“I don’t even know if I want to see him.” The word is a whisper, shameful because he killed the man who tormented me. And even though it came late, his confession has saved the man I love.

And yet I don’t want to be in debt to this man. Not when he owes me so much more than he can ever repay.

“You don’t have to decide that right now, either.” His fingers are still stroking me, easing gently along my skin. It is just a light touch, and I close my eyes and let myself go, surrendering to this need to be tended and soothed.

His fingers ease higher, teasing me. The touch is so soft that at times I’m not even certain I feel him. And yet how can I not? This is Jackson touching me. Jackson taking care of me.

Jackson, loving me.

I don’t know how long he strokes me, but I do know that with each caress I feel it more and more. As if he is polishing me, making my body shine with a sensual light. So that by the time his fingers sneak beneath my skirt to tease the soft skin of my inner thighs, I am aching for him. And by the time he reaches the juncture of my thighs to find me bare and gloriously wet, my vagina clenches in anticipation of those fingers thrusting deep inside me.

I’m breathing hard, my body warm, my breasts aching, and I arch my back in a silent expression of longing.

But he doesn’t penetrate me. Just the opposite, and I whimper because suddenly the contact disappears. I feel the shift of the couch cushions and open my eyes. He’s standing above me, looking down with such longing and passion that it makes my whole body tingle.

He’s changed out of his suit into one of the pairs of jeans he keeps at my apartment, and I can see the strain of his cock against the denim. It makes me smile. I like that he is bound. That he’s going just a little crazy. I like it, because it will make the explosion when he is released that much more astounding.

“Come with me,” he says, but he doesn’t wait for me to stand. Instead he picks me up, cradling me to his chest as I wrap my arms around his neck. It’s a position that suggests comfort and tenderness, but when puts me on the bed and steps back, I see a building heat in his eyes that suggests otherwise.

“Hook your ankles behind me. Now,” he demands, as if I were going to protest. “No words. No questions.”

I comply.

The position leaves my knees turned out so that the space from my feet to my cunt form a diamond, and there is just a tiny amount of space between his pelvis and mine. Just enough room for his hand to torment me sweetly.

And that is exactly what he does. That finger that was easing up my thigh does so again, trailing lazily up and down as I squirm, my hips undulating in a needful rhythm.

“I like that,” Jackson says, his voice so low I can barely hear it. “I like watching you silently beg. Your cunt slick and hot for me.”

I close my eyes and drag my teeth over my lower lip. “Jackson. Please.”

“Please what? Please this?” His fingertip trails lightly over my clit, and the shock of that touch ricochets through me.

“Or this?” He slips two fingers inside me, then presses down on my clit with his thumb, making me arch back, wanting more.

He pumps his fingers inside me, his thumb continuing to tease, and as he does, I’m losing the ability to think.

“I’m going to make you come, baby. I think you should just sit back and enjoy it.”

I try to answer, but he adds another finger and thrusts deep inside me, and I realize that I am incapable of forming words.

My cunt tightens around his fingers. I want it harder. Deeper.

“Close your eyes,” he says. “Slide one hand up inside your shirt.”

I do. My skin feels hot to the touch.

“All the way up and then squeeze your nipple. Harder, baby. I know you like it hard.”

He’s right, and I comply, biting my lower lip as I tease myself, and then gasping as he takes my other hand and slides it between my legs. “Tease your clit for me, baby,” he says as he thrusts his fingers inside me, finger-fucking me as I do what he says. As my worries and anxieties fall away. As pleasure builds. A celebration of now. Of freedom. Of life.

Of us.

“Come for me, baby.” His voice is low and steady and seems to roll over me, as sensual as his touch. “Come for me and tell me you’re mine.”

“I am,” I whisper. “Oh, god, Jackson, I am.” The words are ripped out of me as I explode, my muscles convulsing so hard around his fingers that I probably have bruised him.

I let the storm wash over me, then sigh as he whispers, “I’m going to marry you.”