On My Knees - J. Kenner Page 0,26

you not mean it?”

“No,” I assure him. “I meant it. I just thought that you—”

He cuts me off by taking my hand. “Listen, Syl. I can’t promise I won’t ever want to beat the crap out of something again. But I was thinking about your offer while I was watching you sleep.”

“Watching me?”

“Oh, yes. You’re beautiful, baby. I could watch you for hours. And so I watched you, and I thought.”

“And?” My palms are suddenly sweaty, and I wipe them on my robe.

“And the thing is that sometimes my fights are about temper, and I really do want—like you say—to just beat the shit out of something. And maybe I can rein that in a bit. I don’t know. But the truth is that most of the time, it’s not temper that sends me into the ring but frustration. The need to wrap control around an uncontrollable situation.”

“And I’m controllable?” Even as I say the words, I realize that my voice sounds breathy, and that my nipples are tight with excitement and anticipation. Hadn’t he said that I got off on submitting, so long as it was my choice?

Well, he was damn sure right about that.

“So you’ll use me?” I ask, my voice husky.

“Baby,” he says, pulling me close, “it will be my pleasure.”

nine

I stretch in the shower, then press my hands against the tile as the water pounds down on me, soothing my body. I feel sore and achy and very well-fucked, and I smile with satisfaction. If I felt this sore after a gym workout, I’d vow to not go again for a week. As it is, I want nothing more than to crawl back into bed, wake Jackson, and spend the day riding him hard.

Sadly, that’s not going to happen.

Instead, I’m going to go to work, and Jackson’s going to sleep in and then head to his boat. The thought is bittersweet, and I push it away, not wanting to think about the implications of Jackson not working on the Cortez resort. Not wanting to worry about the fact that his main office is in Manhattan, not Los Angeles.

Not interested in fretting over the reality that Jackson will soon be looking for another commission, and god only knows where on the planet that might take him.

Frustrated, I tilt my face up and let the spray wash over me. Then I step out of the shower, dry off, and wrap the towel around me as I head back into the bedroom.

I get dressed quietly, careful not to wake Jackson. I know he must still be exhausted—god knows, I am—but I also don’t want to say goodbye. Not when I’m heading off to a job we should be going to together. And yes, I realize that’s stupid because this is reality now, and we are going to have to deal with it, but I’m not ready to face that reality yet. And if I don’t say goodbye, then maybe I can pretend that I’m at my desk on twenty-seven and he’s in his area on twenty-six, and everything is chugging along just fine.

God, I’m pathetic.

I push aside a pile of clean laundry so that I can sit in the blue upholstered chair by the window to put on my shoes. I bend over and tackle the tiny buckle on the tiny straps, and when I sit back up, I see Jackson watching me.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hey yourself.” He pats the spot next to him. “Come here.”

I do, perching on the edge of the bed beside him as he props himself up on an elbow. I bend over and brush a kiss over his lips. “You should sleep.” I trace my fingers lightly over the bruises on his chest. “The rest will do you good.”

“You did me good,” he says, the words so heavy with meaning that they seem to fill me up.

“I’m glad.”

“And now you were going to sneak out without even saying goodbye.”

“No,” I say, but then blush when his brows rise with obvious disbelief. “Only because you were dead to the world, and I figured you needed the sleep.”

“Bullshit,” he says.

I lift a shoulder, looking not at him but at the bed. “Fine. It’s weird going without you.”

He’s silent a moment, then he tilts my chin up and looks at me. “Go,” he says. “And when you get home tonight, I’ll take you out for dinner. Deal?”

“Deal,” I agree, then laugh when he kisses my knuckles.

My mood stays light all the way to the office, but shifts toward