On My Knees - J. Kenner Page 0,114

Jackson’s fear, too, I know. Only, his is even more potent. Because he would lose not only me, but Ronnie. Not to mention the life and career that he has worked so hard to build.

I reach for him and take his hand in mine. How many times in the hours since we arrived have I searched for the perfect words to soothe him? But there are no perfect words. I can only do my best. I can only just be here.

I squeeze his hand and he smiles, just a little, then wraps his free arm around Ronnie and pulls her close, the action so full of wild, heart-breaking emotion that it almost shatters me.

“You should go outside,” Jackson tells the little girl. “Fred’s probably wondering where you are.”

At the mention of the new puppy, her blue eyes, so like Jackson’s, go wide. “You’ll come, too?”

“Absolutely,” he promises. “Let me talk to Syl while she drinks her coffee, and then I’ll come find you.”

“And eat your toast?” she asks, her earnest question aimed at me.

“I can’t wait for the toast,” I say. “I bet it’s the best toast ever.”

“Yup,” she confirms, then shoots like a rocket out of the room.

Jackson watches her go, and I watch Jackson. When he turns back, he catches me eyeing him, then smiles sheepishly. “It’s hard to believe sometimes,” he says. “That she’s really mine, I mean.”

I think about the little girl’s dark hair and blue eyes. Her cleverness coupled with a vibrant personality and fierce determination. “Not hard to believe at all.”

I had hoped to coax a smile, but still he just looks sad.

“Are you okay?” It’s a stupid question, of course, and it hangs there, as awkward and inadequate as I feel.

He shakes his head, just a little. “No,” he admits. He brushes his fingers lightly over my cheek, his attention on my face, his eyes searching mine. At first, he looks lost, but that soon changes as heat and need build in his eyes. Both are directed at me, and neither are a question. There is no permission to be granted, no request to be made. He simply slides his hand around to cup the back of my neck and pulls me toward him, then captures my mouth with his.

I open to him without hesitation, not just my lips, but my whole body. I am his, wholly and completely, and however he needs me.

He deepens the kiss, his tongue teasing and tasting. His mouth hot and desperate against mine.

I expect more. The crush of his hands upon my breasts. An explosion of breath as he pushes me back on the mattress, then rises to slam the door shut and flip the latch. The shift of the mattress as he returns, and the sound of ripping cotton as he strips me of my panties.

I anticipate the feel of his body over mine. Of my wrists bound tight by his T-shirt that I wear in lieu of pajamas as he yanks it over my head and then uses it to bind me.

I imagine the tightness in my inner thighs as he roughly spreads my legs, and the quick burn of friction as he enters me hard in one thrust and then loses himself to this wild passion that he needs. That he craves.

I expect all this because I know him. Because his world has spun out of control, and Jackson is a man who not only needs control, but who takes it. He is not a man to be swept up in the tide, battered by the rise and fall of circumstance. He fights back. He wins. He takes.

I channelled control into sex.

He’d told me that once. And he’s shown me as much many, many times.

And yet he doesn’t come. He doesn’t take. He doesn’t claim.

Instead, he stands and crosses from the bed to the window, then drags his fingers through his hair. His back is to me, and the table is in front of him. My coffee and toast are still there, untouched. He pushes the tray aside and opens the curtains, letting in the morning light.

We are in Betty Wiseman’s house, Ronnie’s maternal great-grandmother. The family is well-to-do, but this New Mexico home is a small getaway, a “mere” five thousand square feet. Jackson and I are in one of the guest rooms that overlook the back of the property. The view I’d seen yesterday evening is magnificent—the rocky, rising terrain of the mountains, dressed up in their fall colors. The verdant grasses