“Then what are you doing?” he asked as he pulled me to him.

I hooked my arms around his neck. “I’m feeling,” I said. “Please, Jackson. Make me feel more. Make me feel everything.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, “I’m at your service.”

I laughed, delighted and surprised, when he scooped me up and carried me to my door. I clung to him, my head nestled against his shoulder, trying to figure out what the hell had happened to me.

Me, the woman who was always so careful. Who kept such a tight lock on control, and who never let a man get under her skin.

He was different, somehow, I thought. He could keep me safe. And if my demons ran free, well then maybe he was the man who could slay them.

“Stand there,” he said, putting me down in front of my coffee table. He looked around, then put his foot against the table and gave it a quick shove sideways so that there was nothing between where he’d placed me and the couch. “Good,” he said. “Now wait.”

“Wait—for what?”

But he just shook his head and pressed a finger to his lips. “You asked me to make you feel, Sylvia. And I promise you that I will.”

I almost answered, but the truth was I didn’t know what to say. And he was gone anyway, disappearing into my galley-style kitchen. I stood in my living room, shifting my weight from foot to foot, wondering what he would do if I sat down, but afraid to try it for fear that he would leave. And I really didn’t want him to go.

When he returned, he held two glasses of wine. One he set on the coffee table. The other he held as he sat on the couch.

I glanced sideways at the wine on the table, then raised a brow. He took a sip from his own glass before giving me a single, one-word answer. “After.”

“After what?”

“After you’re naked.” His voice had shifted. It was low. Commanding. And very, very sexy.

I drew in a breath, waiting to feel the icy fingers of the nightmares slither up my back. But there was no chill. There was only warmth and desire and the intensity of his eyes, so powerful it seemed that I didn’t need to strip at all, because he had already seen me bare.

“I—I’m not sure,” I said, but even as I spoke, I knew my words were only for form. I wasn’t tense—on the contrary, I felt loose. Warm. Even eager.

The cold fear I had expected was far, far away, replaced by a burning anticipation. Because I wanted the sensation of his hands upon me and the luxury of him looking at me.

“Not sure?” he said as he stood up, holding his wine. He moved to me, then dipped his finger in the liquid before dragging the pad gently over my lower lip. “I think you are, Sylvia.”

He trailed his finger gently down my neck, then traced my collarbone, making me shiver from the soft sensuality of his touch.

“I watched you in the car, remember? So bold. So wild. I told you what I wanted, and it made you hot. I told you what to do, and it made you wet.”

I pressed my lips together, forcing myself not to whimper.

“You want to give yourself over to me, Sylvia. You want to put the power for your pleasure in my hands.”

His words scared me. Not only because they were true, but because I didn’t understand why I so badly craved exactly what he was demanding. For years, my relationships with men had been few and far between. And when I did go out—when that pounding need for release and escape finally hit me with so much force that it drove me to action—then I was the one with the power. I was the one who set the terms and called the shots.

And on those rare times, I never felt anything more than the physical release of an orgasm and the hard burn of one hell of a cardio workout.

Most important, I was the one who walked away.

That was the way it worked, the way I protected myself.

And yet here I was, open and vulnerable.

And god help me, I was desperately, wildly, incredibly turned on.

“You want this as much as I do,” he said as he circled me, stopping so that he was behind me when he bent close to whisper in my ear. “I see it in the way you look at me. The way you respond to me. What was it you said in the car about my work? That it’s power and control? You were right. But that’s not just what I do. It’s who I am.”

He slid his arms around my waist and pulled me close, so that my back was against him. I could feel his erection against me and the corresponding tingle between my thighs. And in that moment, I regretted not having already done what he said, because I wanted nothing more than to be naked with his hands upon me.

He moved his hands up to cup my breasts. “It excites me to know that I hold the leash on your pleasure. That I can take you to the edge or not. That I hold your trust and your passion in my hand.” He released me then, and it was all I could do not to whimper.