Say My Name by J. Kenner Page A

panties that were nothing more than a tiny triangle of lace. The bra was equally tiny, with almost nonexistent cups that were designed so that a woman’s breasts spilled over the top, adding fullness while keeping her nipples exposed.
    I licked my lips, then put on the lingerie, careful not to run the stockings as I rolled them up each of my legs. Then I stood in front of my full-length mirror and tried to see myself from all sides.
    I looked like sin.
    More important, I felt like it. Hot. Wild. Daring.
    And there was no denying the tingle between my legs when I imagined Jackson buying this. Watching me in it. And then watching me out of it.
    Without thinking, I slid my hand down into the panties, my finger barely stroking my clit before finding my center.
Oh, holy Christ, I am wet.
And when that familiar electric tingle started to shoot through me, I yanked my hand away, as guilty as a teenager.
    Not because I didn’t want to get off, but because I wanted Jackson to be the one to take me there.
    Both aroused and anxious, I slid into the dress, pleased to see it fit perfectly. Then I hurried through my hair and makeup routine, only to find myself dressed and impatient well before Jackson’s scheduled arrival at half-past ten. I spent the time feeling the way I had when I was thirteen and waiting for Billy Tyson to take me on my first date—a movie and a burger, chauffeured to both by his parents. That was back when my life was full of anticipation and wonder. When I trusted my parents to keep me safe and whole. When I lived in a solid middle class bubble that I’d thought, foolishly, was impenetrable.
    That was before my brother got sick.
    That was before
him.
    Stop it.
    I clenched my fists and forced the memories away. I was about to go out on a real date, a very rare occasion for me. And dammit, I liked the way I felt. I wanted to hang on to the feeling. More than that, I deserved to hang on to it.
    I busied myself with making coffee, then didn’t want to drink it for fear it would linger on my breath. When the quick, firm knock sounded promptly at ten-thirty, I just about sprinted to the door.
    “Hey,” I said, breathless as I flung it open, and even more breathless when I saw him standing there, tall and lean, his dark hair windtossed just enough to give him a sexy, reckless vibe. When he stepped inside, his primal, raw scent enveloped me. Earth and wood and rain, blending together in a way that was uniquely Jackson.
    “Don’t move,” he said as he stood just inside my apartment. “I want to look at you.”
    “I like the dress,” I said. “Thank you.”
    “You’re welcome,” he said as his gaze raked over me with such intensity that I was certain he was seeing both the dress—and what was underneath.
    “I like the lingerie, too,” I said boldly, and was rewarded by the heat in his eyes and the way his jaw tightened, as if he was fighting for control.
    “Do you?” he said, and those two simple words seemed to hold a world of questions.
    I lifted my chin slightly, and when I spoke, my voice was breathy. “Yes. Do you want me to show you?”
    “Very much. But not until tonight. In the meantime, I’ll think about just how I’m going to reveal it.”
    “Jackson—” There was no disguising the need in my voice.
    He shook his head, his eyes full of passion and promise. “Tonight. Right now I’m taking you to lunch.”
    I bit back the flurry of questions—where were we going, what were we eating, when would we be back—and forced myself to simply go with it. To let Jackson take the lead. Strangely, it wasn’t hard. Though I rarely slid out of the driver’s seat, with this man it just seemed natural. As if something inside me knew that no matter what happened, he wouldn’t push me too hard.
    But whether that impression was accurate or simply wishful thinking, I really didn’t know.
    Back in the Porsche, Jackson easily maneuvered the Saturday morning traffic. We ended up at Centennial Olympic