He moves from the floor to his own seat and settles me on his lap. And then, before I even have time to breathe, he turns me around so that my back is to him. Then he lifts me up until his cock is right at my core. “Go ahead,” he says. “One thrust. I want you to take all of me.”

It’s a challenge I gladly accept, and I lower myself slowly, just because I want to torture us both. Then I rise up again and repeat the process because, dammit, it just feels too good.

“More,” he demands, even as he slips his hands around to cup my breasts.

I arch back as he squeezes my nipples to the point of pain—and that coupled with the sensation of him so deep inside me is undeniably erotic.

“More,” he demands again, and this time his voice is a growl. “Harder,” he insists and I press against the roof for resistance as I slam myself down on him over and over, his cock filling me and his fingers teasing me until I am lost, my body nothing but sensation. Pleasure. Pain. Need. Hunger. I am reduced to primal urges, wanting everything. Wanting release.

Wanting Jackson.

And when the limo, which has been smooth so far, hits a bump, and I bounce a bit, I am thrown finally over the edge, and I come in a wild, violent release that has me crying out even as my vagina clenches tight around him. He comes, too, his mouth closing over my shoulder as he bites back a groan, his hands clutching my breasts, his cock deep inside me as he fills me with the force of his release.

And when his body stops trembling—when he turns me around so that I can see his face and the raw passion looking back at me—I can only breathe. “Better?” I ask when the power of speech returns. “You should be, because I feel deliciously used. But if you’re not, I’m more than happy to go again. You know, for the cause.”

He laughs out loud, the sound reverberating through my body in a rather delightful way.

“How do you do it?” he asks.

“What?”

“Brush it all away for me. All the shit and craziness. All the anger. All the fear. You’re as cathartic as punching some asshole in a ring,” he says with a wicked grin. “And one hell of a lot more fun.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

He meets my eyes, and the humor in his face fades, his words now soft and full of meaning. “You’re my miracle,” he says, as he pulls me close to cuddle against his chest.

I sigh, because he is mine, too. And while I know that nothing is perfect, and our world is still scary, in this moment at least everything is all right.

twenty-one

Since we’re leaving for the island in the morning, we decide to go ahead and brave the paparazzi at the marina. Remarkably, though, the herd is thin, and we pass easily through the gate and into the parking area.

“They’ve gotten used to me sleeping at your place,” he says. “After tonight’s show, they’re probably there, wanting me to comment on that poor defenseless reporter I slugged.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” I say, as he hooks an arm around my shoulder.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” He stops long enough to brush his thumb over my cheek. He’s calmer now. I know he’s still worried, but for the moment, at least, we can relax. If any more horrors are going to come, they can damn well wait until the light of day. And he knows damn well he doesn’t need to be reminding me of it now. “Join me for a shower?”

“I’ll join you anywhere, Mr. Steele,” I say, and am rewarded by his smile.

“Do you want wine?” he asks once we’ve reached the boat. He’s a few steps ahead of me now, as I’ve paused to take off my shoes. “It’s late, but I could use a glass.”

I don’t answer. Frankly, I’ve barely heard the question.

What I heard instead were footsteps, and when I turn to look back over my shoulder, I see Harriet standing on the dock, as if waiting permission to step onto the yacht. She’s on the approved guest list at the gate, but I have hoped never to see her here.

And seeing her now really can’t be good.

I reach out, managing to grab Jackson’s shirt. He turns back to look at me, his mouth curved into a question. Then he sees Harriet, and I watch as he goes completely stiff.

“Are you here about the concert?” I ask. “Because Evelyn already read Jackson the riot act.”

“No,” Harriet says. She glances down at the deck. “May I?”

I glance at Jackson, who nods stiffly. “Of course.”

She steps onto the deck, and I look around awkwardly. My nerves are raw, and I’m on edge. If someone were to sneeze, I’d probably leap all the way into orbit.