“No, he didn’t. But he’s gone now.” My voice is soft. Right now, I want only to soothe.

He runs his fingers through his hair and sighs. He looks so tired, and I just want to pull him close and hold him. I reach for him and gently take his hand.

“You’re exhausted, and you have to be at the police station in the morning.” I give his hand a tug as I start to turn away. “Come on, you need to sleep.”

I lead him below deck to the area that serves as his office, then start toward the door that leads down to the stateroom.

Jackson pulls me back. “No.” The word is rough, and I turn back to see his face and the wild hunger that I should have expected. Because it is not sleep that Jackson needs now. Not when the world is crashing down around us.

He pulls me to him, giving me no choice but to stumble toward him. I crash against him, breathing hard, my body trembling with answering desire.

“How could I sleep when tonight might be our last night? When the goddamn guillotine is poised to cut off my head?”

“Don’t,” I beg. I know the truth too damn well, and I don’t want to hear it out loud.

“Don’t what? Don’t touch you? Don’t need you?” His lips brush my ear as he speaks, deliberately misunderstanding me. “Don’t take everything I need from you so that I can hold it close to me tomorrow, and the next day, and the next?”

“Please, Jackson. I don’t want—”

“The truth?” He pulls his head back so that he is looking straight into my eyes, and I look away, ashamed because that is exactly what I want to avoid. “I’m not hiding from reality, baby, and neither are you.” He trails his fingertip over the curve of my ear, then slowly down my neck. “I need you, Sylvia. I always need you. But tonight—if you pushed me away tonight—”

“What?” Already, I am limp with desire. Already, I am his to do with what he will.

His mouth curves into a slow smile, and I see a dangerous kind of heat flare in his eyes. “I’d just take what I want, however I want.” With a violent tug he slams my pelvis against his. He’s rock hard, his hand on my ass giving me no place to go, nowhere to shift, while his other hand cups my breast roughly even as his mouth crashes hard over mine.

It’s a full-on assault, startling in its swiftness, its heat, its power. “Yes.” The word is a groan, my body molding to his as electricity rips through me, filling me with spark and sizzle and making my body hum.

“Tell me you want it,” he whispers when he breaks the kiss. “To bend to my will. To hand me the key to your pleasure. To be the instrument of mine.”

With each word I am getting wetter, and my breasts are painfully tight inside my bra. I want to shift my hips and move in slow rhythmic motions until I find some satisfaction. I don’t. I force myself to remain still.

“Tell me, Sylvia,” he repeats. “Tell me I can take you. Whenever and however I want.”

I tilt my head up. I look him in the eyes. “No,” I whisper, as a wild, forbidden heat washes through me, soaking my panties and making my nipples so sensitive that even the slight motion from breathing is like a sensual assault.

He holds my gaze for a moment, and this time his eyes are flat. The twitch of a muscle in his cheek is the only evidence of any emotion that I see.

Then he roughly cups his hands over my breasts. He squeezes, his thumbs and forefingers finding my nipples and teasing them through the thin material of my blouse and the lace of my bra. “I’m going to fuck you so hard,” he says, as his fingers send wild currents of heat ripping through me.

Swiftly, he claims my mouth in a kiss that leaves me gasping once he’s moved on, brushing his lips over my neck, then over my blouse to tease my already sensitive breasts.

I try desperately to stay upright despite the fact that I’m feeling just a little dizzy. He drops to his knees and tilts his head back to look up at me. And though it is Jackson who is on his knees, there is no doubt that he is the one in charge. “Take off your clothes.”

I shake my head.

His brow quirks just slightly. “Take off your clothes.” This time, each word is stressed.

I lick my lips. “No.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, and he stands up slowly. “No?”

I meet his eyes defiantly. “I thought you were taking what you wanted.”

“I am,” he says. “What I want is your submission.”

“Oh.”

I see a flash of victory in his eyes before he starts to walk away. “Decide how you want to play the game, sweetheart. But know that I’m only willing to play by my rules.”

He is almost to the steps that lead back to the deck when I call out to him. He turns, his brow raised in silent query.

I slip off my ballet flats. And then, as he slowly walks back toward me, I peel myself out of my jeans, taking my underwear with them. He reaches down, then uses the tip of his finger to lift them off the deck of the boat. “Lace. Very nice.”

“I’m glad you approve.” My voice sounds breathy. I’m standing there in only a T-shirt and bra. The window facing the ocean is open, and the cool night air teases my already soaked cunt until I am right there on the edge, waiting to go over, and wanting that push so badly that I’m not sure I can survive the anticipation.

“No more,” he says, and it takes me a moment to realize he means the panties.

“I—what?”

“Don’t wear them.” He meets my eyes. “When I think of you, I want to think of you bare. But do wear the necklace. From now on. Until I say otherwise.”

“Oh.” Little tremors of pleasure course through me. The necklace is a chain with a small pendant that is actually a vibrator. It’s lovely and classy and deliciously effective. And I haven’t worn it since before we left for Santa Fe.

I nod. “Yes,” I say. And when he lifts a brow, I amend to, “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. But you’re still not naked.”

“Oh.” I’d gotten distracted. “Right.” I pull my shirt off and toss it on the deck, then drop my bra on top of it.

“You’re so beautiful.” He brushes a single fingertip up the curve of my hip. “It’s a rare thing to get to touch something of such beauty.” As he speaks, he draws his finger higher, the contact light but oh-so powerful. He traces a line beneath my breast. The touch is as gentle as a butterfly’s kiss, and yet so intense it sends shuddering waves of electricity rolling through me.

When he pulls his finger away, breaking the contact between us, I whimper.

“In museums, the rules are clear. Anyplace, in fact, where there is something of beauty, no touching is allowed.”

He bends to whisper in my ear. He is not touching me, but his breath as he speaks is as potent as a caress. “But those rules don’t apply to an owner. So tell me, Sylvia. Are you mine?”

“Yes. Oh, god yes.”

“Touching,” he repeats as if I hadn’t spoken. “Exploring and teasing.” As if in illustration of his words, he draws a single fingertip lightly over my body. My arms. My shoulders. The back of my neck.

There is nothing particularly sensual about any of the places he explores, and yet he fires my senses everywhere he touches, and threads of electricity stream from his fingertips all the way to my core, making me weak and wet and terribly impatient.

He drops to his knees, his hands now holding me steady at my hips. He tilts his head back and I look down and meet his eyes, and the desire and heat I see there humbles me.

He eases forward, pressing his mouth to my abdomen, then trails kisses down, lower and lower, following the landing strip of pubic hair to the soft skin at the juncture of my thighs. I am lost now, floating in some wild place where I have been reduced to little more than sensation and need, desire and demand. And when he uses his tongue to gently lave my clit, I arch back as crackling threads of pleasure shoot through me to converge at my sex.

I’m right there, floating on the edge, and all I need is one tiny push to send me over. Another flick of his tongue. Another stroke of his finger. I have been reduced to pure need, to desperate want.