“What?”

“Gentle. Just a taste, sweetheart, and then I’m going to make you scream.”

He was as good as his word, and his tongue played and teased as his hands roamed, holding on just tight enough to keep me from toppling over. But I felt the shift in him when he cupped my ass in his hands, then demanded that I spread my legs as he laved me in long, liquid strokes, then slid his tongue inside me, tasting and teasing and making me squirm against him, desperate for him to take me harder, to take me further.

I was shameless, standing there with this man on his knees in front of me, his mouth so violently tormenting me. And yet all I wanted was more. All I craved was everything.

“Please,” I begged, when I was certain that I could take it no more. “Please, Jackson.”

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered, pulling his mouth away just long enough to murmur the words against my skin.

“You. Oh, god, please. I want you.”

“At your service,” he said as he stood and drew me to the couch. With casual ease, he tossed off his shirt, then took off his jeans. He wore briefs, and before he removed them I could see the hard, thick bulge of his erection. And when he did take them off, I drew in a breath, awed by the sheer perfection of this man’s body. A man who’d surely been carved by the gods on a particularly good day. He’d taken a condom packet out of his pocket, and I watched, mesmerized, as he rolled the condom on.

Then he sat on the couch and held out his hand. I went eagerly, then straddled him, feeling the hard, enticing heat of him at my core. “I want to watch your face when you come,” he said. “And I want you to take what you need.”

I licked my lips, realizing that he wanted me to be in charge. To thrust myself down on him. To ride him. To bring us both to the peak.

And oh, dear god, I wanted that, too.

It was familiar territory, being the one in control. Except with Jackson, I knew damn well that he’d never truly relinquished his hold.

And in his arms, I really didn’t care.

“That’s it, baby,” he said, as I moved over him. Teasing both of us with the tip of his cock.

He took my mouth then, kissing me rough and deep, and I thrust downward, so wet that it was easy to take all of him, and then to rise up on my legs and then ease my body down again. Slowly. Torturously. Letting the pleasure—and the anticipation—build.

I met his eyes and saw understanding. “You’re a tease.”

“No,” I countered. “I just want it to last.”

But neither of us could hold out, and soon he took my hips and guided my motions. “I thought I was in charge,” I gasped.

“To hell with that,” he said. “I want to feel you explode.”

Harder and harder, deeper and deeper. I impaled myself over and over on him, taking everything, wanting everything. His touch, his passion, the explosion that was about to ricochet through both of us.

And when it did—when my whole body clenched around his cock and the world spun full of color and light—I screamed his name, just as he’d said I would.

“I don’t think I’ll ever move again,” I whispered as I fell forward against him, my arms around his neck.

“You will.” He shifted us both, then picked me up and carried me naked to the bedroom. And he was right. When he slid on top of me—when he kissed and caressed me—when he made love to me softly and sweetly, I moved again just fine.

And then I snuggled close and thought that maybe, just maybe, I’d actually won.

But that wasn’t true.

I hadn’t won at all.

And when the dark gray fingers came to me in dreams, I realized for the first time how much I’d truly lost, and how much my past had cost me.

seven

I stare at the gray stucco building with the gray steel door, then cringe as it pulses red.

I turn in the car to look at my father, sure that he has seen it, too. Certain that he won’t make me go in there again. Because it’s bad, like a horror movie. And I don’t want to be the girl in the horror movie who walks right into the scary place.

“Daddy …”

“Go on, Elle,” he says. “You’re going to be late.”

“It’s Sylvia now.” I am Eleanor Sylvia Brooks, and I’ve gone by Elle for all of my life. Until Bob started calling me that. Now, at fourteen, I hate my name. Now, I go by Sylvia.

“I know,” my dad says. “I know everything that goes on in there. I’m the one who arranged this, after all.”

“You know?” My brow creases. “You really know?”