Stark International: Under My Skin Part 21

By the time the concert ends, I'm practically deaf. I'm also covered in a thin layer of sweat and the sleeveless mock turtleneck that I'd paired with a thin leather jacket and matching mini skirt is clinging to my body. I'm also thinking that despite the cool November evening, the leather skirt was a mistake, as it's stuck to both my a.s.s and thighs.

And as for my feetwell, I have no one to blame but myself. Jackson warned me we'd be standing. Apparently my favorite low black sandals aren't the all-purpose shoes I'd thought they were.

All in all, I can't wait for the blast of cool air when we get outside. So I'm thrilled that we're heading toward the door, even if we are part of a human wave, so up close and personal that I can smell at least seventeen different shampoos and deodorants.

Jackson has his arm tight around my waist, and I can feel Ca.s.s pressed up behind me so as to not lose us in the crowd. The entrance is a set of wide double doors that open straight onto the parking lot, so the wave is actually moving pretty fast, and as soon as we step past the doors I sigh with pleasure as the cool air washes over me. And then I immediately cringe as the cameras start flashing.

Jackson grabs my hand and Ca.s.s presses her palm to my shoulder even as I register that these are not camera phones. These are Nikons and Canons and Ricohs, and they're being held by photographers who stand next to reporters with microphones sporting logos like TMZ and ET and G.o.d only knows what else.

I turn to Jackson, confused and panicked, because this is a step up from the paparazzi we've been dodging. I hope desperately that there is a movie star inside. Surely this isn't all about Jackson.

Except it is. They're calling his name. They're mentioning Reed. They're talking about the movie. About Damien. The a.s.sault. The Fletcher house in Santa Fe. And I don't get it because Jackson hasn't been arrested and nothing has changed, and "Is it true that Arvin Fletcher's granddaughter is your daughter?"

"Why is she hidden away?"

"Is Veronica the reason you've been trying to block the movie?"

"Is it true the movie's been green-lit? Do you think Reed's death drummed up more interest?"

Behind me, Ca.s.s gasps, pulling me out of the weird tunnel vision funk I'd slipped into when the questions started flowing. I hear Siobhan mumble something, and then take off running, shoving her way past us and through the crowd.

I have no idea what she's doing, but it doesn't matter, because I can't seem to move. My hand aches, and I realize Jackson is squeezing it tight, and I think that's good. Because if he's grabbing on to me, he's not pummeling someone else.

When I look at him, though, I'm certain that is exactly what's going to happen. And when another question rings out"Did you kill Reed to keep your daughter a secret?"I know that the paparazzi have gone too far.

I feel him tense beside me. I see the anger held tight in his face.

And, G.o.d help me, I feel the cool, helpless sense of loss when he lets go of my hand and bursts forward, undoubtedly to pound the s.h.i.t out of the idiot reporter who has no idea what door he's just opened.

I lunge for Jackson, then actually yank him back by the waistband of his jeans.

He turns to me, his face awash with anger, and I think, Oh, s.h.i.t. That picture will be all over the tabloids, then he's bursting forward again, his fist flying out, and before I even have time to scream his name, the reporter is flat on his a.s.s, his hand pressed to his jaw, and Jackson is about to swoop down for another punch.

"No!"

I scream the word so loudly it hurts my throat, but it works. Jackson turns to me, his face eerily white under the flash of so many cameras.

He's breathing hard, his eyes wild, and I'm really not sure how the h.e.l.l to get us out of this mess. And then I hear someone calling for Ca.s.s, and then Ca.s.s is tugging at the back of my shirt.

It's Siobhan, and her head is poked up out of the limo's skylight.

"Go," I say to Jackson, and the word seems to pull him back to himself. We push through the crowd, both Ca.s.s and I sandwiching him, and then we tumble into the limo through the door that Siobhan now holds open for us.

"Go!" Siobhan yells, her palm flat over the intercom b.u.t.ton. As the limo starts to move, she looks back at us. "I figured we needed an escape route."

"You're brilliant," I say, but she doesn't answer. How can she when Ca.s.s has caught her in a wild lip-lock?

Outside, the cameras are still snapping, but I'm starting to breathe a little easier. Jackson is still wound up, though, and as I move to sit beside him, he pulls out his phone. He's just about to dial when it rings. "Evelyn," he says to me as he taps the b.u.t.ton to answer.

"G.o.ddammit, young man. What exactly does 'mind your temper' mean to you, anyway?" Her voice is tinny through the speaker, but her frustration is loud and clear.

Jackson ignores her question. "How the f.u.c.k did they find out?"

"You filed a paternity action, sugar. We knew this was a risk. You knew this was a risk. Now we have to handle it. The leak, and your lovely reaction to it just now. They got that whole fiasco on tape, children. And they're already bombarding Damien. Wanting to know about his niece."

Jackson slams his hand down hard against the polished wood paneling, making me, Ca.s.s, and Siobhan jump.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n motherf.u.c.king son of a b.i.t.c.h." He sucks in a breath, then another. I start to take his hand. But something holds me back. Not yet, I think. Not just yet.

"I blew it." He grinds out the words as if each and every one cuts a slice out of his heart. "I lost my temper. I made it worse."

"You may well have." Evelyn's voice is firm. "I can do the spinyou were looking out for your daughter, keeping her safe from scandal, the whole big pushbut you just rammed your fist into a reporter's face, Jackson. And our detectives may want to take that little media clip out for a ride."

"You think they'll arrest him?" My voice sounds like a squeak.

"I think Harriet will have a better sense. But they know he was in Reed's house and that they argued. They know he a.s.saulted Reed once before. They know he had motive. And now the whole world knows just how quick a temper he has. Honestly, kids, you need to be prepared."

I look at Jackson, who is dragging his fingers through his hair. He looks both angry and exhausted. "I know," he says, as the limo pulls to a stop in front of a house I don't recognize. "I get it."

"Try not to dwell on it. Let me worry about this for now. I'll get in touch with Charles and Harriet. All you need to do is stay away from the press and calm yourself down. Get tonight out of your system. Your daughter is going to be fine. Do you understand me?"

"Yes. Fine. Sure." He ends the call, cutting off whatever else Evelyn intended to say.

What I notice, though, is what she didn't say. She didn't say that Jackson would be fine.

I'm trying to ratchet back my fear when I realize that Siobhan is scooting toward the door. She opens it and steps out, and I look up curiously at Ca.s.s, who is crouched down to give me a hug. "Siobhan's house," she whispers. "She figured you two could use the time."

And before I can reply or say thank you or anything at all, she's following Siobhan's path out of the limo.

She slams the door shut, the limo pulls back out onto the street, and I am left beside Jackson who sits perfectly, dangerously still.

I swallow, my skin p.r.i.c.kling from the rising heat.

I'm breathing hard, my b.r.e.a.s.t.s rising and falling. My skin is warm, and beads of perspiration have gathered at the nape of my neck.

He turns his head slowly, his eyes meeting mine, wild and feral and hard. There's a hungry glint to them, and for a moment I fear that he will tear me to pieces. That I will truly stand as proxy for the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds who leaked the news about Ronnie. For the fear that I know must be consuming him, just as it is consuming me.

But haven't I repeatedly told him that I can handle it, no matter how bad it gets? That I will be his release valve, his safety net?

That I'll willingly take in his painand then we'll turn it around into pa.s.sion.

I am still holding his gaze, and I feel locked in place simply from the force of his will. He has not touched me, and though we haven't spoken, I know that he will not until I acquiesce. Not tonight. Not when he needs to push. To go as far as he needs, and then some.

"Yes," I say.

A muscle twitches in his cheek, but he doesn't otherwise move, nor does he say a word to me. He simply watches me for one beat, then another. It is as if he is sizing me up, testing my resolve. I stay where I am, looking back at him. But slowlyvery slowlyI part my thighs.

Jackson sucks in a breath through his nose. Then he twists at the waist so that he can reach the intercom b.u.t.ton. He jams his finger down on it.

"Don't go home, Edward." His voice is hard. Tight with control. "Just drive. I don't care where. Just drive until I tell you to stop."

twenty.

"More," he says, in a voice so full of desire that it would melt my panties if I'd been wearing any. "I want to see you. I want to see how wet you are."

I lick my lips, then raise my a.s.s just enough so that I can get a grip on my skirt, then I shimmy it up over my hips before sitting down again, my legs spread even wider. The leather is warmer than I'd antic.i.p.ated, and I know whymy entire body is hot, fired by my own desire.

"Oh, Christ, Syl." There is heat in his voice, and his eyes swoop over me, his attention focused on my s.e.x, now very, very exposed. And, yes, very, very wet.

"Do you want"

"You." Just one word, but it holds everything. Pa.s.sion. Pain. Fear. Longing.

This is an escape. A release. A way to push past the terror of an impending arrest. A way for him to forget what he just didthat he may have actually made it worse for himself.

"You have me." I meet his eyes, knowing he can see how completely I mean that. "Just tell me how you want me."

He shakes his head, pressing a fingertip to his lips as he does. Then he is on his knees in front of me, his hands on my bare thighs. He grabs me, and in one motion lifts my legs so that they are on his shoulders even as he slams his mouth against my c.u.n.t, the ferocity of his a.s.sault forcing me back against the seat and making me cry out in both surprise and pleasure.

His tongue torments me, and when he sucks on my c.l.i.t, I whimper, shifting my hips as I try to squirm away from this wild, relentless a.s.sault. He's having none of it, though, and he holds me firm, refusing to let me escape even one iota of the pleasure that is battering me, raising me, taking me right to the brink.

And thenright as I am about to explodehe pulls away, leaving me gasping and frustrated and desperate for the heat of his mouth against my c.l.i.t.

"Jackson," I begin, but he cuts me off with a stern look and I remember his order of silence.

He eases backward, replacing my feet on the floor of the limo. I'm sprawled against the seat, my legs wide, my c.u.n.t bare and wet and throbbing with need, and though he doesn't ask me to, I pull off my shirt and shimmy out of the skirt, leaving me clad only in a lacy black bra and the vibrator necklace that he told me to always wear. I start to reach behind me to unfasten my bra, but Jackson shakes his head, his mouth curved up in a hint of a smile, and I wonder what else he has in store for me.

He eases forward, then slowly pulls the necklace over my head. He presses the b.u.t.ton to start the device vibrating, ramping it up to the maximum intensity. Then he hands it to me, his eyes dipping down to my spread legs.

I know what he wants, of course. He wants me to finish what he has started. He wants to watch as I use the vibe on myself. And even though I have no boundaries where Jackson is concerned, I cannot deny that this feels wild. Decadent.

And, yes, pretty d.a.m.n compelling. Because when you get right down to it, there's nothing that I won't do with him, and there's never a time when the knowledge that he is watching me doesn't set me on fire.

I keep my eyes on him, then hold the thin cylinder as I drag my teeth over my lower lip. Then I very, very lightly trail it over my belly, along my pubis, and down to tease the sensitive area around my c.l.i.t.

I'm so close already that the maximum vibe he set it on borders on painful, but doesn't quite cross the line. Still, it's almost too much, and I close my eyes, making little sounds of pleasure and pain without even thinking about it. I'm trying to find that right place, that right touch. I'm closeI can feel the storm growing inside me, sparking through my veins to converge at my center.

As I am breathing hardnot even sure if I'm trying to make the sensation last or push me over the edgeI open my eyes and am struck by the naked, blatant hunger on his face. He's on his knees in front of me, his hand pressed over his c.o.c.k through his jeans, and I know that he is fighting a primal need, forcing himself to sit still and watch instead of taking and claiming.

His desire is so palpable it fills the limo, sweeping over me like a current and electrifying the air between us. I want to match itI want to go further. Make it hotter. I want to make him wild.

I want to break him. I want him to be unable to do anything but f.u.c.k me.

With sensual purpose, I keep the vibe at my center, teasing myself for his pleasure and my own. But with my other hand I reach up and yank down the cup of my bra to expose one breast. I stroke it, tracing little circles around my nipple, teasing it, tugging it.

Jackson says nothing. And other than a tightness in his features that I know means he is fighting for control, he doesn't react. At least not at first. But then he unb.u.t.tons his jeans and takes out his c.o.c.k, then strokes it in long, quick movements. And as he does, I feel such a rush of heated victory that it's a wonder I don't come right then.

He meets my eyes, the heat burning a hole through me. And I not only whimper, but my c.u.n.t, open and exposed to him, tightens at the sight. I see Jackson's brow raise and I know that he has noticed.

I look him in the eye, and before I can stop myself, I mouth two words: f.u.c.k me.

I don't expect that he will. This is his show, not mine.

So even though it had been my purpose to break him all along, I am not expecting the violence of the motion when he reaches across the s.p.a.ce between us and pulls me to him, surprising me so that I drop the vibrator, which hums uselessly on the carpeted floor.

He moves from the floor to his own seat and settles me on his lap. And then, before I even have time to breathe, he turns me around so that my back is to him. Then he lifts me up until his c.o.c.k is right at my core. "Go ahead," he says. "One thrust. I want you to take all of me."

It's a challenge I gladly accept, and I lower myself slowly, just because I want to torture us both. Then I rise up again and repeat the process because, dammit, it just feels too good.

"More," he demands, even as he slips his hands around to cup my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

I arch back as he squeezes my nipples to the point of painand that coupled with the sensation of him so deep inside me is undeniably erotic.

"More," he demands again, and this time his voice is a growl. "Harder," he insists and I press against the roof for resistance as I slam myself down on him over and over, his c.o.c.k filling me and his fingers teasing me until I am lost, my body nothing but sensation. Pleasure. Pain. Need. Hunger. I am reduced to primal urges, wanting everything. Wanting release.

Wanting Jackson.

And when the limo, which has been smooth so far, hits a b.u.mp, and I bounce a bit, I am thrown finally over the edge, and I come in a wild, violent release that has me crying out even as my v.a.g.i.n.a clenches tight around him. He comes, too, his mouth closing over my shoulder as he bites back a groan, his hands clutching my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, his c.o.c.k deep inside me as he fills me with the force of his release.

And when his body stops tremblingwhen he turns me around so that I can see his face and the raw pa.s.sion looking back at meI can only breathe. "Better?" I ask when the power of speech returns. "You should be, because I feel deliciously used. But if you're not, I'm more than happy to go again. You know, for the cause."

He laughs out loud, the sound reverberating through my body in a rather delightful way.

"How do you do it?" he asks.

"What?"

"Brush it all away for me. All the s.h.i.t and craziness. All the anger. All the fear. You're as cathartic as punching some a.s.shole in a ring," he says with a wicked grin. "And one h.e.l.l of a lot more fun."

"I'm very glad to hear it."

He meets my eyes, and the humor in his face fades, his words now soft and full of meaning. "You're my miracle," he says, as he pulls me close to cuddle against his chest.

I sigh, because he is mine, too. And while I know that nothing is perfect, and our world is still scary, in this moment at least everything is all right.

twenty-one.