Chapter Twenty-One
Millie
M y heart is beating so fast that I think it's going to launch out of my chest. My knees are liquid. I concentrate on my steps, on the rhythmic clank as my heels hit the dark staircase leading to Jackson's office.
He holds my hand as he leads the way. Every now and again, he turns to watch me, his mouth soft, his eyes ravenous. His palm is warm against mine, and every time he squeezes, my stomach flips. He offers me that devastating smile, but it's the look in his eyes that holds me. It's the sparks that burst and shatter in the silver. Maybe the smile he gives out freely, but that look, that look, is just for me. I feel it low in my belly, in the ache growing between my thighs.
As we reach the door, Jackson pulls out his keys. The door unlocks with a satisfying clunk. He pulls back, letting me walk first into the room. It's dark, but amber flashes where the faint light from the club hits metal. Shadows from the boxy furniture stretch across the walls and floor. The smell of whiskey and aftershave lingers. The air is heavy but cooler than in the rest of the club.
There's a click, and buttery-yellow light fills the room. It's what I imagined. Three overly large desks take up most of the space, and a brass antique bar is directly in front of a window that peers down at the dancefloor. I walk towards it, looking down at the rest of the world. Feeling a million miles away from it, but for the first time, I felt happy about the separation. Maybe I'd been through too much to re-enter the world, but it didn't really matter when I'd found someone I could create a new world with.
I turn when I feel his eyes burn into me, tugging me back into the moment. He's leaning against the doorframe. His black shirt is undone at the collar, revealing a triangle of pale-gold skin, rolled-up sleeves revealing the coiled muscles of his arms. His midnight-black hair is pushed back, a few strands falling across his forehead. He takes my breath away. I could stare at him like this forever. The look on his face is unmistakable. And it hits me like a punch.
“Well?”
There are so many things I could say to that.
“Well, what?”
“Impressed?”
I laugh and move about the room, his eyes not leaving me. I feel them sweep across my body, and I move slower. Let him look. I want him to. I want this moment to last, to linger on. To never end. Running my finger over the desk, which I know belongs to Jackson, I smile in his direction. It's the neatest, the most elegant, and more than a little excessive.
“You boys aren't fans of subtle, are you?”
He laughs, throwing his head back.
“I'll never impress you, will I?” he says, his eyes sparkling.
I smile and back onto his desk, pulling myself up in a move I hope looks more graceful than it feels. His eyes glance down at where my dress rides up my thighs, the amusement turning into something darker, richer. It excites me.
“Not with your enormous decor budget, no.”
He snorts and looks away, grinning when his gaze returns to me. Breathing suddenly feels hard. I want too much and all at once.
“But you impress me. All the time,” I add gently.
“You never say.” His face softens.
“And give you even more of an ego? The world wouldn't thank me for that.”
He laughs again, and I feel my face heat. I love making him laugh. I love seeing his features soften. The mask slip. The man underneath. Watching him bloom in delight.
“I adore you.”
The words aren't laced with charm or humour. They're uttered simply, with a slight crack to his voice, the emotion weighing down on the words. My lips part, but then I swallow hard. I know what I want to say. I feel the words dance across the tip of my tongue. But I can't give him everything. I won't, not until I know for certain he can do the same.
“Then … what are you doing all the way over there?” My voice is husky, deep with need, and just as brittle as his. A little unsure.
He strides across the room so quickly it knocks the breath from my lungs to find him before me. He doesn't touch me, but he's so close. Jackson leans down, breathing hard, his palms on the desk, placed on either side of my thighs. He moves closer, his head a sliver from mine. He's smirking, knowing how much this is affecting me. How much I want this. But he's going to make me wait.
I'm tired of waiting.
My hands grip his shirt collar, and I pull him towards me. His mouth crashes into mine, into hungry, devouring kisses, and everything is a blur of sensation. His hands move to my hips, gripping me tightly as he moves between my thighs. My fingers are in his hair, pulling him closer, always closer.
His lips move to my jaw, moving lower. He moans my name into the hollow of my neck, and I groan in response. His breath is hot across my skin, and my hips seem to move on their own, seeking friction. It's awkward on the desk, but his hands are under my thighs, his fingers digging deep enough to bruise as he parts them further, angling me so I'm leaning back, held up by my elbows. For a moment, he watches me. His lips swollen, hair disarrayed. He runs a hand down my cheek and neck. Slowly and gently grazing his fingers down my collarbone, between my breasts.
“Millie …”
He makes me wait forever. I can't form words. All I can do is whimper as his mouth finds mine again, his tongue parting my lips. He tries to control the kiss, but I don't let him. I meet each caress of his lips, his tongue, and I match it, touch for touch. I let myself fall back till I'm pressed against the icy surface of his desk. My fingers scrape against his scalp, and he moans when my nails dig deeper. With his hands still beneath my thighs, he wraps my legs around his hips, and I moan when I can feel how hard he is. How much he wants this, too. He gasps when I move against him, finding that delicious friction I need.
His hand moves up my thigh, slowly, teasingly, painfully slow. He pulls back, watching my reaction as his finger dips below the lace edge of my underwear. My fingers slip to his chest, gripping his shirt. I feel wild, out of control. I love this feeling. The sounds of the club, a faint pulse that seems miles away. His lips part, and he hisses as his fingers roam higher; the rich scent of whiskey clings to his breath.
My back arches almost painfully when he touches me there, finding that place where I need his touch so badly. I groan as my fingers leave his shirt and grip the edge of the desk. I moan as I close my eyes, my head going back.
“Look at me, gorgeous.” His voice is a little commanding, and I like it.
I rise slightly, opening my eyes to see him staring at me. He doesn’t move, and I writhe against his hand, needing more.
“Jackson …” I whimper.
A sly grin that is so him cuts across his face as his fingers drift in circles on me. He moves over me, never stopping that delicious movement, as his mouth finds my lips again. My fingers weave into his hair, pulling his mouth tighter against mine. It's me that deepens the kiss, and he moans into my mouth as he draws me ever closer. The sensation grows and deepens inside me. I feel the tension rise in my lower belly. Higher and higher it rises. And then it crashes. I shatter against his hand and cry into his mouth as I come apart. He pulls away, keeping his fingers on me, watching as I fall apart and pull myself back together again.
“Beautiful,” he mutters with a husky chuckle. “So beautiful.”
He helps me sit up, and I feel my body shivering still. My skin feels too hot and electrified. His hands move back to rest on my thighs, and he moves closer. His forehead is against mine as I try to regain my breath.
“That was …”
“I know.”
“I want more …”
Hunger flashes across his features. My fingers go to his shirt, gripping the fabric roughly.
“I'm not sure this desk could handle what I have in mind,” he whispers into my ear, his voice so dark I shiver again. I bite my lip, chuckling as he pulls back.
“I think I'd like my first time in a bed and not in an office,” I whisper, my face hot. I laugh lightly until I see his face.
I expect surprise, maybe a little shock, but what I see there turns me cold. And I wish more than anything that I could take the words back. I close my eyes, bite my lip and hope that when I open them, I'll see something different.
Nope.
It's not how stiff his body has become or the way his lips are parted. It's not even the way he looks horrified. It's more that I can see he regrets what's just happened, that he would take it back if he could. Anger and humiliation boil inside me, and my face burns with them.
“Millie, you never told me that … you're a virgin? Shit.”
He moves backwards, his hands going to his hair. I slip off the desk and adjust my clothes. I have been through a lot with Mum, and most of the time, I feel older than the people around me. I'd lost much of my childhood to watching her go through the agony of rounds of chemo, of radiotherapy, of appointment after appointment with kind-eyed doctors. Of hopes raised and dashed. It made me feel old. Jaded. But it had also taken me away from the world. I had been with her for every step, and I'd missed out on first boyfriends, first love and first heartaches as I'd sat watching her fight to survive.
Tears prickle at the corner of my eyes, but I fight them as hard as I can. I wasn't going to let him see me cry.
“I missed out on some things. I'm not ashamed of it, and I have no damn reason to be. So yeah, that was … a first for me. I thought you knew that?” My voice is arctic cold, but I don't care.
He spins and looks at me. We'd spoken many times about Mum. I told him more than I'd ever told anyone, but he’s looking at me like a stranger right now. I wait for him to speak, but he says nothing. Just stands there limply.
I roll my eyes and scoff in disgust before heading to the door. Jackson strides before me, beating me there.
“Millie!”
My hand grips the handle as he slams it shut with the palm of his hand. He stands beside me, looking down, his face conflicted in an expression I know too well. He's too close, and my body reacts to him despite myself. My chest heaves as I fight the tears once more.
“If I'd known … I should have asked …” He falls still, and then he finally looks down at me. “I can't give you what you need. What you deserve.”
I snort as the excuses pour out of his mouth like poison.
“No, Jackson. You're choosing not to. You're choosing to run away scared. Fine … I won't fight this time. You want to walk away, then walk away, but making me feel like it's my fault. That it's because I'm … a virgin. That you're protecting me from something? It's selfish and cowardly, and it's the worst thing you've ever done to me. You win. You want to be alone? Then enjoy loneliness.”
He doesn't move, not even as I yank on the door handle.
“Millie, you don't understand …”
“Open this door.”
“Millie …”
“Open this door!” I scream, slamming my hands against the wood hard enough that my palms sting.
The tears are coming now, and I hate him for that. I hate that I'm crying, and he can see how broken I feel. I hate that my armour has been shattered into shards by him, and I haven't even made a dent in his. I hate that I'm just like every stupid girl who liked a boy who couldn't give her what she wanted.
But mostly, I hate him.
Through the haze of my tears, I swear I can see him shaking as he backs slowly away from me. My hands are quivering, and it takes a few attempts to open the door. I try to keep steady, try not to lose any more control, but I whimper each time I fail to tug the chunky door open. Finally, it flies wide, almost knocking me off my feet. More humiliation gurgles in my belly.
“Millie …”
I don't look back. I run out of the door and away from Jackson as fast as my legs will carry me.