by J. Kenner
In other words, I’m a hot mess. Last night, Damien stirred me up, only to leave me hanging, and during the night, my own imagination fueled my blood even more. This morning I woke to find my own fingers between my legs, trying to satisfy an aching need. Wanting Damien, I rolled over, then discovered that not only was I alone, but that his side of the bed was cold.
I’d followed the delicious smells to the kitchen, certain that not only would Damien give me the verdict on my proposal, but also finally scratch the sensual itch that was on the verge of driving me mad.
He’d done the first. He’d started the second.
And then he’d left me with what can only be described as feminine blue balls.
My only consolation is that he is undoubtedly as sexually frustrated as I am.
At the moment, that’s a small consolation.
I pad barefoot down the short hall leading to the bedroom. I lean against one side of the double doors and watch as Damien lifts a leather duffel off the bed, then drops it onto the floor next to another one, identical except for being slightly larger.
“Packing already? We don’t leave until tomorrow.” We’re taking one of the smaller jets in the Stark International fleet to New Jersey tomorrow, where the Lear Bombardier Global 8000 is currently hangered. It’s huge, comfortable, and at least as luxurious as the QE2 must have been for crossing the Atlantic. Only the Bombardier is much, much speedier.
From New Jersey, we’re flying to Brussels where we’re having dinner with various Stark division heads the evening of our arrival. The next day, I’ll be at the trade show while Damien does his executive juggling act as he meets with key players on his European management teams and also attends various functions at the trade show.
None of that, however, requires packing today.
Except when I point that out, all Damien says is, “You should get dressed.” As he speaks, he nods toward the closet, where I see that he’s hung a short-sleeved V-neck tee along with a soft knit maxi-skirt with slits on both sides. It’s my favorite traveling outfit, as Damien well knows.
I eye him suspiciously. “What are you—”
“I believe I told you to get dressed.” His brows rise with the words—and mine do the same.
Interesting.
I incline my head. “Yes, sir.” Since my head is bent, I allow myself a secret smile. Now, I think. Now things are getting interesting.
As soon as I pull the clothes down, I see that while Damien has dangled a bra on a hanger, there are no panties included in the mix. I catch his eye, then dart my gaze to the chest of drawers.
Should I grab a pair?
The tiniest, most miniscule shake of his head.
In other words, not an oversight.
The plot thickens.
I keep my expression bland, then shimmy out of my sleep shorts. I’m not wearing anything under them, either. And as soon as I pull the top over my head and drop it to the floor, I’m standing casually—and completely naked—in front of Damien. I turn slightly, pretending to study the garment, then put my finger in my mouth, sucking gently, as if I’m contemplating some intense wardrobe question.
I make it a point not to look at Damien, but I slowly draw my finger out of my mouth, then trail it down my body, over my tight nipple, down over my belly, then over my waxed sex until I’m stroking myself. And then, despite my best intentions to stay silent, I moan aloud—how can I not when it’s Damien who is touching me, at least in my mind?
And then—oh, thank God, yes—it’s Damien’s hands I feel up on me. Damien’s fingers teasing my heated skin as he stands behind me, his breath on my bare shoulders as his hand slides down, over my breasts, my belly, and then my slick, swollen core.
He touches me, and my knees almost give out. I hold onto the closet door as hundreds of sparks snap and pop inside me as his finger teases me, slipping inside me, and making my body clench as if I could keep him there, connected to me, simply by the force of my will.
Not possible though, and soon he’s tugged his hand away. I whimper, and as I do, I feel his hand on my ass. Not a quick, tantalizing smack, but an agonizingly sensual stroke between my cheeks until he is teasing my ass with one finger and with the other he’s pinching my nipple.
Slowly, he slips his finger past the tight muscle, and my body sings with relief as the digit enters me. I want him. There. Everywhere. I want nothing more than to be filled by Damien and, finally, I’m about to get my wish.
But then his lips brush the back of my ear, his breath teasing my neck. “Don’t start things we don’t have time to finish, or you’ll be the one who suffers. Sorry, baby. But we have to go.”
I keep my curiosity at bay until we arrive at the Stark Hanger, and then when I see that it is the large, trans-Atlantic jet instead of the smaller plane, I can’t hold back any longer. “Okay, Mister,” I say. “What do you have planned? Why are we going early, and why is the jet here?”
I’m not sure what I expect. Considering the trade show is only one day away, we can’t be detouring to London for a sensual tour of underground clubs. Not that we usually do that, but Damien took me to such a club when we were in Paris once. And though things did get a little out of control—what with the obnoxious press—I have to say it was worth it, giving me a whole new perspective on just how powerful sight can be when it comes to sexual arousal. But surely there’s nothing like that on the current agenda?
Then again, I’m still banking on spectacular…
Which is why I can’t help the wave of disappointment when he says, “I know it’s inconvenient, but there are some things I have to take care of in the New York office. It’s last minute, and it has to happen tonight. But this way I can hide you away in the apartment and order you to wait for me.” A smile teases his lips. “Possibly tied naked to the bed.”
“Oh.” A shiver runs through me. Anticipation, yes. But also disappointment. As much as I subscribe to the all things come to those who wait school of thought, I’d hoped we were done with the waiting portion of the equation.
He strokes my cheek, then runs the pad of his thumb over my lower lip. “You know I’ll make it up to you, right? And I thought I’d start as soon as we’re at altitude.”
He says the last with such promise that I can only nod eagerly. After all, I’m well aware of the sensual possibilities aboard that plane, and I can’t help but wonder if he ordered it back to Los Angeles specifically so that we’d have the Bombardier’s bedroom. But of course he didn’t—he told me this crisis only just came up. Even though the jet is fast, it still takes about five hours to cross the continent. No way could it have zipped over here that quickly from New Jersey.
By the time we’re on board, I’m no longer pondering the question. It’s not worth the mental energy, and I’m too busy enjoying the wine and appetizers that Katie, the attendant who routinely works Damien’s flights, has offered us.
Damien spends the moments before takeoff sending texts on his phone and making sure that everything is in place to make his evening as efficient as possible so that he is away from me for as short a time as he can manage. As for me, I let my mind wander, considering the idea of telling Damien not to hurry while I go see Second Floor, Third Door on the Right. It’s a new Broadway musical that premiered only a few months ago and is getting rave reviews. I’d want to see it for the reviews alone, but I also learned that the second female lead is Kierstan Langley, the only other pageant contestant I even came close to bonding with during my horrific days in the world of swimsuit competitions and tiaras.
I say nothing, however. I know that Damien could easily wrangle me a ticket—that’s what he does, after all. But I also know that he’s solidly booked. And the truth is, I don’t really want to see a sentimental romantic musical without my husband beside me.
“A refill, Mrs. Stark?” I look up to see Katie standing beside me, and realize that we’ve reached altitude while I was lost in my thoughts.
I’m about to say yes, but Damien puts hi
s hand over my glass. “That’s all for now, Katie. We’ll ring you from the stateroom when we’d like another round.”
“Of course, Mr. Stark.” She immediately leaves, closing the door between her station and the passenger compartment.
Damien turns to me, raw sensuality burning in his eyes. “You know the way, Mrs. Stark. I’ll follow you shortly.”
My sex clenches in response to that heated promise, and my nipples are suddenly as tight as pebbles. I nod, then stand. I start to walk to the back of the plane, but the rough sound as he clears his throat halts me.
“Did you forget something?”
I turn. “Yes, sir,” I say, then don’t move again until he’s nodded acquiescence.
It’s a game with us, and yet more than a game, too. Because the truth is, I crave his control as much as he needs my submission. I need the sting of his palm to tame my own demons, and he needs the use of my body to conquer a past that too often threatens to rise up and consume him. We complete each other, Damien and I, and I sometimes wonder how I would have made it through this world if our paths had never crossed.
The stateroom is at the back of the plane past the main passenger area. It is, essentially, a bedroom fit for a five-star hotel, only with the various details necessary to ensure against disaster in the event we hit an air pocket. A bed with straps—and not just for naughty, sexy times—tables with bungees to hold items down. Drawers that require a flip of a latch to open. But all of these things are so well camouflaged that the first impression upon entering the room is nothing more than elegance.
Today, my first impression is also delight. Because there, in the middle of the lushly made bed, is a small package wrapped in silver. The box is flat, and I glance down at my ankle where I am wearing the emerald and diamond anklet that Damien bought me even before we were truly together—though it’s hard to believe there ever was such a time.
When I pick up the box, I frown. Because though I had expected jewelry, there’s no heft to this box at all. A delicate chain, perhaps?
Because I know Damien, I’m certain that I’m supposed to open it even before he joins me, and so I use my fingernail to slice the paper, then pull apart the halves of the box. When I do, it’s not jewelry I see, but two tickets to Second Floor, Third Door on the Right. I gasp, my free hand covering my mouth. And I’m so delighted by the gift that I almost don’t notice the handwritten note inside the top part of the box: Bend over the bed. Stay clothed. Spread your legs. Close your eyes.
I take a second to savor the moment, because this is what I’ve been wanting. The Damien who is about to walk through that door and see me. The man who heard me mention the show only one time in passing, and yet understood that it was important to me.
The man who has put on a whole show for me so that I wouldn’t suspect that this added-on trip to New York was a surprise for my benefit.
The man I love and crave.
The man, I think as I hear the door latch click, now standing beside me.
“Thank you,” I say as he walks up behind me, then cups my rear with both hands. I’m still clothed, but the skirt is thin, and I’m not wearing underwear, and the heat from his palms seems to seep into my blood. My legs are spread as he’d ordered, and it takes all my willpower not to bring my legs tight together to try to relieve some of the pressure that is building between my thighs. But that’s impossible. And all I can do is revel in the growing intensity of the need that threatens to consume me.
“I don’t believe I told you to talk,” he says as his hands slide to the sides of my hips, then over my scars as he moves down to the slit on either slide of the skirt. Now his hands are on my bare flesh, and as he moves them back to my rear, he tugs the skirt up as well until it is bunched around my waist, leaving me still clothed, but also fully exposed to him.
“No, sir,” I say. “Maybe you should punish me.”
“Maybe I should,” he murmurs as he slides his hand roughly between my legs, making me cry out when his fingers find my core and I realize just how incredibly sensitive and hyperaware my body is.
“Do you have any idea how much I want you? How much I love you?”
“I do,” I say, because it’s true. Damien has never held back. He loves me wholly. Completely. And I love him.
“I wanted to take this slow. A long seduction. A five-hour tease. But I can’t. Christ, Nikki, I have to be inside you.”
“Yes.” My word is a plea as much as acquiescence, and I hear his zipper as he opens his jeans and frees his cock. He’s rock hard, and he strokes the tip along my perineum, driving me almost mad.
“Stroke yourself,” he orders. “Touch me. I want to feel your hand as I fuck you. And after you come, I’m going to lay you out naked on this bed and take you so slowly you lose your mind.”
“Do you promise?” I ask, making him laugh.
“God, you’re so wet.” His cock is teasing my core, one hand at my waist as he guides himself to my center with the other hand, telling me he’s trying to go slowly, but he’s not sure that he can.
As it is, he manages, though it’s torture for us both. That, of course, is the point. And as he’s moving in and out of me in slow, teasing motions, my body stiffens, my need so intense that I can’t hold back the cry—the plea—to please, please, please fuck me.
And Damien, thank goodness, doesn’t hesitate. He buries himself in me with one deep, intense thrust, then closes his hand over mine, our fingers teasing my clit together as he fills me—deeper and deeper, his arm around my waist keeping our bodies in a tight rhythm as he claims me.
It begins as sparks, as the orgasm so often does with me. Little fireflies in my blood that grow and change and sparkle until finally blossoming into pyrotechnical delight in an explosion so mind-blowing that I often wonder how I can be whole again after what Damien does to me. But I always am, and now, when my knees go weak and I start to sink, he scoops me up and puts me gently on the bed before climbing on beside me.
I manage a half-hearted grin. “We’re both still dressed.”
“I’ll take care of that very soon,” he says. “Trust me, baby. I’m just getting started.”
I sigh with pleasure, then take his hand. “Damien,” I say, my fingers twining with his. “Before you spend the next few hours making me lose myself in a sea of orgasmic bliss—and before we land and you spoil me rotten with the play—”
“And I’m taking you backstage.”
I mentally swoon.
“Thank you,” I whisper. “But it’s just—well, I want to tell you—”
“What?”
“I love you.” The words seem heavy, as if the import of them is so great I can barely get them out.
His smile is slow, his eyes more tender than I think I’ve ever seen. “Do you think I don’t know that?”
“I know that you do,” I say. “Maybe that’s why it’s important to say it.” I swallow back the ridiculous threat of tears. “I don’t ever want to take us for granted. Not anything about us.”
“You won’t. We won’t.”
“Thank you for erasing a little bit of the worry about Brussels, too,” I say, then flash an impish grin. “I haven’t had a moment to think about it during the flight, and with everything you have planned for tonight, I won’t have any time to be worried then, either.”
“And I intend to keep you just as busy on the transatlantic portion of our trip tomorrow.” The heat in his voice leaves no mistake as to what exactly he means.
“I’m exceptionally glad to hear that.”
He lifts our joint hands, then kisses my knuckles. “Seriously, baby, you have no reason to be nervous. You’re going to do great.”
I smile—a genuine, confident smile. “I know I am.” I meet his eyes, basking in the love reflected back at me. “How can I not, with you on my side?”
Favorite Quotes
You’ll find favorite reader quotes scattered throughout the book! Enjoy!
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Sexy Text
A fun and sexy text from another Christmas novella, Unwrap Me!
At the Ocean
Chapter 1 (The Beach) is fun bonus content I wrote in 2016 —long before Nikki and Damien had kids—for a promotional newsletter in advance of a 2017 beachside conference! Later, in 2017, I wrote The Hotel as bonus content in my newsletter.
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The cool ocean breeze caresses my face as I sip coffee on the back patio of the Malibu bungalow that Damien recently built for me. It’s fall, and the air is crisp and clean. I’m in a thin nightgown, and goose bumps rise on my bare arms. I hug myself in defense against the chill as I look out over the beach that is the backyard and the waves crashing against the shore, so close I can feel the spray on my face.
It’s been a hell of a week.
Nothing horrific, thank goodness. No family drama. No threats from outside. None of the kinds of things that, not so long ago, would have made me curl up into a ball. Or, worse, would make me crave the sweet release of a blade against my skin. Just a tiny cut to release the pressure. Just enough so that I could go on.
This wasn’t that kind of a week. It was just busy. Just hard. Too many meetings and too many projects. A good problem to have, I suppose, but I’d managed only about four hours sleep each night. And since my husband, Damien, had been away from home on a two-week long review of various Stark International subsidiaries, I’d had no real incentive to leave work early. The house is just too damn empty without him.
He’s back now, though. He’d come yesterday and I’m happy to say that my lack of sleep last night had nothing to do with too much work.
