I would have been about four when Yamasaki died. I was building things with my Legos back then, but even if I had clued in to my desire to be an architect, I don't think he would have taken my call."

I can't help my smile. "Probably not. He's on my list, too," I admit. "There's such an elegant majesty to his buildings, you know?" Minoru Yamasaki may have been the original architect for the towers in Century City, but he's most well-known for the original World Trade Center.

We stop at a light, and Jackson turns to me. "I haven't taken you on an architectural tour of Los Angeles yet. We should do that soon. Maybe next weekend."

"Don't," I snap, my voice harsher than I'd intended. "Don't try to keep my mind off what's going on around us. Don't try to pretend that everything is fine. Like it or not, this is reality now."

"Syl . . ." The light changes, but he doesn't move forward.

"No, I mean it," I say, as a car behind us honks. I turn around and glare at the idiot in the convertiblesome overly made-up blonde who looks like she doesn't have a care in the world, then I turn back to Jackson, even more irritated than I was before. "Go," I say, but he's already moving.