Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (51)

Good god, what the hell am I thinking?

I start to squirm away in protest, but he catches my eye and shakes his head just slightly as the kimono-clad waitress bows, then kneels carefully on the far side of the table from us. As she places the decorative tray of sushi and sashimi in front of us, Jackson’s finger slides under the lace to tease and play with me.

We are sitting on a backless bench of cushions that is directly on the floor, our feet descending into the sunken area which holds the table in this high-end, Beverly Hills sushi restaurant.

It is the kind of place where executives broker million-dollar deals. It is not the kind of place that hides lust and passion in dark corners while the rest of the world looks away.

And yet there is Jackson, gently stroking my clit as the waitress refills our sake.

And there is me, biting my lower lip, my cheeks surely burning, as I try to sit completely still as tremors of pleasure burst through my body.

Whether I should be or not, I cannot deny that I am wet—so desperately wet. And that right then I am craving more.

Jackson does not disappoint, and as he slides his finger inside me, I swallow a small sound of surprise and pleasure, then close my hands tight around the edges of the table.

The waitress’s smile never wavers as she takes our empty soup bowls, stands, and leaves silently with another small bow at the door.

“Jackson!” There is something like panic in my voice as I whisper his name.

“Tell me more,” he says. “What did Galway say when you told him Stark wanted to buy the island?”

When we’d arrived at the restaurant, I hadn’t known what to expect. Jackson’s mood had shifted in the apartment, going from heated demand to practiced politeness, as if we were a couple out on a first date, each being slightly careful around the other.

His choice of restaurant had surprised me as well. We’d never gone out for sushi in Atlanta, but I’d mentioned once that it’s my favorite food. I considered asking if he’d come here on purpose, but the truth is I wanted to believe it had been intentional, and didn’t want to know if coming here had been little more than a coincidence.

He’d insisted that we sit next to each other, and so we’d both taken a colored cushion on the side of the table facing the sliding door. I kept anticipating his touch, and yet there was none. Instead, he was practiced politeness, asking me about where I’d traveled with the company, what I did as Stark’s assistant, even how I came to be the project manager for The Resort at Cortez.

And the entire time I was going a little bit nuts. He wasn’t touching me at all. He was a perfect gentleman. This was, for all intents and purposes, a perfectly lovely date.

It was what I’d told myself I wanted—to have Jackson back off from his ridiculous game. To simply work with him and not get my head and my emotions all twisted up.

And yet …

And yet there I was, my body primed, my heart skittering with every movement and casual brush of his hand as I wondered if, maybe, he was finally going to touch me.

Nor did it help that I was certain that Jackson was intentionally tormenting me. And yet I had no proof whatsoever. His conversation was smooth, his manner polite.

And even so, he was slowly and methodically driving me crazy.

“So you got the idea for the resort from nothing more than a newspaper article?” he asked.

I don’t remember answering, but I must have, because I remember distinctly that he put his hand on my thigh and started unbuttoning my dress while I was telling him about how Damien blew off his tax-planning meeting.

I froze, the words stumbling over my tongue. I had the ridiculous urge to scoot away, but damn me, hadn’t I been craving this very thing, despite all my good sense and judgment?

So I stayed, and I talked, and I was talking still when the waitress came in, and I realized that was what Jackson had planned all along. Not simply the touch, but a forbidden one.

Not simply desire, but the need to fight it. To hide it.

And goddamn him, I couldn’t deny the fact that the secret pleasure made the sensation of his finger playing with me, fucking me, that much more incredible.

“Galway,” Jackson urges now as his finger strokes small circles on my clit, making my head spin and my thoughts scatter.

“Jackson, I—”

“Tell me,” he repeats, and so I do. I tell him about the phone call and Galway’s laughter when he thinks that Damien is joking, then his surprise when he learns that Damien really does want to acquire the island.

“Stark sounds like a man who gets what he wants,” Jackson says.

“He is.”

“So am I,” Jackson whispers as he thrusts three fingers inside me, fucking me with his hand, and damn me, I writhe against the motion, wanting him to go deeper, trying to feel the brush of his skin against my clit as my thoughts continue to spin and my mind loses focus.

“What is it you want?” I gasp, as spirals of pleasure seem to burst around me.

“You,” he says. “At my mercy.”

And with those four simple words, he withdraws his hand and my pleasure. “I think,” he says casually, “that it’s time to eat.”

I am frustrated and antsy and thoroughly pissed off during the meal. He’d taken me right to the precipice, then left me dangling, and the more I think about it, the more I realize that the meal—though it has all my favorite rolls and sashimi—holds very little appeal.