I gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles white against the dark leather. My mind was a battlefield…the cold, recent memory of the act against the immediate, vital warmth of the intoxicating woman beside me. Every beat of her pulse, every unconscious shift of her body, was a blinding reminder of why I'd crossed a line I could never uncross.
I looked at her, truly looked at her…her lips parted slightly in thought as she reviewed the financial maneuvers in her head, her hand resting casually on the console. She was completely oblivious to the fact that her world had been permanently, violently secured just hours ago. I was her protector, her lover, and her killer. The knowledge was a physical weight in my stomach, a desperate need that had nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with self-preservation.
I had to anchor myself .I had to replace the metallic taste of guilt and gunpowder with the singular, consuming reality of her.
I pulled into the private underground garage, the engine's sudden silence jarring. Before she could open her door, I locked it, my eyes fixed on hers.
"Don't move," I commanded, my voice low, husky, and devoid of any pretense. The intensity was immediate and absolute.
Belinda's smile faded, replaced by an intoxicating curiosity and a flicker of recognition. "Jackson? Is something wrong? You're kind of making me feel like you're keeping something from me."
"Firstly, I don't ever want to see you reach for a door handle in my presence do you hear me? Just because I'm not your bodyguard anymore doesn't mean I won't still act like it. No woman of mine will open her own doors," I warned, my gaze burning over her face.
"I'm on the edge, Bel. I need to know you're real. I need to know this," I gestured between us, my hand trembling slightly, "is the only thing that matters right now. Not the gala, not you running for mayor, not the wedding, not the takeover."
"I know what matters," she breathed, her own pulse quickening, reading the desperate hunger in my eyes.
"No," I growled, the word a confession of my internal torment. "You don't. I just faced down hell, and I need you to pull me back. I'm going to take you, Belinda. I need you to prove you want this more than anything else in the world. I need your consent. I want you to beg for it. Say it."
A slow, dark smile curved her lips, fueled by the memory of last night and the thrilling rush of defiance we shared. She understood the depth of the demand, even if she didn't know the depth of my secret.
"Take me," she whispered, her voice husky with desire and challenge. "I'm begging you."
Belinda's POV
He then opened my car door, took the bags and led me inside the house.
The bags…the red dress, the delicate shoes, the jewelry…were tossed onto the polished marble floor of the foyer the moment that we stepped inside, bright objects instantly muted by the desperate focus of our need.
Jackson didn't speak a single word. He backed me against the nearest wall, his body a solid, crushing barrier.
The kiss was instant, raw, and punishing. It wasn't the slow burn of seduction…it was the violent, absolute possession of a man desperately seeking an anchor. He devoured my mouth, his hands tearing at the soft fabric of my clothes, needing to strip away every layer of the civilized world we were currently living in.
I met his violence with my own savage intensity. I gripped the collar of his shirt, pulling him tighter, my legs instantly wrapping around his waist as he lifted me. I felt the fierce, rapid beat of his heart against my chest…a rhythm that was chaotic, desperate, and utterly mine.
He didn't move us to the bedroom. The cool, hard stone of the wall against my back was a grounding contrast to the fire of his body, mirroring the shocking contrast between the perfect lie he told and the brutal truth he held.
He pulled back just enough, his eyes dark with consuming passion. "This is real," he demanded, his hips surging against mine, a desperate, anchoring pressure. "Forget the rest. Forget everything except me."
"Real," I gasped, my legs tightening, pulling him deeper into the confession of our bodies. "Only you."
The only sounds were our ragged breaths and the soft, desperate friction of our clothes, a final, fierce union achieved against the pristine backdrop of our life…a life built on passion, ambition, and a secret now sealed in blood.
The fierce, consuming urgency that had driven Jackson against the wall was relentless. He wasn't seeking pleasure…he was seeking an absolution that only brutal, anchoring reality could provide. He moved with a desperate, punishing intensity, his mouth savage, his grip bordering on pain as he drove us higher, faster, further into the desperate lie we now shared. It's like he needed me to be the only thing he could feel, the only thing that was real.
Jackson's POV
She clung to me, meeting my frantic need with her own raw desperation. The passion was overwhelming, a furious, exhilarating fire that burned away the fear of her father's death and the enormity of the secret. As I took her throat in a possessive grip, then lowered my head, pressing my mouth to her skin, she felt the pressure intensify.
Belinda's POV
He wasn't kissing me…he was branding. The sharp, drawing ache of his mouth creating deep, painful marks on my neck was shocking. I winced, the pain a jolt, but I bit back the cry, enduring the throbbing discomfort. I wouldn't stop him. I absorbed the pain in silence, unwilling to add to the immense guilt already crushing him.
His need escalated…his movements becoming harder, his demands more absolute…and the line between catharsis and sheer terror began to blur.
He found a rhythm, a frantic, unifying beat that resonated with the chaos outside and the devastating intimacy within. The world narrowed to the feel of the cold wall against my back and the blinding heat of his body. He drove into me, demanding everything, giving everything, until the pressure became unbearable…a terrifying, ecstatic point of no return.
I cried out…a sharp, strangled sound that was once again instantly devoured by his mouth. The world shattered into a thousand shards of light and sensation.
He followed, his body convulsing against mine, his low, guttural groan a sound of absolute, devastating surrender. He collapsed onto me, his lungs seizing in deep, shuddering gasps.
The immense wave of release was immediate, consuming both our passion and fear.
I felt the cold reality of his protective rage pushing me past my limit. His expression was locked in a mask of dark, possessive intensity, his eyes wide and burning, no longer the eyes of my lover but the eyes of the man who was hiding something from me. He was losing himself, and in doing so, he was pulling me into the terrifying vacuum of his despair.
I gasped, pulling my head back, trying to see him, trying to remind him that I…was not just a tool for his penance. "Jackson…"
He cut me off, his mouth descending again, silencing me, his body surging with a raw, consuming demand. "Anchor us, Bel! Say it! Say you want this more than anything!"
The rage and the need were consuming us both, but I knew that if I didn't pull him back now, he would shatter us both against the wall. The moment of beautiful, necessary violence was over. I pushed against his chest, finding a sliver of air, and yelled the one word that could stop our world.
"PINEAPPLE!"
The word, sharp and ridiculous, cut through the desperate haze.
Jackson froze. He stumbled back a half-step, his breathing ragged and loud in the suddenly silent foyer. His dark eyes cleared slowly, revealing a horrifying mixture of shock, guilt, and exhausted recognition.
He looked at me, then his gaze dropped to my throat. The sight of the dark, blossoming marks…the undeniable evidence of his brutal desperation…broke him.
"Fuck," he whispered, the sound thick with self-loathing. "Shit, Bel, I'm sorry. I…I lost it." His fingers hovered near the deepest bruise, which pulsed with fresh, raw pain. "They hurt," he murmured, guilt pouring off him.
I forced a shaky, immediate smile and lifted my hand, gently covering his. I ignored the fierce sting, the silent message of my endurance more important than my honesty.
"It's just skin, Jay," I lied smoothly, meeting his gaze with a cold, clear focus. "It doesn't matter. It will fade soon. We need to focus."
He didn't argue. He wrapped his arms around me…not in passion, but in a tight, protective embrace, allowing his weight to be a comforting shield instead of a crushing demand. He held me there, against the cold wall and the discarded shopping bags, accepting my sacrifice. He would deal with the pain of his actions later. Now, we have my father to destroy.