Say My Name

by J. Kenner

  I get on the bed as ordered, then watch as he stands, negligently letting the towel drop. He is fully erect, his body lean and tight, his face so full of passion that he looks like need personified. More than that, he looks like a god, and I am awestruck by the fact that someone like Jackson--so brilliant, strong, and sexy--can look at me with such undiluted desire. But he does, and I am weak from the force of it.

  He holds up the rope, then crooks his finger.

  I crawl to him, then pause in front of him. I'm aware of every part of my body. Of every slight wisp of air from the vent above.

  "Turn around," he says, and I comply.

  "Now arms behind your back, elbows at ninety degrees. Hands to elbows so you're making a square."

  Once again, I comply, and he uses the rope to tie my arms and wrists so that I have no use of them at all. It's an odd feeling, trapped and vulnerable, and yet at the same time arousing. But only because I am with Jackson, and I crave his touch and trust him to take care of me.

  "Now kneel, then turn on your side with your calf and thigh still together."

  It's an odd position, but I manage it, and he uses a knife from the side table to cut a length of the cord so that he can bind my left thigh to my left calf.

  "Your arms are in a box tie," he says. "I'm putting your legs in a frogtie."

  I take his word for that. And I bite back the desire to ask him how he knows all of this. Then again, I know damn well that Jackson hasn't been a monk. Far from it. I tell myself that's good. That I'm getting the benefit of his experience. And I try very hard to banish jealous thoughts.

  Considering the attention Jackson is paying to me, that's really not hard. With every loop of rope, he caresses me. With every new knot he strokes me. He has been busily tying me--first the left side, and then the right--and even as he is doing that he has been touching and teasing me, so subtly that I only now realize just how aroused I am. How ready for him--and for whatever it is that comes next.

  When he is finished, my legs are bound such that I am forced to kneel with my arms behind me, almost like a penitent.

  "You look amazing." His eyes echo the words, as does his erection. "Next time, we'll do more. A cord around your breasts to heighten their sensitivity. Or between your legs so that every movement teases your clit. So many sweet possibilities."

  I lick my lips, already intrigued, and close to an orgasm simply from being positioned like this, my legs wide and my sex exposed.

  "Do you know why I want to bind you?"

  I shake my head, wanting only to hear his answer.

  "Because I want you to fully feel everything I give you. No struggling against sensation. No pulling away from pleasure because it is so heightened that it borders on pain. Bound, you have no choice but to take it in. Bound, you have no choice but to feel."

  He slides his hand between my legs and slowly strokes me. I tremble, lost in the overwhelming awareness of every brush of skin against skin. "And do you know why this position is so popular?"

  Again, I simply shake my head.

  "Because you are completely open. I can take you any way. Your cunt. Your ass. Your mouth." He brushes his finger over me with each word, and I shiver at the thought of being so thoroughly fucked. "I will, too, one day. I want all of you, Sylvia. But right now, I want to feel you on me. I want you close. I want to hold you and control every movement. And I want to be close enough to see your eyes and claim your mouth when you come."

  "Yes," I whisper, so wet I can feel the slickness on my thighs. "Please, yes."

  He spreads my legs, then kneels between them, lifting my hips as he uses one hand to ease me onto my back before thrusting into me with one quick, powerful stroke. I am wet--so desperately wet--and there is no hesitation, no need for gentle coaxing, and I cry out with the pleasure of being so thoroughly and deliciously filled.

  I'm on my back, and the sensation of arching up as he fucks me is wonderful. My skin feels tight and awake, my breasts teased by even the motion of the air. But he soon changes that. He reaches down and slides his hands under me, then lifts me up so that I am straddling him.

  I have no hands to use, and no legs for balance, so though I am on top of him, he is doing all the work. He holds me at the waist, lifting me up and down so that I am pumping him, and he is filling me.

  It is insanely erotic, this sensation of fucking and being fucked at the same time, and I do the only thing I can do and that is squeeze my muscles tight around him with each thrust, trying to milk him so that he comes hard and fast, even though I do not want this glorious sensation to end.

  "Yes," he says, urging me on. "That's it, baby." With each word, he moves me harder. Faster. And I can feel the pressure building in him, the explosion coming.

  Mine as well, because in this position he is so deep that with each thrust he pushes me closer, and at the same time the rocking motion against my clit is making me spiral up, reaching for climax.

  "Please," I moan as we get close, so close, and he's moving me tighter and faster until finally his hands grab my back so that I sit straighter upon him and I meet his eyes and see that we are both on this same collision course.

  And when it comes, it is almost nuclear, and the only thing that keeps me grounded is Jackson's mouth, hard and deep against mine, his tongue seeking and claiming, as if this kiss holds a secret that only the two of us can share.

  We stay like that until our bodies quit shaking and then he pulls me limp against him.

  He strokes me, and the feel of his hands against my skin is like warm comfort.

  Slowly, he unties me, then gently rubs my arms where the cord has cut into my skin. "How do you feel?"

  I grin up at him, tired and wrung out and absolutely thoroughly satisfied. "Amazing," I say sleepily. Then murmur, "Can we do it again?"

  I feel his chuckle reverberate through me as he pulls me close. "I think that can be arranged. Sleep now, sweetheart."

  His words seem to float over me, and by the time I realize that I am already half there, the world goes dark and I lose myself in the safety of Jackson's arms.

  It turns out that Jackson is a typical bachelor in that he has absolutely nothing in his refrigerator except cheese, and nothing to drink other than wine, scotch, and beer.

  Since I'm not keen on defrosting frozen pastries or waiting an hour for a delivery, we decide to go with popcorn and a movie, and just call it a date night.

  Now, I am stretched out on the sofa in Jackson's office space, my feet on his lap and my computer balanced on my stomach. Across the room, the television plays The Big Sleep, an old Humphrey Bogart movie that Jackson found when he was doing that annoying thing that guys do with the remote, and said we absolutely had to watch.

  Since I like Bogie and anything is better than sports, I'm happy about his choice.

  Technically, I'm supposed to be working, since it's still early and I got nothing accomplished in the afternoon. So I've got my laptop open and I'm reviewing Aiden's notes on my revised marketing plan and budget. I'm alternating that task with filing and responding to a variety of pending emails from both my account and Damien's.

  In other words, I'm truly multitasking. The real estate life. The assistant life.

  And the good life, I think, as I look at Jackson and grin.

  I'd changed into a pair of Megan's shorts and a tank top, and Jackson keeps looking up from the sketch pad he has balanced on the side of the couch to grin lasciviously at me.

  "You are so transparent," I say.

  "Am I? Maybe you're just extremely intuitive. Let's test that theory. What am I thinking about?"

  "Sex."

  "Lucky guess," he says with a grin. "Slow, lazy, easy sex? Or hot, nasty, kinky sex?"

  I raise a brow. "Totally transparent," I say, then bend my knee so that my foot slides over his jeans to stop right over his crotch. "Hot," I say as I move my foot back and forth. "Nasty. Kinky sex."

  "How right you are." He closes his hand over my foot, so that the
arch is pressed now against his growing erection. "More," he says, and suddenly this lazy autumn evening has turned midsummer hot.

  And then, of course, my phone rings.

  "Ignore it," he orders, but we've both already seen the display from where the phone sits on the coffee table. Cass. "All right, answer it. But tell her she's not scoring points."

  I laugh and promise to make it up to him later, then I take the call and am immediately flooded by a diatribe of stress. "It's just everything," she concludes. "The franchise stuff. Zee. I know we're in that be-together-all-the-time phase, but I'm starting to feel claustrophobic."

  "You need to chill," I say. "Do you want me to meet you for a drink?" I shoot Jackson an apologetic smile.

  "That would be great, actually. Jackson won't mind?"

  "Hang on."

  I relay the situation to Jackson, who says he's fine with me going, but suggests I invite her over instead.

  "Seriously?"

  "She's your best friend. You can drink without driving. I can get to know her a little better--though I promise to go to my office and leave you two alone, too. And she can stay the night. For that matter, invite her to the fund-raiser tomorrow night, too. We can pick her up in the limo on the way."

  I just stare at him until he shifts a bit, clearly uncomfortable with my inspection.

  "What?"

  "You're amazing."

  "Remember that the next time we fight."

  I grin. "I'll make a note of it." I take my phone off mute and relay the conversation to Cass, who actually claps when I tell her about the party.

  "Seriously, Syl, I think he's a keeper."

  "I'm not going to disagree. So get over here, already."

  Unfortunately, Cass doesn't live far enough away to allow Jackson and me to follow through on our original plan for hot, nasty, kinky sex.

  "Tomorrow night," he says, pulling me in for a kiss before I head down to make sure there are sheets on the guest room bed. "After the party. Be ready."

  "I'm always ready for you."

  His smile suggests he knows perfectly well that I'm not even exaggerating.

  When Cass arrives, Jackson shows her around the boat, then joins us on the top deck for a drink. It's easy and casual, and I'm grateful when he asks her what's going on with the franchise, and then even answers her questions.

  "I just need to talk it out, you know?" she says. "Zee doesn't even want to entertain the idea I might do this."

  "Anytime," Jackson says, and I bask in the way my best friend glows at his very obviously genuine offer.

  We talk a little bit about the resort, but then Jackson segues that conversation into an excuse to leave. "I should be working on that resort," he says with a glance toward me. "The woman who hired me is a tough taskmaster."

  "I think stone-cold executive bitch is the phrase you're going for."

  "Hey!" I protest. "I'm an aspiring stone-cold executive bitch."

  "And you're doing just fine," Cass says with a maternal pat to my hand.

  Jackson laughs at our silliness, kisses me hard, then heads down to his array of computer screens.

  "I like him," Cass says once we're alone.

  I smile. "Yeah. Me, too." I take a deep breath, then tuck my feet under me and stare out at the marina. "I told him, Cass. I told him what happened with Bob."

  "Good for you," she says.

  My stomach twists a little. "I told him all of it. I mean, I told him even more than I've told you."

  She frowns, and for a moment I think she's mad. Which fits, because I'm feeling guilty. "Oh, man, don't you think I knew that?"

  I blink, momentarily confused. "Wait. Knew what?"

  "That there was more to tell. Duh."

  "You did?"

  "Sure. And I'm glad you told Jackson the rest of it."

  I sit back, a little bit pleased and a little bit befuddled.

  "It's not a contest, Syl. What you tell him, what you tell me. I'm here if you need me, and I always will be."

  I close my eyes tight and hug my knees against my chest. "Thank you."

  "Not the kind of thing you say thank you for, but you're welcome anyway. Seriously, Syl. Talk to me, don't talk to me. I love you, and nothing's going to change that. And I mean that in a fully clothed, platonic sort of way."

  A bubble of laughter bursts out of me. "Okay. Thanks." I swallow. Then I draw a breath and I tell her the thing I haven't quite been able to say yet, not even to myself. "I think I'm falling in love with him."

  She makes a dismissive noise. "I don't."

  "Really?" I'm not sure if I'm hurt or surprised or disappointed.

  "Falling? No way, babe. I think you've been in love with him since Atlanta." She squeezes my hand. "Congrats on finally realizing it."

  My best friend, I realize, is a very smart woman. "I love you, too, you know."

  "Hell yeah, you do. I'm extremely lovable."

  We spend the rest of the night talking about nothing and everything, but it's nice to spend time on the boat with the water lapping in the background and an open bottle--or two--of wine in front of us.

  When I see Cass yawn and realize that the light is off in Jackson's study, I call time-out and we both head down.

  I give her a hug outside the guest room, tell her she can sleep as late as she wants, but I'll be leaving insanely early to get to the office, and that I'll text her with the time the limo will come for her.

  Then I quietly open the bedroom door to go see the man I love.

  He's asleep in bed, his laptop open beside him. I take it away, then slide in next to him. He pulls me close in sleep, and I snuggle against him, as moved by that simple, unconscious gesture as anything else he's done or said.

  I'm content, I realize.

  Content. Happy. And, yes, in love.

  twenty-three

  "I'm so glad the three of you could make it," Michael Prado says as he greets me, Jackson, and Cass in the foyer of his astounding Beverly Hills home.

  "We're glad to be here," Jackson says, shaking his friend's hand. "I'd like you to meet my girlfriend, Sylvia Brooks, and her friend Cassidy Cunningham."

  Girlfriend.

  It's the first time that Jackson has used that title, and I am so astounded that I almost don't notice the hand that Michael extends for me to shake.

  "Don't look so surprised," Jackson whispers after the introductions have been completed and we've joined the crowd in the ballroom. "It's true, isn't it?"

  "Yes." The word bubbles through me like champagne, and I catch Cass's eye. "Yes, it is."

  "It's not easy to shock her," Cass says to Jackson. "I think the only way you'll manage again is to strip her naked."

  He chuckles and swings an arm around her shoulder. "Nice try, but I'm not indulging your prurient fantasies."

  "Had to give it a shot."

  I roll my eyes at both of them, but it's only for show. Not only am I still flying from the girlfriend label, but my best friend and my boyfriend have crossed that invisible line from friendly acquaintances to actual friends.

  All things considered, life is pretty damn spiffy.

  I lean against Jackson as I take in the surroundings. I've seen what an obscene amount of money can buy, but even I have to force myself not to stare. Freestanding architectural relics representing different periods in history are placed artfully throughout the space, and bits and pieces of Hollywood memorabilia are mixed among the antiquities. Movie posters, candid photographs of celebrities, pages from scripts, and even three Oscars cover the walls or fill display cases.

  "It's like a museum," I say, then blush when I realize that Michael has joined our little trio.

  "It's meant to be," he says. "I keep my memories here. It seemed easier than a scrapbook, and it makes the room uniquely appealing for events like this. As Jackson knows, the National Historic and Architectural Conservation Project is one of my pet causes, and when they asked me to host a cocktail party and silent auction, I was happy to do it."


  "It's a wonderful cause," I say genuinely. "And I thought Stone and Steele was brilliant," I add, though the truth is I still haven't seen more than the first few minutes.

  "It really was," Cass chimes in. She's blond tonight, and so elegant that she looks as though she belongs among Prado's treasures.

  "You're both very kind," Prado says, then winks at Jackson. "Of course, I had excellent material. But first things first. Before you check out the silent auction, we need to get you drinks. I've done enough of these events to know that there's a direct upward correlation between the amount of alcohol that goes into a person and the amount of their bid. And I really do want this event to be a success."

  "Well, if drinking your alcohol will help," Cass says, "then I'm happy to oblige."

  Prado calls over a waiter with a tray of drinks, then selects an Amsterdam Art and Science for me, a Sydney Opera House for Cass, and a Guggenheim for Jackson. "A Cosmopolitan, an Old-Fashioned, and a vodka martini with a twist," he says. "But we needed to keep with the theme."

  He points to the area beneath a massive curving staircase that sweeps across the far wall. "The auction items are set up on tables against that wall. You can't see from here, but they extend back under the stairs, and we have quite a few goodies to bid on. I've invited a number of people with more money than time, so that means that not only do I anticipate a significant number of bids, but there are also some incredible prizes. You've donated thirty hours toward the design of a single-family home, haven't you, Jackson?"

  "You did?" I ask.

  "A weak moment," he says, and we all laugh.

  "I like him," I say to Jackson when Prado leaves us to go mingle with other guests.

  "As do I. My one decent experience in Hollywood so far."

  "I don't know about decent," Cass says, "but there's another Hollywood experience trying to get your attention." She nods to the stairs, where Irena Kent is descending with a fortysomething bald man with a goatee and the kind of dark frame glasses people wear when they're trying to look hip and artsy. There's something familiar about him, but I can't place him. Irena Kent, however, draws my attention completely. She's got an arm hooked through the bald man's, and with the other she's waving to Jackson.

  "Well, hell," he says.

  "You could ignore her." I believe him that there is nothing going on with him and Irena Kent anymore, but that doesn't mean I want to invite her over into our little circle. And, because I'm just that petty, the fact that he's slept with her still stings.