Under My Skin Read online

“That’s just a word,” Jackson said. “And right now it feels pretty damn hollow. ”

  eight

  I watch Jackson as he watches his father disappear into the night.

  My whole body aches, and I realize that I haven’t relaxed since we arrived and found the paparazzi camped out.

  For that matter, I haven’t really relaxed since we left Charles’s office. Since we left Santa Fe. Since the detectives arrived with the news of Reed’s murder.

  Now we’re just hours away from Jackson walking through the doors of the Beverly Hills Police Department. And I’m so damned afraid that he’s not going to walk back out again.

  Hell, maybe I should thank Jeremiah and the damn story vultures. Because for a few minutes at least, I wasn’t afraid. Instead, I was just angry. At the paparazzi. At Jeremiah. At my own father.

  I take a deep breath. I don’t want either of those men in my head right now. I just want Jackson, but his back is still to me, his eyes on the now-empty dock.

  “Jackson?” I say his name tentatively.

  He turns and although the anger on his face fades when he looks at me, I can see that it still lingers behind his eyes. “I knew we’d have to deal with the press at some point, but he had no right coming here. He had no business interrupting us, coming unannounced, bothering us at all. ”

  “No, he didn’t. But he’s gone now. ” My voice is soft. Right now, I want only to soothe.

  He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. He looks so tired, and I just want to pull him close and hold him. I reach for him and gently take his hand.

  “You’re exhausted, and you have to be at the police station in the morning. ” I give his hand a tug as I start to turn away. “Come on, you need to sleep. ”

  I lead him below deck to the area that serves as his office, then start toward the door that leads down to the stateroom.

  Jackson pulls me back. “No. ” The word is rough, and I turn back to see his face and the wild hunger that I should have expected. Because it is not sleep that Jackson needs now. Not when the world is crashing down around us.

  He pulls me to him, giving me no choice but to stumble toward him. I crash against him, breathing hard, my body trembling with answering desire.

  “How could I sleep when tonight might be our last night? When the goddamn guillotine is poised to cut off my head?”

  “Don’t,” I beg. I know the truth too damn well, and I don’t want to hear it out loud.

  “Don’t what? Don’t touch you? Don’t need you?” His lips brush my ear as he speaks, deliberately misunderstanding me. “Don’t take everything I need from you so that I can hold it close to me tomorrow, and the next day, and the next?”

  “Please, Jackson. I don’t want—” Page 30

  “The truth?” He pulls his head back so that he is looking straight into my eyes, and I look away, ashamed because that is exactly what I want to avoid. “I’m not hiding from reality, baby, and neither are you. ” He trails his fingertip over the curve of my ear, then slowly down my neck. “I need you, Sylvia. I always need you. But tonight—if you pushed me away tonight—”

  “What?” Already, I am limp with desire. Already, I am his to do with what he will.

  His mouth curves into a slow smile, and I see a dangerous kind of heat flare in his eyes. “I’d just take what I want, however I want. ” With a violent tug he slams my pelvis against his. He’s rock hard, his hand on my ass giving me no place to go, nowhere to shift, while his other hand cups my breast roughly even as his mouth crashes hard over mine.

  It’s a full-on assault, startling in its swiftness, its heat, its power. “Yes. ” The word is a groan, my body molding to his as electricity rips through me, filling me with spark and sizzle and making my body hum.

  “Tell me you want it,” he whispers when he breaks the kiss. “To bend to my will. To hand me the key to your pleasure. To be the instrument of mine. ”

  With each word I am getting wetter, and my breasts are painfully tight inside my bra. I want to shift my hips and move in slow rhythmic motions until I find some satisfaction. I don’t. I force myself to remain still.

  “Tell me, Sylvia,” he repeats. “Tell me I can take you. Whenever and however I want. ”

  I tilt my head up. I look him in the eyes. “No,” I whisper, as a wild, forbidden heat washes through me, soaking my panties and making my nipples so sensitive that even the slight motion from breathing is like a sensual assault.

  He holds my gaze for a moment, and this time his eyes are flat. The twitch of a muscle in his cheek is the only evidence of any emotion that I see.

  Then he roughly cups his hands over my breasts. He squeezes, his thumbs and forefingers finding my nipples and teasing them through the thin material of my blouse and the lace of my bra. “I’m going to fuck you so hard,” he says, as his fingers send wild currents of heat ripping through me.

  Swiftly, he claims my mouth in a kiss that leaves me gasping once he’s moved on, brushing his lips over my neck, then over my blouse to tease my already sensitive breasts.

  I try desperately to stay upright despite the fact that I’m feeling just a little dizzy. He drops to his knees and tilts his head back to look up at me. And though it is Jackson who is on his knees, there is no doubt that he is the one in charge. “Take off your clothes. ”

  I shake my head.

  His brow quirks just slightly. “Take off your clothes. ” This time, each word is stressed.

  I lick my lips. “No. ”

  The corner of his mouth twitches, and he stands up slowly. “No?”

  I meet his eyes defiantly. “I thought you were taking what you wanted. ”

  “I am,” he says. “What I want is your submission. ”

  “Oh. ”

  I see a flash of victory in his eyes before he starts to walk away. “Decide how you want to play the game, sweetheart. But know that I’m only willing to play by my rules. ”

  He is almost to the steps that lead back to the deck when I call out to him. He turns, his brow raised in silent query.

  I slip off my ballet flats. And then, as he slowly walks back toward me, I peel myself out of my jeans, taking my underwear with them. He reaches down, then uses the tip of his finger to lift them off the deck of the boat. “Lace. Very nice. ”

  “I’m glad you approve. ” My voice sounds breathy. I’m standing there in only a T-shirt and bra. The window facing the ocean is open, and the cool night air teases my already soaked cunt until I am right there on the edge, waiting to go over, and wanting that push so badly that I’m not sure I can survive the anticipation.

  “No more,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he means the panties.

  “I—what?”

  “Don’t wear them. ” He meets my eyes. “When I think of you, I want to think of you bare. But do wear the necklace. From now on. Until I say otherwise. ”

  “Oh. ” Little tremors of pleasure course through me. The necklace is a chain with a small pendant that is actually a vibrator. It’s lovely and classy and deliciously effective. And I haven’t worn it since before we left for Santa Fe.

  I nod. “Yes,” I say. And when he lifts a brow, I amend to, “Yes, sir. ”

  “Good girl. But you’re still not naked. ”

  “Oh. ” I’d gotten distracted. “Right. ” I pull my shirt off and toss it on the deck, then drop my bra on top of it. Page 31

  “You’re so beautiful. ” He brushes a single fingertip up the curve of my hip. “It’s a rare thing to get to touch something of such beauty. ” As he speaks, he draws his finger higher, the contact light but oh-so powerful. He traces a line beneath my breast. The touch is as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss, and yet so intense it sends shuddering waves of electricity rolling through me.

  When he pulls his finger away, breaking the contact between us, I whimper.

  “In museums, the rules are clear. Anyplace, in fact,
where there is something of beauty, no touching is allowed. ”

  He bends to whisper in my ear. He is not touching me, but his breath as he speaks is as potent as a caress. “But those rules don’t apply to an owner. So tell me, Sylvia. Are you mine?”

  “Yes. Oh, god yes. ”

  “Touching,” he repeats as if I hadn’t spoken. “Exploring and teasing. ” As if in illustration of his words, he draws a single fingertip lightly over my body. My arms. My shoulders. The back of my neck.

  There is nothing particularly sensual about any of the places he explores, and yet he fires my senses everywhere he touches, and threads of electricity stream from his fingertips all the way to my core, making me weak and wet and terribly impatient.

  He drops to his knees, his hands now holding me steady at my hips. He tilts his head back and I look down and meet his eyes, and the desire and heat I see there humbles me.

  He eases forward, pressing his mouth to my abdomen, then trails kisses down, lower and lower, following the landing strip of pubic hair to the soft skin at the juncture of my thighs. I am lost now, floating in some wild place where I have been reduced to little more than sensation and need, desire and demand. And when he uses his tongue to gently lave my clit, I arch back as crackling threads of pleasure shoot through me to converge at my sex.

  I’m right there, floating on the edge, and all I need is one tiny push to send me over. Another flick of his tongue. Another stroke of his finger. I have been reduced to pure need, to desperate want.

  Jackson, however, denies me.

  He takes his hands from my hips. He pulls his mouth from my body. And then he rises slowly, his smug grin making clear that he knows exactly what he is doing to me.

  “Go down below,” he says in a voice that promises all sorts of wicked pleasures. “Get on the bed. Spread your legs, and close your eyes. ”

  I hurry down to the staterooms below. I look back once to see if he’s coming, but he’s not there. I hesitate, but only for a moment. This is a game, I know. This is what we need. This is a way to get lost in each other. To forget what is coming. And, yes, to have something to hold on to later.

  I settle myself on the bed and lay there spread open for him, my eyes closed, my imagination humming. He likes this. Me waiting for him. Me wet for him, wanting him. Laying here, wide open, for him to use however he wishes.

  And the truth is, I like it, too. The anticipation that comes with being spread out naked and wet. The soft kiss of the air over my skin. The tease of the boat’s creaks and jolts, which keep my body thrumming because I am not sure if it is the sound of the boat or the sound of footsteps that I hear.

  But what I like most is the pleasure of giving in to his demands. Of letting myself go completely and knowing that not only will he take me far, but that he will bring me back safely.

  I don’t know how much time has passed when I feel a shift in the air. I turn my head to the side and my ear brushes his lips.

  “Beautiful. ”

  That is all he says, but the heat in that word sends ripples through me, like a swarm of electric butterflies that settle between my legs, the lightness of their touch drawing me to the edge, but not quite over.

  I catch the scent of mint on his breath and think that’s odd, because Jackson doesn’t suck on mints or chew gum as a rule. I don’t ask, though, as I know he doesn’t want me to speak. And, frankly, my curiosity is satisfied soon enough, because without any preamble at all, he runs his hands up my thighs spreading me wider, then closes his mouth over my clit.

  Oh. My. God.

  His tongue is teasing me in the most exceptional way, but that is not what has truly sent me reeling. It’s the mint. Icy and hot all at the same time, arousing and enticing with just a hint of pain.

  I squirm, trying to escape this onslaught of sensation that threatens to overwhelm me, but Jackson holds me fast. I can go nowhere. I can only submit to pleasure. To pain. To the brilliant, fiery heat that thrusts me up and over until I am arched up in the bed, my hands tight on my breasts as Jackson’s tongue reduces me to nothing but ashes.

  Only when all the tremors have passed do I actually breathe again. But even then I have no respite because Jackson grabs me by my hips and slides me down the bed so that my ass is right on the edge. He lifts me, then thrusts hard into me. Page 32

  I melt with the pleasure of it. Of being taken. Of being fucked hard.

  And when I slip my hand down to tease my so-sensitive clit, I hear Jackson’s soft growl of approval as his body slams into mine again and again and again.

  I feel the tension build in him, and my muscles grab tight, wanting to heighten the explosion, to make it hard. To make it wild.

  And when he finally explodes inside me, my body milks him until the last tremor of pleasure has swept through us both.

  Once we are recovered enough to move, he tells me I can open my eyes. I find him smiling at me, his expression warm and satisfied. He slides up the bed, then holds out a hand for me to do the same.

  I take a different route, though. I kiss my way up his body. His calf. His knee. His taut, toned thigh.

  I see the newly inked tattoo that Cass gave him right beside his pubic bone—my initials, SB—and I gently kiss it. Then I gently lick up the length of his semi-hard cock, making him growl softly.

  I glance up, grinning, and notice the tin of mints on the bedside table.

  I start to reach for them, but he laughs and grabs my hands, sliding me up his body until I am balanced atop him and his arms are around my waist.

  “No fair. I want to try them. ”

  “And I want to hold you. ”

  He rolls us over so that we are spooned side by side, his fingers idly stroking my shoulder and down my arm as I start to drift.

  I am right on the verge of sleep when the words come. I don’t know what makes me say them—perhaps I want Jackson to know that we have exorcised not only the ghost of Jeremiah, but my father, too.

  “My dad called me. ”

  I whisper the words, but I know that he has heard me when his arm tightens almost imperceptibly around me. “When?”

  “In Santa Fe. You were outside with Ronnie. I’d just taken a shower. ”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before? Wait,” he immediately amends. “I know why. I was being an ass. ”

  I roll over, because I need to see his face. “No,” I say, then kiss him gently. “You were trying to protect me. In a boneheaded way, sure,” I add, drawing a small smile from him. “But the thought was there. And I didn’t tell you because you had enough on your plate with Ronnie and the news about Reed. ”

  He flashes an ironic grin. “So you were trying to protect me, too. Aren’t we a pair?”

  My smile is wide and easy. “I like to think so. ”

  He continues to stroke my shoulder, and I sigh, simply enjoying the sensation. But after a moment, I prop myself up on my elbow, frowning. “Why did Jeremiah not want the connection between you and Damien revealed? I mean, it made a little bit of sense back when Damien was the golden boy with his face on cereal boxes. But now?”

  Jackson shakes his head. “I don’t know. To be honest, I wonder if he might be the one who leaked it. ”

  “The father doth protest too much?”

  “Something like that. ”

  “But why?”

  “No idea,” Jackson admits. “And right now, I’m not interested in thinking about it. ” He draws me close and I tuck my head against his chest. “Sylvia, tomorrow at the—”

  “I don’t want to talk about tomorrow. Please. Can we just not?”

  There is silence for a moment, and then he says, “All right. But it’s coming whether we want it to or not. ”

  I know that. I do. But for a few more hours I want to hold tight to the illusion.

  And maybe, if I wish hard enough and hold Jackson tight enough, I can make the fantasy real.

  nine<
br />
  As police stations go, it probably doesn’t get much better than the Beverly Hills Police Department. I’m no expert, but I’ve watched enough cop shows to know that most police stations sport walls with dull gray paint that probably used to be white, Plexiglas barriers that are so clouded they’re no longer transparent, and lots and lots of faded, crumpled notices tacked to walls.

  Not so this station. I’m sitting on a polished wooden bench in a long hallway. It’s not travertine tile, but the flooring is clean and polished. For that matter, everything is clean and shiny, from the building to the people who work here. And right now, I’m focusing way, way too much on all of it. Because if I spend my time noticing the way the light from the window makes a geometric pattern when it hits the opposite wall, then maybe I won’t completely freak out about the fact that Jackson has been in an interview room with Harriet and two detectives for almost an hour.

  They’d arrived before I did at eight this morning. Jackson had told me not to come. “You can’t go into the interview, so you’ll be sitting by yourself worrying. Go to work. Do something. Don’t think about it. And I’ll be with you before you realize any time has passed at all. ” Page 33

  It was a great plan in theory, and when Jackson dropped me by my condo on his way to Beverly Hills, I was totally on board. But then my car decided it had other plans, and I ended up on Rexford Drive at the art deco–inspired building.

  Now I’m doing exactly what Jackson said I would be doing—worrying instead of working.

  And, yes, I know that he won’t be saying anything except, “On the advice of my attorney, I refuse to answer,” yada yada yada. But what if they arrest him? What if the last moments he had free were last night?

  What if today is the day that I lose him?

  I pull out my phone to call Cass, but on Mondays she doesn’t open the studio until two, and so she tends to sleep in. I know she won’t mind if I wake her, especially under the circumstances, but she and Siobhan haven’t been back together that long, and I hate to interrupt. Especially since I’m so happy that Siobhan is back in Cass’s life—and Zee is so very out of it.

  I stroke my thumb idly over the surface of my phone, debating. But in the end I slide it back into my purse. I’m a big girl, after all. I can go it alone.

  Oh, god.

  Those words slice through me, because I do not want to go it alone. Not now in this hallway and certainly not for the rest of my life.

  Breathe. Just breathe.

  I do, and that’s my mantra for about ten minutes—just breathe. But as each minute ticks by, my fear is ratcheting up, too. And when I can’t stand it anymore, I yank my phone out of my purse and am just about to dial when I hear my name from the wrong end of the hallway.

  I glance automatically toward the doors through which I expect Jackson to emerge. He’s not there, of course, and when I turn in the other direction, I see Orlando McKee striding toward me.