Say My Name (Stark International Trilogy, #1) (16)

“Yes.” The word is firm, and I am proud of how steady I feel.

He steps closer, reducing the distance between us to mere inches. I tilt my head back. Even with me in heels, he is a head taller than me, and right now I cannot help but feel small. Vulnerable.

I push that down, though, and meet his eyes, hoping mine show ice and determination.

“Do you remember Atlanta?”

His words are like a slap, and despite all my resolve, I step backward, only to be foiled by the pillar behind me. “I—of course I do.” I lick my lips. “Jackson, I’m sorry about the past. But this isn’t—”

“No,” he says, holding up a finger to silence me. “Do you remember before? Before you tore it all apart. Do you remember the way it felt when I touched you?”

My throat has gone completely dry, and I can feel small beads of sweat at the nape of my neck. “Jackson. Don’t.”

He steps closer, ignoring me. “Tell me, Sylvia. And be honest, because I swear I’ll know if you’re lying.” His voice is low, seductive, and utterly commanding. “Do you remember?”

I shake my head, but that isn’t enough to push away the truth. Of course I remember. I remember every laugh, every touch, every breath. I remember every word of every conversation, the taste of every meal. I remember the glorious sensation of his hands upon me and his cock inside me.

But I also remember when the panic set in. When I started to drown, and no matter how hard I fought to keep afloat I kept getting pulled down into the swirling waters of cold fear and harsh memories.

I’d ended it because I had to. Because the only way I could survive was to destroy everything. Because the only way I could breathe was to push him away.

For that matter, I’m having a little trouble breathing right now.

His fingertip hooks under my chin and he tilts my head up so that I am staring deep into his eyes. “Do you remember?” he repeats.

I say nothing.

“And at the end,” he persists. “Do you remember what you asked me in Atlanta?”

I lick my dry lips, then nod.

“Tell me.”

Whatever you need, baby, I promise. You only have to ask.

Jackson, I—I need you to leave me. I need you to walk away and to never look back.

The memory pounds like red neon inside my head.

“Tell me,” he repeats.

“I asked you to leave.” I say the words simply, as if every syllable isn’t ripping me to shreds.

“And did I?” His voice is still even, still calm, but there is no hiding the tension that backs each and every word. “Did I not do exactly what you asked? Did I not walk away even though it just about killed me?”

It killed me, too. I want to shout the words at him, but I don’t. I can’t, because that would only make him suffer more, and after everything I’ve done to him, I can’t add that burden. So all I do is nod. “Yes.” My voice sounds lost. Hollow. “You did.”

He leans closer, placing one hand on the pillar just over my shoulder. He is at an angle, his face so close I can smell whiskey on his breath. “So what exactly do you want from me now?” He strokes his free hand down my bare arm until he reaches my hand. He twines his fingers with mine and pulls me hard against him.

I gasp and try to ease backward, but it’s not possible. He has moved his palm from the pillar to my lower back. He holds me close, so tight that I am breathless, lost in the feel of him and, yes, in the erotic sensation of his erection, unmistakable against my abdomen.

“Jackson—”

“Are you offering me a job?” he continues, ignoring my protest. “Are you offering to bring back everything you killed when you pushed me away?”

He releases my hand. “Or are you offering me this?” he asks, as he brushes his fingertip over my lower lip, so softly and gently that I have to fight not to gasp with pleasure. “Or maybe this?” he asks as his hand moves lower, his palm grazing over my breast.

My nipple tightens as my skin prickles with need. I have to focus on breathing, on not letting my knees give out.

Jackson takes no pity on me. Instead, he gently rubs circles on my breast, taunting and teasing even as his words continue to flow over me. “Surely you remember how it felt,” he presses. “You in my arms. Your release. That expression of ecstasy etched on your face. The surrender I felt in your body.”

“Don’t.” That single word is a cry. A plea.

“Don’t?” His hand slides down again, his fingers twining with mine once more. “But I have to. So tell me, Sylvia. Because I need to know. What exactly are you offering me?”

My eyes sting, and I squeeze them shut, wishing for the release of tears but they simply won’t come. “Just the job,” I finally say. I take a deep breath and open my eyes to face him. “Nothing has changed, Jackson. We can’t …” I shake my head, letting my words trail away.

He holds my gaze. The heat building in the space between us is so intense that I swear I can see the molecules spinning.

Slowly, he releases his grip on my hand. He steps back and I feel cold when he lifts his other hand from the small of my back. “You’re right,” he says. “We can’t.”

And that is it. Two little words, and then he turns away from me and walks down the hall. I stare after him, breathing hard, watching until he disappears into the shadows of the larger room.