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.
There is instead something I want much, much more, and I put down my chopsticks and slide my left hand under the table to rest upon his thigh. He glances sideways at me, but doesn’t protest. Not even when I slowly ease my hand up, higher and higher until I find his cock, hard and thick beneath his slacks.
I smile, once again feeling powerful and in control as I slowly stroke him, then ease my fingers up to search for his zipper.
“Stop.”
His voice is low and simple and he does not look at me.
I find the zipper pull and start to ease it down. “What if I don’t want to stop?”
“Then don’t.” He turns now and looks straight at me. There is heat in his expression, and amusement as well. “That’s what free will is all about.”
“Exactly,” I say, happy to have finally turned the tables.
“But if you don’t stop, I will.”
I halt my effort to carefully unzip him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean it’s up to you. Do you want me to touch you? Stroke you, make you come?”
I do not answer, but I have also stopped moving.
“Do you want pleasure, Sylvia? Or do you want the more hollow satisfaction of thinking that somehow you’ve managed to best me, when we both know in the end I will have you naked and open to me, limp and sated. And the more you come in my arms, the sweeter my victory will be.”