"Listen, Jackson, I need to know: why did you abandon me? That night at the end of the summer, we had plans to meet. We were going to meet up, and we were going to run away together. But when I showed up you weren't there. You weren't there. Why? Why did you lie to me?"

  My heart drops into my stomach, and guilt overwhelms me. Maddy's pain radiates off her like a wave. She deserved so much better than the way I treated her.

  "It doesn’t matter,” I say. “We shouldn't be talking about this. We're supposed to keep this to just business, remember?"

  "No, you don't get to take a cop-out answer. You owe me the truth. After everything you put me through, it's the least you can do."

  Another beer hits our table, along with another negroni.

  I snatch mine up, needing the liquid courage under the intensity of Maddy's eyes.

  "You're right to feel angry with me, Maddy. I know I wronged you." Another gulp of beer wrests some more words out of me. "That night, I was nervous. Beyond nervous. Full-on butterflies, the works. But I was excited, too, because I was younger and had that crazy optimism that we could run off and conquer the world together. I knew that, with someone as smart as you by my side, we could do anything."

  "So what happened?"

  "He showed up."

  "Who?"

  "Alexander." I want to spit that name on the floor, and if we were in a less-elegant bar, I'd do it. But we're here at the Tempo Tavern, and I'm with a woman who’s used to class and sophistication, so I hold off. "Alexander and some of his fucking goons."

  "What the hell? How?"

  "I don’t know, but he knew everything. He showed up, and he was prepared."

  "Prepared?"

  "Armed. He threatened to put my dad's mechanic shop out of business. He threatened to ruin your family. Not just pull out of the deal and withhold the money, but ruin you. And there was something else..."

  She leans forward, eyes wide; the negroni sits on the table in front of her, ignored.

  "What?"

  "He said that he had one of his men outside your house. One of his bodyguards." I grit my teeth, the pain and anger of that moment resurfacing through me with ferocity. “And…”

  "Jackson? What was it?"

  "That bastard said that, unless I left right that minute, unless I cut off all contact and disappeared off the face of the fucking earth, leaving Costa Oscura and everyone I love behind, so that he could have you all to himself—so that he could own you—he'd have his man shoot you."

  "You're lying," she gasps, voice a fervent mix of denial and anger. She drinks half her negroni and slams it down so hard that the rest sloshes over the side, soaking the table.

  "You're lying. There's no way. No way. He wouldn't dare. He wouldn't..."

  "He would and you know it. You've experienced it. That's why I left, Madison. I left because I couldn't live with the risk of you being hurt. I would rather go my entire lifetime suffering if I knew it kept you safe." I pause, further words sitting on my tongue, words that I know I should hold back, words that could ruin this strictly business arrangement between us, but I can't lie to those all-consuming emerald eyes. She looks at me as if she knows exactly what I'm going to say, as if I'm taking the same words from her lips. On the stage, the musicians switch songs, begin to play something that's deep, slow, and burns with forbidden desire. "I left because I loved you, Maddy, and it was the only way to keep you safe. I loved you then, and I lo—"

  Suddenly, she reaches out and grabs my hand, seizing it in a firm grip.

  She stands, pulling me with her.

  "I adore this song. After all the craziness today, I need a break. I need to feel good. Will you dance with me?"

  Chapter Sixteen

  Madison

  Every vowel, every consonant, every syllable, I know it all before it leaves his mouth. How?

  Because they're also sitting on my lips, coming from my heart, waiting to spring forth and ruin everything. No one else has been so selfless, so dedicated, so throw-their-body-on-the-line in love with me as Jackson.

  To everyone, I'm a line-item on a resume or a bargaining chip; to Jackson, I am everything.

  It shocks me how close I come to letting him confess out loud what we both feel.

  But thankfully, I come to my senses, grasp his hand and seize on a distraction: the lovely music coming from the stage.

  “Will you dance with me?”

  “Always.”

  Jackson and I sway together to the romantic melody coming from the stage. His embrace is strong and protective, his hold on me gentle. He looks deeply into my eyes like he can see right through my soul to my secrets.

  Probably because my eyes mirror the same secrets he's holding in his soul: that those emotions that we thought were dead between us are stirring back to life the way an earth stirs to live during an earthquake; powerful, overwhelming, all-consuming.

  My heart wants so desperately to tell him how I feel—that I'm in love with him, but I can't bring myself to do it, whether because of fear or confusion or the realization that our roles are only temporary, I don’t know. Yet I am certain that, love or not, this is only temporary; in days, once Alexander and his family cough up the money, we'll separate, disappear, and this will be nothing more than a tumultuous memory of a turning point in my life, something I look back upon with a heartbroken smile.

  The music wraps around us like a cocoon, shielding us from the rest of the world.

  We move slowly and gracefully, as if we were meant to be dancing together forever instead of for only a moment. My head rests against his chest as I listen to his heartbeat, feel sublime contentment as we share this intimate moment together. We sway. I feel his skin on mine, his muscular chest supporting my cheek. We embrace. I smell him and that smell stirs up so many potent, loving memories of when I was a younger, more innocent woman finding solace in the company of a rebellious man. He turns me. I think of the stars Vega and Altair swirling together in the Summer Triangle in the night sky, the two of them kept forever apart except, as the legend of the Cowherd and the Weaver Girl says, once every seven years, when a bridge forms in the heavens to unite the two fated lovers for a single day.

  Now, I feel that bridge forming for me.

  But even as we dance, the thought of our scheme teases at the back of my mind. Any declaration of love between us could ruin everything—our plan, our relationship, such as it is, and even our chances to survive—but I feel so sure that Jackson is the one I was meant to be with forever.

  He doesn't speak as we dance. Maybe he can't speak, just like I can't trust myself to speak without revealing what I feel in my heart. There's this worry I have that no matter what words my brain sends to my lips, my heart and my traitorous tongue will turn it into the ones I so desperately want to say: I love you still, Jackson Reid. Despite how you hurt me, I forgive you, and I love you with every beat of my aching heart. I don’t want our ‘now’ to come only when the stars align; I want to spend my life in your embrace the same way you’re holding me now.

  Then the music ends.

  The musicians announce that they're taking a short recess, and I look up at him.

  "Thank you," I murmur, keeping my voice low and my tongue and heart in check.

  "What now?"

  I don't trust my tongue, so instead I take his hand and lead him back to the table, where already a fresh round is waiting for us.

  But we don't make it all the way to our seats.

  Just steps away, he tightens his grip on my wrist and he pulls me to a stop. Turning, I look up at him, a question and surprise in my eyes.

  "I know what you're doing, Maddy."

  "You do?"

  "Don't think I'm not feeling exactly what you're feeling. I've struggled with this for over four years, Maddy. The pain, the regret, the fury of seeing you in the arms of another man... it's torture," he says. My heart crescendos in my chest; my lips, my tongue, my fingers, my toes—everything vibrates with the electric tenor in his voice. I know I should stop him, I know I should keep him from saying anything further, from ruining this tenuous balance we have between us, but I am powerless against the furious intensity of his eyes. "So I won't say it. But there is something I'll do. Something I know we both want."

  "What?"

  "This."

  He puts a hand on my hip and pulls me into him. Then he kisses me. Once, long and deep. With that one kiss, he shocks my heart to life and I realize it hasn't truly been beating in over four years.

  This is wrong. So wrong, my brain screams at me. Stop this or you'll ruin everything.

  For a moment, I resist.

  Press down my urges, place my hands upon his chest and push, just a little. I even manage a second's worth of separation between our two burning bodies.

  It’s enough time to look up into his fiery blue eyes, to lose myself and my resistance once more, and to rise on my tiptoes to kiss him. His tongue brushes mine, coaxes a moan from my chest, and I reach around him to grab his firm, handful-sized ass. Damn, what an ass he has. I squeeze it. It's better than I remember—an immensely graspable muscle.

  If this is wrong, I don't want to be right.

  * * * * *

  There's a moment I forget where we are. My heart, my consciousness, my soul, it all feels like it's outside my body, looking down at me—me, some wayward girl who thought she had it all figured out, who thought she was so smart, but is in way out of her depth; a girl who would be so lost, so nothing without the man in front of her, the man who came back and faced death just to pull her out of a dangerous situation.

  Then I snap to.

  Then I realize I'm locking lips with Jackson in the middle of a classy bar, while the bartender and half the customers stare at us openly, while the other half at least pretend to be looking elsewhere, though, in reality, they're staring at us, too.

  This is not how you go incognito.

  But what I'm feeling pounding through my heart is way past the point of stopping. I can only delay it, and not long.

  "We need privacy," I whisper. “Fast.”

  Now that we've stopped actively making out, most of the bar patrons are back to paying attention to each other.

  He nods, takes my hand, and we head to the back of the bar and down a hallway.

  "Here," he says, pushing open the door to a bathroom.

  I take one look, grab the door, and pull it closed. "No."

  "You change your mind?"

  "Not that. There's only two toilets for the entire bar. This one," I say, rapping on the door. Then I rap on the door next to it. "And this one. It doesn't take a math genius to figure out that if we take up fifty percent of the toilets in a fancy bar in order to have sex, we have a hundred percent chance of getting the police called on us. We need somewhere different, and we need it now."

  Jackson's gaze goes down the hallway. "There's a supply closet there. Or there's a door to the alley. Your choice."

  I pull him toward the closet. "Madison Sinclair does not have sex in alleys. At least not on the first date."

  "This a date now?"

  "You took me out, bought me drinks, and we are definitely going to have sex. That makes this a date."

  "What about your fiance?" He says. There's a hint of tease in his voice, a burning question. Not that I blame him for wanting to hear out loud what I'm saying with my actions. If I were in his place, I'd want to hear it, too.

  "Fuck Alexander. I want you."

  I throw open the door to the closet, pull him inside, and shut the door behind us. Then I leap at him, pressing my lips to his with a furious desire.

  His hungry lips dance with mine. My tongue responds, teasing, tasting him; my hands do what they ache to do, what they fantasized about every time I subjected myself to Alexander's touch—they explore Jackson’s hardened, scarred, muscular body; they touch tattoos; trace battle wounds earned protecting me; they rest above his heart and feel the pulse that beats for me—a beat that goes faster and faster as I kiss him, while my other hand roams his body and grabs his firm ass; as my hand then twists, turns, and teases its way to grip his rock hard cock through his jeans.

  When I touch that part of him, a deep growl comes from his throat. It is primal. Hungry. "Fuck, Maddy, I've missed you."

  "Yes?" I murmur between kisses, moving my lips along his cheek to nibble at his ear. My hand squeezes his cock again, making him thrust his hips forward, making him moan. "You really missed me?"

  Jackson tries to answer, but I'm too quick for him—I slip open the zipper of his jeans, slide my hand inside, and wrap my fingers around the bare skin of his cock. Its pulsing, heated length throbs at my touch. He gasps.

  Which I suppose is an answer.

  I stroke him, my tongue still playing in his mouth, his hips thrusting in time with the rhythm of my hand. "How bad did you miss me?"

  He moans. It's clear words won't come easy for him.

  Obviously, he needs inspiration to talk.

  So I get down on my knees in front of him, take his cock in both hands, and give it a long lick.

  "Let's add something fun to this. An incentive. Like a business transaction. As long as you keep your mouth busy telling me how much you missed me and what you were feeling during those years you were gone, I'll keep my mouth busy sucking your cock. Agreed? Agreed."

  I don't even wait for him to say something. I know he'll agree; he always loved how I'd suck his cock, and in the time since we were last together, I've only gotten better, more confident, more adult, so I confidently take his cock between my lips and flutter my tongue against his glans, drawing a sharp gasp of pleasure from his lips, before working my hands in a strong, slow stroke that turns that gaps into a low, fiery moan.

  Then I stop. Look up at him.

  "You're not talking, Jackson. Unless you're using your mouth, I'm not using mine," I remind him, then I return to work. But only because I see him open his lips in an effort to form words.

  "Fuck, Maddy, I missed you like crazy the entire fucking time. For months after I left, I could hardly eat, hardly sleep, fuck—" he stops, gasping, as I fill my throat with his thick shaft. Just to see if I still can, because he's so much bigger than I remember and I love a challenge.

  Noting the silence, I slowly extricate his cock from my mouth, and while stroking it, I look up at him expectantly.

  "You were saying?"

  "I couldn't fucking sleep for weeks. I was fucking hard all the time."

  If he was even half as hard then as he is now, I don't know how he'd even leave his apartment, or wherever he was staying, without raising all sorts of eyebrows. I chuckle at the thought. The vibrations in my throat make Jackson gasp.

  "It felt like I couldn't breathe. Like my heart stopped beating. Like the world had lost all color and my life had lost all sense of 'why.' You were a part of me, the best part, the reason, my reason, and I had to give you up..."

  I tighten my grip on his cock, giving it a series of hard, fast pumps that turn into him thrusting and fucking deep in my throat. I shut my eyes and focus on the sense of him using me, of turning my mouth into his little plaything. Fuck, I've missed this. Missed having a man who thinks the world of me, who makes me feel safe, secure, valued, enough that I want to be his dirty slut.

  "Fuck, Maddy, I missed you so much," he says in between gasps. Then I feel his hands on my head, his fingers playing with my hair, his hips thrusting forward and his cock pushing deep inside my mouth. “I missed you, and I need to fuck your mouth. Oh fuck, I need your mouth.”

  But he's so caught up in fucking my face that he stops talking; so I withdraw.

  Look up at him, frowning. I liked where we were going.

  "You stopped talking," I chastise him. Maybe he needs direction. Maybe it's not so easy to focus when someone's sucking your cock. "Were there others, Jackson? Those years you were away, were there others?"

  Slowly, I run my tongue along the length of his cock.

  "They were nothing. Just nameless ways to try to forget about the pain, the emptiness. It never worked."

  I take him back in my mouth, fully sliding him down my throat until I'm choking on his thick cock.

  "Every time I fucked them, I thought about you. Only you. No matter who it was, how hard they tried, what we were doing, I couldn't cum unless I was thinking about you—your lips, your mouth, your ass, your pussy. It had to be you."

  He has a grip on the back of my head now and everything is a vibrant blur of sexual fulfillment—his cock pulsing in my throat, my pussy dripping wet, my hands working his cock, his hips thrusting his cock deeper into my mouth, my lungs burning, aching for air, the rest of me crying out to feel him cum in my throat, to fill my hungry mouth with his thick cum.

  Cum for me, Jackson, I beg silently. I want to feel him shatter to pieces in my mouth. I want to give him that shivering, shaking, break-your-body satisfaction that he could only fantasize about for all those years.

  Cum for me, Jackson.

  "This is, oh shit, Maddy, it's coming. I'm cumming—" He gasps as he fills my throat. I latch my lips tight around his shaft, sucking, swallowing. I don't want to miss a single drop of his cum.

  Every drop goes down my throat.

  When I release him, he is shaking, one hand gripping the wall for support, the other lovingly stroking my hair.

  I stand, smiling, and feel a sense of satisfaction and gratification that I haven't felt in years. A rebellious sense of joy flows through me as I look at my kidnapper-slash-sorta-boyfriend and notice just how hard he is shaking; I just made Bullet shoot.

  "That as good as you remembered?"

  "Fuck, yes, Maddy. My mouth's been watering for you since the first time I saw you. I've been fucking dreaming of you, wondering if I was ever going to get the chance to have you again."

  "Well, now you have me." I touch his face, run my thumb over his lips. "What do you want to do with me?"

  I feel him shudder, feel his cock twitch.

  "I want to do everything with you," he says. "I want to make up for lost time."

  "Then take me," I tell him. "Take me, Jackson. I'm not just your hostage, I'm yours. Completely."