“Yes.” The word is hard and full of meaning. I want this—him. All I can think of right now is his hand inside me—and I shift my hips in silent, desperate invitation. “Oh, god, yes,” I say again as he thrusts deep into me. Two fingers, then three.

His mouth is over mine again, then on my neck, my collar, my breast. We’re pressed up against the thick glass, and I wonder if we cast a shadow, but I don’t care. Right then, I’m not even sure that I would care if the glass were fully transparent instead of mirrored from the perspective of the club. All I can think of is this. Pleasure. Ferocity. Passion.

Jackson.

“Here.” The single syllable is harsh and short, but I don’t think I have ever heard a word so full of need.

He pulls me away from the window, turning me so that I am facing the desk that is behind us. It’s large and the surface is mostly clear, just a few documents scattered about.

With one arm, Jackson sends the papers flying, then bends me over the desk so that my breasts are hard against its wooden surface. I’m still dressed—blouse, bra—and yet I feel the pressure of the desktop against my breasts so intimately that my nipples tighten painfully and red hot threads of sensation shoot from my chest all the way to my cunt.

“I have to have you,” he says. “Christ, Syl, I have to fuck you.”

“Yes.” It’s all I can say. All I need to say.

My skirt is still up around my waist, and now he yanks my underwear down so that it is almost to my ankles. I hear his zipper and spread my legs, and then his cock is right there and he is thrusting inside me with no foreplay, no teasing, no effort to get me ready.

It is hot and fast and frenzied, and dammit, I love this. This feeling of being needed. Of being used. Of being Jackson’s release valve. Not violence, not anger. But me.

He is holding my hips, pounding hard into me. And though I have never orgasmed like this, without any attention at all to my clit, right now I am almost there. The pressure of his cock inside me. The rhythm of his thrusts stroking my walls. And most of all the wild excitement of knowing what he is doing and why he is doing it.

I feel his own release coming. Hear his muffled groan as he tries to hold back. The tightening of his grip on my hips when it can’t be stopped and his release cuts through him. And I follow him over, exploding into a million tiny pieces even as he collapses, exhausted and spent, over my back.

For a moment, we are simply silent. Then he gently gets off me and uses tissues to clean us both up. He slides my panties back up and tugs my skirt down into place. Then he turns me around and straightens my blouse.

Once I’m put back together and well tended to, he takes care of his own clothes. Then he studies my face and says simply, “I needed you. Christ, Syl,” he adds with rising emotion, “I always need you.”

“I know the feeling.” I pull myself up to sit on the desk, and he gets on beside me. I lean against him. We’re facing the glass wall, and I look out at the crowd and lights below us. “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

He doesn’t answer at first, and I tell myself that I shouldn’t push him. A moment passes. Then another. And it is becoming harder and harder for me not to say anything.

Finally, he speaks. “He came up to me like it’s a done deal.” His voice is low. Even. But I can hear the anger underlying it. “Like the movie’s going forward and there’s not a damn thing I can do to stop it.”

“You’ll stop it,” I say. “If it’s that important you’ll find a way.”

He nods, but he doesn’t look convinced.

I hesitate, then make myself go on. “But, Jackson, I still don’t understand—would it really be that horrible if it was made? I get that it digs into the family’s personal lives, but the papers have already covered the murder, right? And so did a lot of the news magazines and television news shows. So how much worse could a movie be?”

He turns to look at me. “Trust me. It would be worse.”

I wait for him to continue—to explain—but he doesn’t. Instead, he just turns back toward the window and looks out at the club.

I don’t press him.

And I do trust him.

But still, the question lingers. And, yes, my heart aches a bit. Because though I don’t understand why, I am certain that he is keeping things from me. Secrets. Big ones—big enough, at least, to eat him up inside.

I want to press, but I don’t. After all, I’m keeping secrets, too. He knows the what about the stuff that happened with Reed, but he doesn’t know the how or the why.