“I have to have you,” he says. “Christ, Syl, I have to fuck you.”
“Yes.” It’s all I can say. All I need to say.
My skirt is still up around my waist, and now he yanks my underwear down so that it is almost to my ankles. I hear his zipper and spread my legs, and then his cock is right there and he is thrusting inside me with no foreplay, no teasing, no effort to get me ready.
It is hot and fast and frenzied, and dammit, I love this. This feeling of being needed. Of being used. Of being Jackson’s release valve. Not violence, not anger. But me.
He is holding my hips, pounding hard into me. And though I have never orgasmed like this, without any attention at all to my clit, right now I am almost there. The pressure of his cock inside me. The rhythm of his thrusts stroking my walls. And most of all the wild excitement of knowing what he is doing and why he is doing it.
I feel his own release coming. Hear his muffled groan as he tries to hold back. The tightening of his grip on my hips when it can’t be stopped and his release cuts through him. And I follow him over, exploding into a million tiny pieces even as he collapses, exhausted and spent, over my back.
For a moment, we are simply silent. Then he gently gets off me and uses tissues to clean us both up. He slides my panties back up and tugs my skirt down into place. Then he turns me around and straightens my blouse.
Once I’m put back together and well tended to, he takes care of his own clothes. Then he studies my face and says simply, “I needed you. Christ, Syl,” he adds with rising emotion, “I always need you.”
“I know the feeling.” I pull myself up to sit on the desk, and he gets on beside me. I lean against him. We’re facing the glass wall, and I look out at the crowd and lights below us. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”
He doesn’t answer at first, and I tell myself that I shouldn’t push him. A moment passes. Then another. And it is becoming harder and harder for me not to say anything.
Finally, he speaks. “He came up to me like it’s a done deal.” His voice is low. Even. But I can hear the anger underlying it. “Like the movie’s going forward and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.”
“You’ll stop it,” I say. “If it’s that important you’ll find a way.”
He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced.
I hesitate, then make myself go on. “But, Jackson, I still don’t understand—would it really be that horrible if it was made? I get that it digs into the family’s personal lives, but the papers have already covered the murder, right? And so did a lot of the news magazines and television news shows. So how much worse could a movie be?”
He turns to look at me. “Trust me. It would be worse.”
I wait for him to continue—to explain—but he doesn’t. Instead, he just turns back toward the window and looks out at the club.
I don’t press him.
And I do trust him.
But still, the question lingers. And, yes, my heart aches a bit. Because though I don’t understand why, I am certain that he is keeping things from me. Secrets. Big ones—big enough, at least, to eat him up inside.
I want to press, but I don’t. After all, I’m keeping secrets, too. He knows the what about the stuff that happened with Reed, but he doesn’t know the how or the why.
And those are both very big things. Big, important, emotional things.
My own words to Cass return to haunt me. Maybe you were seeing what you wanted to see, instead of what was really there?
Is that what I’m doing with Jackson?
Am I seeing trust because I want to see it? Because I crave his presence? His touch?
Am I fabricating depth to a relationship that isn’t there?
And if I am, how do I stop?
More important, how do I tell the difference?
fourteen
“I am completely undrunk.” Cass scowls at me as I take one arm and Jackson takes the other.
“Not drunk at all,” I agree. “But we thought you might want to ride in the limo.”
“Yeah?”
“It has a bar,” I remind her. “In case you want to get more undrunk.”
She narrows her eyes, but she’s too wasted to decide whether I’m serious or not.
We leave through the front entrance that faces Sunset Boulevard, and I see that Edward has pulled the limo up by the valet stand. We maneuver Cass down the set of six steps, then move across the wide sidewalk. Beside us, a crowd is gathered behind the velvet rope, impatiently waiting to enter this popular hotspot.
We’re walking slowly in deference to Cass’s general state of inebriation, and when the first camera flash fires, I realize that we’ve been recognized. Suddenly, both the in-line crowd and the passersby are raising their phones and taking pictures. The rapid-fire flashes burst all around us, making me feel like we’re arriving at a movie premiere rather than going home to nurse a drunk friend.