“You have a star,” he says, dragging his foot up so that he can rub his toes along my ankle and the small tattoo that has been there since high school. “And a lovely crescent moon.”
“Starlight Girls’ Academy,” I say.
“I’ve heard of it. Beverly Hills, right?”
“I managed to get a scholarship,” I say. “I went there for my sophomore, junior, and senior years.”
“Boarding school,” he says, and I hear the understanding in his voice.
Starlight Girls’ Academy is one of the most prestigious prep schools in Southern California, and the moment I learned that it offered full scholarships—with room and board—I’d killed myself to ace the entrance exams. My high school counselor had been astounded when I’d done well enough to be offered an interview—I’d nailed middle school, but I’d checked out my freshman year, doing only enough to get by and not making any close friends. But I’d been highly motivated, and I’d been bright and perky and social and witty during the interview.
I’d been accepted, and I’d kicked academic ass in order to maintain my GPA and stay in the program.
“I couldn’t stay in my parents’ house any longer,” I admit, after I’ve told him the story. “So the tattoo was like a celebration. Me marking the transition. But the truth is I didn’t fit in at Starlight, either.” We wore uniforms during school hours, but had a great deal of freedom on weekends and holidays. Fashion and boys were the thing, and I wasn’t interested in either. Instead, I hid behind boring clothes, never dated, and used to lie about having a skin condition so that I wouldn’t have to wear makeup.
“And your parents? They didn’t realize what was going on?”
“They had their hands full with my brother,” I said. “I think they were a little relieved I wasn’t in the house anymore. He was finally recovering and they didn’t have to feel guilty about focusing all their parental attention on him.” Not exactly the truth, but close enough.
“And the rape? That was over? Or did it end when you went away to school?” I hear the tight control in his voice, so taut it is like a rubber band stretched almost to the breaking point.
“Summer before my freshman year,” I say. “It stopped then.” I don’t say why, and he doesn’t ask. But I do pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders, then glance at his face only to find him looking back at me with a fierce intensity.
“What?”
“You’re cold.”
“I’m fine.”
He shifts to a sitting position, then stands. I raise a brow. “More wine?”
“No.” He bends, then slides an arm under my legs and puts the other behind my back. I gasp as he lifts me, then cradles me against his chest.
“Jackson, I’m fine. I like it out here.”
“I’ll find you a castle with your starlight view,” he says. “Right now you’re cold.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I have a blanket. I have you. I—” I stop, because I have tilted my head back and I see his face, and an odd mixture of ferocity and helplessness that makes my heart twist almost painfully. “Jackson?”
“Please,” he says. “Let me take care of you.”
I think of all that I have lived with—all that I have survived. I’ve had a lifetime to get used to it, and yet it still knocks me sideways. I just dumped it on him, and not even all of it. On a man who, despite everything, cares about me. And, despite my assurance to the contrary, fears that he somehow made it worse for me.
“Yes,” I say as I close my eyes and lean my cheek against his chest. “I am a little cold.”
He takes me back into the condo and through to the bedroom. Then very gently, he places me on the bed. “Under,” he says, lifting the covers.
I look over at him. Naked. Semi-erect. And in that moment I can think only that he is perfection come to life.
I shake my head. “Nope. You wanted me warm, I think it’s only fair that you warm me up, not pawn the job off on some blanket.”
He chuckles. “Do you? Well, I’m all about fairness.” With his eyes never leaving mine, he crawls onto the bed, straddling me, then he kisses me long and hard and deep.
“I think I like warming you up,” he says as he sits up, kneeling over my waist so that his cock rests enticingly on my belly.
I glance down, then lift my brow in question. “Do you want?”
“Do I want what?”
He knows what I’m offering, I’m certain of it. He just wants to hear me say it.