Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (26)

But there was no cold, and the only dark came from the night sky, and was bright with stars. That tingle I felt wasn’t fear, it was excitement. And when I met his eyes, I was certain that he could see in mine how much of a miracle he was to me.

“Christ, you tempt me. My fingers itch to take you right now. To strip you bare and just look at you, naked and hot and wet for me. And I will, too. I’m going to touch you. I’m going to stroke every inch of you. I’m going to bury myself deep inside of you. And I’m going to memorize the way you look when you find release in my arms. All of that,” he said as my body went limp and hot under the force of his words. “But not yet. Not tonight.”

He reached out as if to stroke my face, but his fingers hesitated just millimeters from my skin. I sucked in air, well aware of the heat between us, and wishing desperately for even the lightest touch of skin upon skin.

Then he withdrew his hand and looked straight into my eyes. His were inscrutable. Mine, I’m certain, were wild and pleading and just a bit confused. Because with Jackson, everything had flipped. Instead of grabbing control, I’d surrendered it. And that really wasn’t me.

I didn’t understand why—and while that might scare me, what scared me more was the fear that he would go away.

“You want me, too.” It was a statement, not a question, but I answered anyway.

“Yes.” The word seemed too small to encompass so great a need.

“All right, then.” The smile barely touched his mouth, but I saw pleasure light in his face. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning. Ten-thirty.”

“Oh.” I blinked at the sudden shift from the seductive to the esoteric. “Okay.” I ran through my schedule, grateful I had no conflicts. Not that it mattered; I would have blown off anything that stood between me and spending the morning with Jackson.

The corners of his eyes crinkled, as if he knew my thoughts. “You’re mine tomorrow,” he said as he brushed a fingertip over my lower lip, and then turned and walked away.

I went inside, so full of light and anticipation that I actually did a little twirl. And I am really not the twirling type.

I peeled off my clothes, and every brush of material against my overheated skin was like a sensual treat. I slid into bed naked, wanting nothing but the sheet between me and my memories of Jackson.

Then I closed my eyes, slid my hand between my legs, and let thoughts of this gorgeous, sexy, enigmatic man carry me off to sleep.





six


A sharp knock at my door awakened me, and I stretched in bed, enjoying the fading memories of some truly spectacular dreams.

Dreams. Not nightmares.

The thought brightened my smile even more. So far, Jackson Steele was proving to be the embodiment of the perfect man. Charming, funny, utterly gorgeous. And despite that whole takecharge vibe, he wasn’t the least bit nightmare inducing.

Pleased, I hummed a little as I tossed on a robe. I didn’t hurry—it wasn’t yet eight on a Saturday morning. Anyone who needed me was just going to have to wait. Still, I called out, “Hang on,” as I tied the sash and walked to the door.

I checked the peephole, but no one was out there. Curious, I opened the door to look back toward the street, only to find a beautifully wrapped box on my doormat. I picked it up and found a simple tag tucked in under the bow. Wear Me.

I laughed, feeling a bit like Alice as she stumbled into Wonderland. But I had no doubt that the package was from Jackson, and when I went inside and took the lid off, my suspicions were confirmed.

The dress I found cradled in tissue paper was sunshine yellow and absolutely darling, with a fitted bodice, a loose and breezy skirt, and big white buttons from cleavage to hem. It also came with matching low-heeled sandals that actually fit when I tried them on. But it was the last part of the present—the part hidden beneath a thin fold of tissue paper—that made my entire body tingle. Sheer silk stockings accompanied by a black garter and black thong panties that were nothing more than a tiny triangle of lace. The bra was equally tiny, with almost nonexistent cups that were designed so that a woman’s breasts spilled over the top, adding fullness while keeping her nipples exposed.

I licked my lips, then put on the lingerie, careful not to run the stockings as I rolled them up each of my legs. Then I stood in front of my full-length mirror and tried to see myself from all sides.

I looked like sin.

More important, I felt like it. Hot. Wild. Daring.

And there was no denying the tingle between my legs when I imagined Jackson buying this. Watching me in it. And then watching me out of it.

Without thinking, I slid my hand down into the panties, my finger barely stroking my clit before finding my center. Oh, holy Christ, I am wet. And when that familiar electric tingle started to shoot through me, I yanked my hand away, as guilty as a teenager.

Not because I didn’t want to get off, but because I wanted Jackson to be the one to take me there.

Both aroused and anxious, I slid into the dress, pleased to see it fit perfectly. Then I hurried through my hair and makeup routine, only to find myself dressed and impatient well before Jackson’s scheduled arrival at half-past ten. I spent the time feeling the way I had when I was thirteen and waiting for Billy Tyson to take me on my first date—a movie and a burger, chauffeured to both by his parents. That was back when my life was full of anticipation and wonder. When I trusted my parents to keep me safe and whole. When I lived in a solid middle class bubble that I’d thought, foolishly, was impenetrable.