by Chloe Cox
That Jackson Reed, apparently now a member of Club Volare, was sitting in front of her, telling her she’d bet herself. Wanting a chance to win her for a week. Wanting a chance to do anything he wanted with her. Her brain almost couldn’t process it. And it was only because her brain couldn’t make sense of it that she said what she did. Obviously it wasn’t her brain doing the talking.
“I accept,” she said, and reached for the cards.
They definitely weren’t poker cards.
“Do you know how to play baccarat?” he asked, moving his chair to the side so she could finally see his face. He did look different. More confident, assured. He was still strikingly good looking, still chiseled from granite or whatever it was they said about men like him, still with that Greek god athleticism that had won him a football scholarship, but he no longer tried to hide it beneath scruffy hair and a slouched posture, like he had in college. He no longer tried to be anything. He simply was.
Wait. Baccarat?
“No.” She tried hard not to sound foolish as she said it.
“You thought it was poker, didn’t you?”
“Shut up.”
He flashed her that grin that she’d always loved. Truthfully, she still loved it, even now.
“Then you’re just going to have to trust me, aren’t you?”
She swallowed. It was hard to look at him. It made her feel too many things all at once. She wasn’t used to feeling so much; she’d worked hard to avoid having to do so. Jackson Reed—of all people—should see that.
“I guess so.”
“Flip over your cards.”
She did. She saw that he did, too. She had no idea what any of it meant.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now,” he said, that light drawl coming back into his voice, “now you’re mine.”
She felt her eyelids flutter. She had to look at him now. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. My cards total eight. You lost. You’re mine.”
Ava shook her head slowly. This was all so fast, an insane confluence of events, of feelings, of memories. It was almost more likely that it was a hallucination than that it was actually happening.
He reached across the table, this time letting his savage, handsome face fall fully into the lantern light, and grabbed her hand again. His thumb caressed her skin, his fingers dug into her flesh.
“I intend to collect, Ava,” he said, his grey eyes seeming to glow from within. “Starting now.”
For a second, Ava felt herself melting toward him, into the desire she felt flowing around her, into the burning touch on her hand. She might have lost herself completely, simply fallen into an uncharted abyss, except that that moment of falling, of suspension, terrified her so much that it jolted her back to reality. She snatched her hand back and fled the room.
chapter 2
Jackson watched Ava run through the glittering ballroom of Club Volare like a scared rabbit and was filled not with panic or worry, but with a sense of the inevitable. Of course she’d run. Just like she had years ago, when he’d woken up to find her gone. Not just gone from his bed, but gone. She’d moved out of her dorm room for the final weeks before graduation, hadn’t answered her phone by the time he got the courage to call, hadn’t even walked in the ceremony. Maybe he’d waited too long to reach out to her, but she’d made it impossible when he finally did.
And now she was running from him again. No, he thought, rising from his seat with slow deliberation, not again. He would not let her run away again.
He knew Club Volare. She didn’t. That much was obvious, from what he’d seen earlier. You didn’t stand around like a piece of mismatched furniture if you knew where you were. There were only so many places she could go, and the security guys would tell him if she left—for a price.
And if that didn’t work, well, he had money now. All that money bought a whole lot of private investigators, if it came to it.
Because Jackson Reed was not going to let Ava Barnett get away a second time. He owed her far too much for that. He had too many things to tell her, too many things to show her, too many things to do for her. Too many things to do to her.
He made his way through the increasingly buzzed couples, now all happily dancing to some kind of retro swing number, and found the door. The hall was deserted, but she’d made it pretty easy on him this time. The door to one room at the end wasn’t closed all the way.
He walked to it quietly, not wanting to startle her in her hiding place. He moved the door open a silent inch and peered through. She stood by a window, the city lights from below wrapping her in a soft nimbus of filtered blue light. She held herself, her hands visible on her sides, as though she was cold or in need of comfort. He thought he saw her shoulders shake. She might have been crying.
No. He wouldn’t let her get hurt again. He wouldn’t let them hurt each other, wouldn’t let them both spend another ten years like this. He hadn’t been able to take charge of the situation back then, but he was a different man now. And he had her to thank for that. He opened the door and stepped inside.
She heard him and stiffened, but didn’t turn around. He saw one hand disappear, move to her face, probably to wipe away tears. She wouldn’t want him to know that she’d been crying.
She spoke first. “I don’t think this is going to work out, Jackson,” she said.
“Man, can you hold a grudge,” he said, advancing another step. “Ava, trust me, I’m different. What happened then—”
“People don’t really change.”
“Bullshit. I have.” Because of you, he thought to himself. He didn’t think it was right to say it yet, wasn’t convinced that something that intense wouldn’t send her running off screaming into the night. But he had to remind himself.
“Really? Since when?” she asked. Her hand was balled in a tight fist at her neck while her eyes studied the glittering skyline. He could tell she wanted it to be true, but she would take some convincing. Well, he wasn’t one to beat around the bush.
“Since the last time I saw you naked.”
He could actually see the shiver run up her spine in that backless dress. He was suddenly struck by the fact that he hadn’t touched her in ten years. Ten years. He had waited all that time, but now he knew he couldn’t wait even one second more.
He came close to her, let her feel his breath on her neck. Then he slipped his hands in the sides of that backless dress, fanning his fingers out over her bare waist and the edges of her taut belly. She shuddered, jolted a bit in surprise. Her breath hitched, and he felt himself begin to harden. He breathed in deep, and pressed his fingers into her warm flesh. He prided himself on his self-control, but Ava…
Ava made it hard.
“What would…” her voice wavered, and she swallowed. “What would the rules be?”
“You come stay with me for a week. You’re mine, the entire time.”
She was still tiny, compared to him. If he stretched his hands, he might just reach down far enough. It was all he could think about, how close she was to being naked. How close he was to being inside her again.
“What does that mean? I mean, are you…?” Her voice was small, uncertain. She had taken off the mask.
“I’m a member here,” he said. “I’m a Dom. You’d be my submissive.”
He held her close, pulling her body into his. He saw her face in the reflection of the glass in front of them and knew she was scared. Not in a mortal way, but in the way people are scared of new things, of powerful things. He wanted to dominate her—he wanted to fuck her, yes, but he wanted to wrap her in his arms, too.
“I don’t really know that works,” she finally said. Her tight stomach fluttered under his fingers.
“‘Course you do. It’s what you are.”
She started to speak, but Jackson decided it was better to show her what he meant. He spun her around and pushed her up against the cool, thick glass, grabbed her thin wrists in one large hand, pinned her hands above her he
ad, and kissed her.
She tasted just as he remembered. Sweet. Her lips were just as soft. They parted for him as he crashed into her, and Jackson Reed felt himself begin to slip under, swept away in every remembered touch, every remembered sensation of Ava Barnett. He kissed her like he might not get a chance to do it again for another ten years, and then he wanted more.
So did she. Her tongue met his, hungry as he was, and her back arched, chest pushing up towards him. He ran his fingers down her arm, the side of her face, her neck. He wasn’t gentle. He pushed aside her flimsy dress and grabbed her whole breast in his hand, wanting to feel the full weight of it, all of it, his once more.
He heard himself growl.
He tightened his grip on her wrists and ran his hand down the length of her body, reminding himself of every curve. Her body reacted to his touch in shuddering waves, her muscles betraying her each and every time they made contact. He felt her come alive under his hand, her breasts, her belly, her hip, all rose, fell, breathed. Suddenly there was nothing more offensive to him than her dress, than that thin, stupid piece of fabric. He leaned down low to grab as much as he could, decided to let her keep it on at the last minute, and slipped his hand underneath instead. The skin of her thigh was hot and smooth, and when his hand found her panties, he was glad to find something he could take.
He ripped them off, vaguely aware of how absurd that was, but not giving a damn. He felt powered by some inescapable force, his momentum almost unstoppable, so close to what he’d dreamed about for years. She moaned into his mouth and raised her leg tentatively against his and he pushed on, his mouth moving to her nipple. He felt her rise against him, and then, a moment later, felt her begin to shy away. He didn’t think; the most primal part of him felt her slipping away and reached out to catch her. He had her pinned against the window, and his hand was already at his belt when she pulled her hand free of his grip.
“Stop,” she said, choking on her own voice.
She brought her free hand to his chest, turned her face away. He was stunned.
“What’s wrong?” he said, his words pulled tight over his panting breath. His cock strained against his pant leg, and Ava…Ava…she looked so sad. Ashamed.
What had he done?
“You said it’s what I am.” Her own breath still came fast, and she wouldn’t look at him. “But I’ve never done it—not properly, not the right way. Any of it. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
Jackson shook his head. “It’s been ten years since I was a total fuckwit, Ava. In all that time, you never told anyone else what you wanted?”
“No,” she said quietly.
If he’d known that was really the answer, he might not have been so incredulous. He might have been a bit more fucking thoughtful. Because in that one admission was a whole knotted, seething mass of deeper, sharper, more painful admissions, the most important of which was surely this: she’d never been that close to anyone ever again. She’d lived her life alone since then, never being fully herself.
It was worse than finding her married to someone else. It meant he’d hurt her more than he’d imagined.
She squirmed under him, trying to get free. He held her fast.
“Ava, wait,” he said. “Please. Just…ten fucking years.”
She stopped. They were still pressed tight together, her face hovering below him, blue light creeping across her saddened cheek. All he wanted to do was make her happy. He had always been the smartest guy in the room, but now he couldn’t figure out how to make the woman he’d always loved happy, even for a goddamn moment, even when he was trying. Some fucking genius.
“Is this who you are now?” she eventually said, smiling a little, trying to break the tension. “A guy who buys things? A rich guy who just…”
“I would pay to make you come,” he said, without hesitation.
Her eyes grew wide.
“What?” she said.
“You heard me.” He took her chin between his fingers and made sure she was looking into his eyes. “Of course, I don’t have to, now that I’ve won you.”
There was a beat before she burst out laughing, and he grinned. He could always make her laugh. He loved to make her laugh.
“Oh, shut up,” she said.
“I wasn’t kidding, though, Frida,” he said softly, and she looked back up at him, the laughter gone, but the memory of it still strong, a reminder that she was safe with him. “I wasn’t really kidding at all. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do…”
He touched his fingertips to her cheek and felt his own voice cracking.
“Stop,” she said. Now she struggled against him again. “Just…stop. I can’t just…after all this time…”
“You owe me,” he said.
There was a silence.
Finally, she said, “You can’t say things like that to a woman.”
“You can say it if it’s true. You owe me,” he said again, bringing her captured hand down to her side and pressing it to her lower back. With his other hand he held her face. She wasn’t going anywhere. He could feel how much she liked it. “You owe me a chance to show you how much I owe you. To make it up to you.”
She furrowed her brow in irritation or exhaustion, but which one, he couldn’t tell.
“What the hell are you talking about, Jackson?”
He didn’t answer her, not right away. Slowly he dragged his hand down her body, to the side of her right hip, where his fingers began to pull up her dress, inch by excruciating inch. He bent his head to hers, both of them quiet, waiting. The dress rose. Soon it was bunched in his hand, her leg bare.
He wanted to tell her, you owe me because you’re mine, because you belong to me, because it’s only fair if I have to belong to you, because you made me what I am. He wanted to claim her right there, make her his, the way she was supposed to be. Christ, he wanted her. And he could have her now, he knew it, knew he could drive her to the point where she screamed ‘yes’, where she would beg him to come inside her. And knew just the same that if he did it that way now, she’d wake up regretting it. She’d second-guess herself. And he didn’t want that. He wanted her to know.
She’d never know the self-control it took not to spread her leg and slam full into her against that bright, clear window, to hear her scream as he filled her, to feel her tighten and close around him.
Instead he let the dress fall back over his hand, smoothed his palm over her hip, ran his thumb over the ridge of bone that flared out from her pubis. He savored it. Then he slipped his hand between her legs, and heard her groan.
“I know what I am now, Ava,” he said, running his fingers along the length of her. She was already so wet, before he’d even parted her lips. “And I know what you are. I can show you what you are, if you’ll let me.”
She shook her head, but lifted her hips and slid her leg up his, hooking it around him. She had spread herself for him, but it was like she didn’t know how to feel about it.
“Jackson…”
“You don’t have to think about it,” he said gruffly, slowly circling the entrance of her vagina with his finger. “You don’t even have to think at all, if you don’t want to. This whole week, I’ll be in charge. I’m in control. I’ll take care of you. You don’t have to think about what anyone else will think. No one else has to know…”
He realized he was pleading with her. He leaned his forehead into hers, silently begging, and drove two fingers deep into her. She gasped, and a little moan escaped her throat. She kept moaning, low and soft, and he suddenly needed to see her face while she did it. He reached back up, letting her hands free for the first time, and threaded his fingers through her expensive hairstyle. When he pulled her head back, her lips were parted and her eyes were wide, limpid pools that seemed to pulsate in time with his thrusts.
He curled his fingers then, stroking her from the inside. She quivered against him and her eyes half-closed.
“No,” he said, swirling his fingers and rubbing his palm into
her clit. “Look at me.”
He jerked her head back again, gently, and said it again. “Look at me, Ava.”
She did. She looked desperate.
“Jacks, please…”
He almost hated to say it, but he had to. He had to make sure she knew. “You’re not the only one with regrets. You’re mine, Ava Barnett, whether you know it or not. I’m going to have you. You will come for me now, and you will come to me later, and you will submit.”
And then he curled his fingers around as far as they would go, his thumb rubbing her wet clit in fast, tight little circles, and twisted inside her until she came for him, quaking over his hand.
He kissed her again, and wished he could go on kissing her. Instead he waited until she was done shaking, until he was sure she could stand on her own two feet. Then he smoothed the hair on her head, kissed each closed eyelid once, and murmured, “One week, Ava. No strings.”
He gave her his card, and left.
chapter 3
Ava Barnett arrived home feeling like she didn’t know what. She had no frame of reference for something like this. Like she’d been in a boxing match, maybe? Twelve rounds or whatever it was. Maybe, but honestly, that seemed preferable right now to whatever this was. She felt drugged. Hypnotized.
Ensorcelled?
She couldn’t decide on a metaphor. First had been the avalanche of memory and emotion upon seeing Jackson Reed again, right when she’d been trying her hardest to forget him. It had been like one of those great seismic events that moves giant slabs of earth and grit and mud around to reveal something unexpected and terrible buried underground. Then he’d just plowed right through her and turned her inside out. Like someone had broken into her house and emptied every single one of her drawers, then gone outside and unearthed something awful on her lawn.
Except that didn’t make any sense either. She was totally disoriented. She didn’t have a house, or a lawn. She had a crappy apartment in Alphabet City of dubious safety, the only place close to work where she could afford space for her secret painting studio. She did, however, feel that something terrible and frightening had been irrevocably revealed. That would be my stupid issues, she thought grimly, tossing her keys on the dining room table and kicking her high heels clear across the room. That’s what the bastard had unearthed. Every damn thing she’d been working hard to bury for the past ten years.
