Say My Name

Page 62

“Really?” I look around for the lobby bar.
“No. Not in the bar.” He heads toward the registration counter, and I follow, a little bit curious—and a little bit certain that I know exactly where this is going.
“Jackson Steele,” he tells the girl. “I booked a room this afternoon.”
“Of course, Mr. Steele.” She hands him his key. “Is there anything else you need?”
“I spoke with the sommelier earlier as well. I’d like a bottle of the Petrus Pomerol 1998 sent up to the room. Two glasses. And caviar, please.”
Her eyes have gone a little wide, and I understand why. I’d ordered five bottles of that very vintage last Christmas for Damien to send as gifts to some of his most important clients. Even with Damien’s wholesale sources, the bottles sold for over a grand each.
“Of course, Mr. Steele,” she says, apparently remembering herself. “I’ll have that sent right up.”
Up turns out to be the penthouse, and I have to admit that even after all I’ve seen traveling with Damien, I have never stayed in such highbrow accommodations. I know I should play it cool, but I have to confess that I goggle a bit. So much, in fact, that I’m still standing near the ornate double doors when the room service waiter knocks. I scramble out of his way as he wheels in a small table with the wine, two glasses, and a spectacular selection of caviar. Jackson lets the waiter uncork the wine, but declines his offer to pour. And as soon as the man is gone from the room, he crooks his finger at me.
“Come,” he says, and I can’t help but think about how many meanings that simple word has.
“You have a very strange idea of revenge,” I say. “My favorite dinner. A penthouse suite. Caviar. And one of the most expensive bottles of wine in the history of the universe.”
“I don’t know that it’s quite that pricey.”
I merely look dubious.
“Like I said, princess. I want you to remember everything you gave up.”
“Dammit, Jackson—” I cut off my words.
“No. I don’t want to hear that you had to. I don’t want to hear that you’re sorry.”
“No?” I hear the exasperation in my voice. “Then what the hell do you want?”
“I thought I was clear,” he says as he pours a glass of wine and strides toward me. He pauses just inches away and hands me the wine. I take a sip, barely even noticing the incredible palate. I’m too intent on watching Jackson to notice something as unimportant as wine.
He is looking me up and down with the kind of intensity designed to make a woman melt, and it’s clear from his expression that while he is hungry, it is not for caviar.
“I want to take you to the edge and back,” he says as he unbuttons my dress. I stand perfectly still as he peels it off my body. “I want to watch you lose control,” he continues, and now he unfastens my bra and slowly removes it. “I want to make you come,” he says as he eases me out of my shoes and stockings, then unhooks the garter and lets it fall to the floor. “And, princess,” he adds as he hooks his finger in the band of the thong and pulls so hard the elastic snaps, making me flinch, though I do not otherwise move. “I want to make you scream.”
He leans in and kisses me, soft and sweet, like a man seeking sanctuary, and in sharp contrast to the brutality of his words and the way he stripped me from the last of my clothes. “But first things first.”
I stand there, my mouth tingling from his kiss, not entirely certain what just happened. One moment I was standing there, facing a slow seduction with caviar and wine. The next, I’m naked and hot and more turned on than I want to be by the wildness of his words.
“With me,” he says, then leads me into the gorgeously appointed bedroom. It’s done in beige and brown, with some cream thrown in, and looks both comfortable and elegant.
He nods toward the bed, and I sit on the edge. He looks at me a moment, as if considering, and though I try to discern his thoughts, I cannot read his face.
He moves to the window and lays his hand flat on the glass. I see his eyes in the reflection, and I know that he is looking at me. “I need you to tell me something.”
I am relieved by his words since now I will perhaps have some clue as to what is going on in his head. “Sure,” I say. “Anything.”
“Are you still fucking him?”
I’d been starting to stand, using my arms to help lever me off the foot of the bed. They go limp, and I fall back onto the mattress. I am more confused than angry, and my reply of “Who?” sounds lost and anemic even to my ears.