“You’re doing it all wrong,” I say.

He cups his hand by his ear. “What?”

I lean close so that my lips are almost brushing his temple. “I said, you’re doing it all wrong.”

“Doing what?”

I take the glass out of his hand and set it on a nearby speaker. “Dancing,” I say, as I grab both of his hands with my own. “I’ll show you how to do it right.”

I lead him out onto the floor, not giving him a chance to protest. We slide in among other sweaty, pulsing couples. Touching, flirting, getting dangerously close and then pulling away. The mating dance of the young and single, and this man and I are going at it in full force. Building and building, hands to hands, hips to hips. And when I look at his face and see that he wants me, I know it’s time for step two.

Breathing hard, I move in close and hook my arms around his neck. “So, what’s your name?”

“Louis Dale. What’s yours?”

I shake my head. “Nope, that’s not the way we play this game, Louis.”

“What game?”

But all I do is smile and give him my hand. “Do you have a car nearby?”

“I—oh, yeah. Yeah, I sure do.”

I let him lead me out of the club, then across the street to a pay-to-park lot. He stops in front of a sporty gray Lexus. “Nice ride,” I say, easing in so that his back is against the car. My palms are flat against his chest. “What else have you got for me that’s nice?”

I press close, reveling in that rush of satisfaction when I feel him hard against me. I don’t want him—not really—but I do want this. The control. The power. The knowing that whatever I give or take tonight is because I’m giving or I’m taking. It’s been years since I’ve needed to feel that so tangibly, but dammit all to hell, I need it tonight.

“I think we need a hotel, Louis, don’t you?”

“Hell yes,” he says, then pushes me back and spins me around so that it is my back against the car and he’s crushed up against me. He’s breathing hard, leaning in for a kiss, but I only turn my head.

“Not just yet,” I say, because I’m the one in control tonight. But then I gasp as Louis is ripped away from me, the look of shock on his face almost comic as he stumbles backward, then lands on his ass a good two yards away.

“Not just yet?” Jackson growls. “Try not ever.” He grabs my hand and yanks me to him with such force that I fall against him. His arm goes immediately around my waist and despite my shock and anger—despite my embarrassment—I can’t help the wash of both relief and longing that crashes over me like a wave.

But I don’t want to be relieved, and so I shove violently back from him, burying the depth of my discomfort under the force of my words. “What the hell? What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

He ignores me, but aims his finger at Louis. “You. Get the fuck out of here.”

Louis’s eyes dart sideways—not to me so much as to the car. Then he sort of crab-walks backward before stumbling to his feet and holding his hands up in supplication. “Hey, man, she—”

“Go,” Jackson says.

Louis obeys, racing across to the far side of the parking lot.

As soon as he disappears into the shadows, Jackson grabs my arms. He yanks me toward him, so close we are breathing each other’s air. He is vibrating with fury, and for a moment I can’t tell if he wants to kiss me or hit me.

He does neither.

I see the struggle play out on his face, and then he slams me backward against Louis’s car. “What the fuck are you doing?” he demands. “You want danger? Try me, Sylvia, because you have no idea how dangerous I can be.” He tightens his grip on my arms. “Or maybe you want anonymous? Me again—because if you think you know me, princess, I promise you don’t.”

“Jackson—”

“No.” He releases one hand long enough to run his fingers through his hair, then pushes roughly back from me, breaking our connection completely. I press my hands against the side of the car, forcing myself to stay put, to stay still. Because goddamn me all to hell, in that moment I truly don’t know if I want to slap the shit out of him or wrap myself in his arms.

“You really think you can come back after all this time and bat your lashes and have me fall backward over myself to help you out?”

“It’s not like that. I—”

“And for him—for Damien Fucking Stark? We’re done, princess,” he says, lifting a finger toward my face. “You told me to leave, sweetheart. And five years later you fall back into my life. And pretty goddamn dramatically, too.”