I’d read all about it at the time, both because I was following Jackson’s career, despite the fact that we weren’t together then, and because architecture is a passion of mine. And because I’d followed it, I knew what came after—a murder-suicide that tainted the spectacular property, forever burying the exquisite architecture under a layer of scandal.

Though I haven’t read the script, I’ve been told that it focuses on the family, but that Jackson plays a role, too, supposedly as the reason the young woman took her own life and that of one of her sisters.

And though I know that Jackson was long gone by the time the murder took place, I also know that it’s true he doesn’t want the movie made. Not only has he told me so, but I also know that he punched out the screenwriter.

Reed, however, isn’t the kind to back down. And although the real reason Jackson assaulted him was in retribution over what Reed did to me so many years ago, as far as the public knows, that assault was Jackson’s way to, once again, express his displeasure about the in-development project.

One day, I want Jackson to tell me the full story behind the house and the secret he is so determined to protect. Right now, though, I’m interested only in my own secret.

“I know you’ll do whatever you can,” I tell him. “But that doesn’t erase my fear that it’s all going to come out. And I know that’s unreasonable, but I can’t shake it. I feel like I’m losing my grip, and I know that’s ridiculous because it’s those stupid ad photos, and no one even cares about those.”

“You do.” His voice is gentle, and his hand is stroking my leg again. “And it’s not the pictures that are bothering you. It’s what happened when he took them. It’s how you felt—and now you’re remembering it all over again. It’s about what he stole from you.”

“Control,” I whisper. “And choice. He took them both away.”

I’d been so young. And I’d wanted so badly to run. To hide. To shut off my emotions, my feelings. But he’d touched me, and he’d aroused me. He’d made me feel sexual pleasure along with horrible shame. And he’d made me come.

I’d hated him for that, but I think I hated myself more.

“Yes,” Jackson says. “He took that from you. Ripped it away. Stole it. Baby, you need to steal it back.”

I close my eyes. “I don’t know how,” I say, and I hear my voice tremble.

“Yes, you do.” His words are firm. Commanding. “You steal it back. You take back control, and you give it to me. Not because I’m demanding, but because you’re giving.”

As he speaks, he continues to stroke my leg. Only now his touches are going higher, skimming under my skirt above my knee. Grazing along my inner thigh.

The movements are casual, almost innocent. As if he’s not even aware that he is doing it. But I know that he is, of course. Jackson does nothing unintentionally. And right now, he is very slowly and very methodically teasing my senses. Getting me very wet, and very, very turned on.

“You think you hate not being in control?” he asks, without missing a beat. “Let me prove to you that you like it. Because when you’ve given it away, sweetheart, I know that you do.” His fingers are only inches from my panties, and I am tense with longing.

“Say it.” Though his voice is soft, his words are firm. Deliberate. And I know that he will not touch me until I concede. Or, rather, until I cede control to him. Until I submit to whatever sweet pleasure he intends for me.

“Yes.” My word is a whisper, and even as I speak, I shiver in anticipation.

“Good girl,” he says, and then he very gently strokes the edge of my panties between my thigh and my crotch before cruelly pulling his hand away.

I actually whimper.

“Oh, yes,” he says. “You like it.”

I feel my cheeks heat, but I can hardly deny the truth. Not when my body tingles with anticipation. Not when I know that right now I would do anything he asked of me if the prize was Jackson’s touch.

“Take off your panties.”

I lick my lips. “Why?”

His eyes flick to me. “Because I told you to,” he says, and I immediately melt, my cunt going wet and my nipples straining against my bra. Yes, I think. This is what I need. I want to lose myself. To abandon control. To let him take me as far as I can go, and then safely bring me home again.

I meet his eyes and nod. And then, because I’m both aroused and inspired, I whisper, “Yes, sir,” and am rewarded with his low, sensual growl of approval.