Stark After Dark

by J. Kenner

  And yet Damien makes no move to satisfy me. He is content to tease and torment, and as he slowly traces the shape of my navel with the tip of his tongue, I moan in both pleasure and frustration.

  “You like that?” he asks.

  “Yes,” I murmur.

  “So do I.” His voice is low and reverent. “You taste like candy.”

  “Candy is bad for you,” I tease.

  “In that case,” he says with a low growl, “I like being bad.”

  “Me, too,” I whisper, even as my hips rise in unspoken demand. “But, Damien—”

  “You want more,” he says, finishing my thought. He kisses the top of my pubic bone, then trails his lips over the bone of my hip, following it down to the juncture of my thigh.

  “Yes, oh, god, yes.”

  “And if I’m not done tasting you? If I want to kiss and suck and tease every inch of your body? If I want to have my fill of you before I thrust myself deep inside of you? Before we get lost together? Before I let you come?”

  He lifts himself up, then bends over me, so close that I am certain he will kiss me, so near that we are breathing the same air.

  Then he shifts away, moving his mouth to my temple. His lips brush lightly over my skin before he whispers, “I will always give you more, baby, but first I want you ready, I want you hot, I want you desperate.”

  “I am.” The words are wrenched from me, and as Damien pulls away, I see the smug smile pull at his mouth.

  “You are,” he says. “But you also asked for more. And that, my darling Nikki, is a demand I’m always happy to satisfy. The question is, more what?” His mouth closes over my breast, and I cry out as he bites my nipple. “More pain?”

  I cannot answer; my body is reeling from the erotic storm he is conjuring inside me.

  “More pleasure?” he asks. He slides farther down my body, and this time skin does touch skin, the contact making the embers within me burst into raging flames. His lips move down between my breasts, then lower and lower until he reaches my clit. He blows gently on my sex even as he places his palms firmly on my inner thighs, spreading me wide. He takes one hand away, then strokes his finger gently over my slick, hot sex. I tremble, so close I think that if he breathes on my clit, I will come.

  “More anticipation?” And then his mouth is moving again, tracing down my leg, over the scars on my inner thigh, to that sensitive spot behind my knee. I am lost, melting. I am his to control, to command, and I can do nothing but absorb the pleasure with which he is bombarding me.

  He continues on, lower still, until he reaches my ankle, then the sole of my foot. He drags the tip of his finger from heel to toe, and my foot arches in response, along with my back. My sex clenches greedily, and I am astounded at the reaction from a simple touch upon my foot. Then again, how can I be astounded by my reaction to any touch rendered by Damien? I can’t. I can only surrender, which was of course Damien’s plan all along. To take me away from myself and bring me to this place that we share, a place where there is only Nikki and Damien and the pleasure we find in each other.

  He is not done with me, and he slowly trails kisses up my leg until I am squirming, my hips gyrating in both pleasure and need. I want more. I want it all. And, miracle of miracles, Damien finally gives it to me. His tongue flicks gently over my clit, just the tiniest of touches, but he has primed me so thoroughly that I explode, shock waves shooting out to my fingers and toes, pleasure spiraling through me.

  A tiny touch, yes, but also just the beginning. He closes his mouth over my sex, sucking and teasing. He holds my legs wide so that I cannot shift or move. He doesn’t relent, making my orgasm grow and grow until there is torment behind the pleasure, until I am ripped open and needy, desperate for him to come to this place with me, to find me in the stars.

  “Now, Damien. I need you inside me now.”

  This time, thank god, he doesn’t hesitate, but neither is he gentle. He is on his knees, and he turns me onto my side. He straddles one of my legs, but hooks my other over his opposite hip, then holds me steady with his palm on my outer thigh. His other hand is cupped on my ass, but he slips down so that he teases the rim of my anus even as he thrusts deep inside my cunt.

  This is not a position he’s taken me in before, and the sensation of my legs being scissored, of his hand and cock so intimately on me, of the way he is kneeling against me, his body as erect as his cock while I lie prone like a vestal offering, is astoundingly exciting, and as he moves inside me, I feel the orgasm rise within me again.

  I close my eyes, letting the sensations flow through and around me. It is magical, this feeling. Being so open to Damien. Being so joined with Damien. Joined. In sex, in life, in marriage.

  A shiver runs through me, and I hear Damien moan as the muscles of my vagina tighten around him, drawing him deeper and deeper into me.

  “That’s it, baby. Open your eyes.”

  I do, and see him looking not at me, but at the juncture of our bodies. I am watching his face—watching the passion build—and when he moves his gaze and meets my eyes, the storm I see building there nearly does me in. I am breathing hard in time with the waves of pleasure that crash through me. The same pleasure I see on his face, driven by the same heat I see burning in his eyes.

  A heat that is melting me.

  That is ripping me apart.

  That is going to shatter us both, I think, as the climax breaks over me and I arch back, held in place by Damien’s body and hand as my sex clenches tighter and tighter around him, milking him to his own fantastical release.

  Reality returns slowly, like stars appearing in a newly dark sky.

  For a moment I have to wonder if I have melted, but it is only the limbless feeling that comes with a release born of pure pleasure.

  Damien pulls out, and I mourn the loss of our connection, at least until he lies beside me, our arms and legs a tangle, our faces close. “Thank you,” I murmur.

  “For what?”

  “For distracting me. From my nightmare.”

  He laughs. “I didn’t realize I was that transparent.”

  “Only to me. Like you said, we know each other.”

  He kisses the tip of my nose. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”

  I nod, but the truth is that he is wrong. I realize it now. I want this wedding to be a reflection to the world. An outward manifestation of what he and I are together. Beauty and grace and something special and unique. I want it for him. For us. And for the whole damn world.

  And so yes, I am nervous.

  “I want the wedding to be perfect,” I confess.

  “It will be,” he assures me. “How can it be anything else? Because no matter what happens, the wedding will end with you being my wife. And that, my darling Nikki, is the only thing that matters.”

  I brush a kiss over his lips, because he’s right. I mean, I know that he’s right.

  But I also know that he’s forgetting about the cake and the dress and the band and the photographer and the tents and the tables and the champagne and on and on and on.

  Men, I think, and then snuggle close, reluctantly acknowledging that for tonight, at least, he’s distracted me.

  For tonight, I care only about this man who will soon be my husband—and who already is my life.

  Chapter 3

  I awake to an empty bed and the smell of frying bacon. I roll over to find my phone on the bedside table, then glance at the time. Not yet six.

  I groan and fall back among the pillows, but I don’t really want to go back to sleep. What I want is Damien.

  I slide out of bed, then grab the tank top and yoga pants I’d left draped across a nearby armchair. I head barefoot out of the bedroom and move the short distance down the hall to the third-floor kitchen.

  We’re in Damien’s Malibu house, and the wall of windows that faces the ocean is wide open, the glass panels having been thrust aside to let in the breeze. The smell of the ocean mingles with the scent of breakfast and I breathe
deep, realizing that I am content. Whatever demons had poked at me during the night, Damien effectively banished them.

  I glance toward the windows and out at the darkened Pacific. Waves glow white in the fading moonlight as they break upon the shore. There is beauty there, and part of me wants to walk to the balcony and stare out at the roiling, frothing water. But the siren call of the ocean is nothing compared with my desire to see Damien, and so I turn away from the windows and head straight to the kitchen. It is larger than the one in the condo I used to share with my best friend, Jamie, and it is not even the primary kitchen for this house. That is on the first floor, and could easily service a one-hundred-table restaurant. But this—the “small” kitchen—was installed as an adjunct to the open area that serves as a venue for entertaining, and since it is just down the hall from our bedroom, Damien and I have gotten into the habit of cooking our meals and eating in this cozier, more informal area. Usually we’re joined by Lady Meow-Meow, the fluffy white cat I took custody of when Jamie moved out. I know Lady M misses Jamie, but she’s also enjoying having the run of this huge house, and Gregory—the valet, butler, and all around house-running guy—spoils her rotten.

  Now I lean against the half wall that marks the break from hallway to kitchen. Damien is standing at the stove cooking an omelette as if he were nothing more than an ordinary guy. Except there is nothing ordinary about Damien Stark. He is grace and power, beauty and heat. He is exceptional, and he has captured me completely.

  At the moment, he is shirtless, and I cannot help the way my breath stutters as my eyes skim over the defined muscles of his back and his taut, strong arms. Damien’s first fortune came not from business, but from his original career as a champion tennis player. Even now, years later, he has both the look and the power of an elite athlete.

  I let my gaze drift down appreciatively. He is wearing simple gray sweatpants that sit low on his narrow hips and cling to the curves of his perfectly toned ass. Like me, he is barefoot. He looks young and sexy and completely delicious. Yet despite his casual appearance, I can still see the executive. The powerful businessman who harnessed the world, who shifted it to his own liking and made a fortune in the process. He is strength and control. And I am humbled by the knowledge that I am what he values most of all, and that I will spend the rest of my life at his side.

  “You’re staring,” he says, his eyes still on the stove.

  I grin happily, like a child. “I enjoy looking at pretty things.”

  He turns now, and his eyes rake over me, starting at my toes. “So do I,” he says when his gaze reaches my face, and there is so much heat in his voice that my legs go weak and my body quivers with want. His mouth curves into a slow, sexy smile, and I am absolutely certain in that moment that I am going to melt. “You spoiled my surprise,” he says, then nods toward the breakfast table where a tray sits with a glass bud vase displaying a single red rose. “Breakfast in bed.”

  “How about we share breakfast at the table?” I move to him, then stand behind him with my arms around his waist. I gently kiss his shoulder and breathe in the clean, soapy scent. “Early meeting?” Damien is hardly a slacker, but he usually doesn’t go into his office until after nine. Instead, he works from home, then showers after a brief workout before heading downtown. Today, apparently, we’re operating on a compressed timeline.

  “Not early,” he says. “But also not here. I’ve got a meeting in Palm Springs. The helicopter’s coming in twenty.”

  “I’ve got an appointment in Switzerland,” I counter airily as I step back so he can finish putting our breakfast together. “The jet’s coming in an hour.”

  His mouth twitches with amusement. The omelette is already on a plate, and now he adds the bacon. I follow him to the table, pour us both orange juice and coffee, then sit across from him. Putting a napkin in my lap, I realize I’m smiling like an idiot. And the best part? Damien’s smile matches mine.

  “I love this,” I say. “Breakfast together. Domesticity. It feels nice.”

  He sips his coffee, his eyes never leaving my face, and for a moment there is nothing between us but contentment. Then he tilts his head, and I see the question rising in his eyes. I should have expected it. Damien wouldn’t leave for a meeting without being absolutely certain that I am okay. “No more shadows this morning?” he asks.

  “No,” I say truthfully. “I feel good.” I take a bite of the omelette we’re sharing, and sag a bit in my chair in ecstasy. I’m a lucky girl in so many ways, not the least of which being that my fiancé can cook. “How could I not with you taking such good care of me?”

  As I hoped, my words bring a smile to his lips. But worry still lingers in his eyes, and I reach across the table to squeeze his hand. “Really,” I say firmly. “I’m fine. It’s like I told you—I want this wedding to be perfect, which is ironic considering that I’ve spent my whole life trying to escape from my mother’s plan to mold me into Perfectly Plastic Nikki.” I immediately regret mentioning my mother. After years of playing the good and dutiful daughter, I’ve finally come to terms with the fact that my mother is a raging bitch—one who also happens to despise my boyfriend. She made my childhood miserable, and while I am fully prepared to accept the responsibility for my cutting, there’s not a shrink in the world who wouldn’t agree that the causative threads of that particular vice lead back to Elizabeth Fairchild and her various quirks and neuroses.

  “You’re not your mother,” Damien says firmly. “And there isn’t a bride in the world who doesn’t want her wedding to be everything she’s dreamed of.”

  “And the groom?” I ask.

  “The groom will be happy if the bride is. And so long as she says ‘I do.’ And when he can call her Mrs. Damien Stark. And once we get to the honeymoon.”

  I’m laughing by the time he finishes. “Thank you.”

  “For putting up with your wedding jitters?”

  “For everything.”

  He stands and refills my coffee before clearing the table. “Is there anything you need my help with today?”

  “Nope.”

  “We’re getting married on Saturday,” he says, as if this was news to me, but the words make my supposedly nonexistent jitters start jittering again. “If you need Sylvia’s help, just ask,” he adds, referring to his supremely efficient assistant.

  I shake my head and flash him my picture-perfect smile. “Thanks, but I’m good. Everything is on track.”

  “You’ve taken on a lot,” he says. “More than you had to.”

  I tilt my head, but stay silent. This is a conversation we’ve had before, and I don’t intend to have it again.

  We’d traveled across Europe for a month after he proposed, and while we were there, he’d suggested we simply do it. Get married on a mountaintop or on the sands of the Côte d’Azur. Return to the States as Mr. and Mrs. Damien Stark.

  I’d said no.

  I want nothing more than to be Damien’s wife, but the truth is that I also want the fairy-tale wedding. I want to be the princess in white walking down the aisle in my beautiful gown on my special day. I may not agree with my mother about much, but I remember the care that she and my sister put into Ashley’s wedding. I’d envied my sister a lot of things, not really understanding that she’d had her own demons to battle, and when she walked down the aisle on a pathway of rose petals, my eyes filled with tears and my one thought had been, Someday. Someday I will find the man who will be waiting for me at the end of that aisle with love in his eyes.

  And it wasn’t just my own desire for the fantasy wedding that made me insist we wait. Like it or not, Damien is a public figure, and I knew that the press would be covering our wedding. It didn’t need to be the fanciest affair—in fact, I wanted it outside on the beach—but I did want it to be a beautiful celebration. And since I knew the paparazzi would be pulling out all the stops to get tacky pictures, I wanted a collection of portraits and candid shots that we controlled. Fabulous pictures that we could give to the leg
itimate press, outshining—I hoped—whatever ended up in the tabloids.

  More than anything, though, I wanted the story and photographs to overshadow the horrible things printed just a few months ago, when Damien had been on trial for murder. I wanted to see the best day of our lives on those pages in sharp counterpoint to and in triumph over the worst days.

  I have said all of this to Damien, and while I know he doesn’t fully agree with my reasons for needing this wedding, I also know he understands them.

  As for me, I understand his fear that I’ve taken on too much. But this is my wedding we’re talking about. The nightmares are only my fears; they are not my reality. I can handle it; I can handle anything if the end result is walking down that aisle toward Damien.

  “Everything is going great,” I say to reassure us both. “I’ve got it all under control. Really.”

  “You found a photographer?”

  “Are you kidding? Of course.” It is a lie. And that’s a risk, because Damien can read me better than anyone. I force myself not to hold my breath as I wait for him to ask me details—name, studio, credentials. Those are questions I can’t answer because the truth is, I haven’t found a photographer to replace the one Damien fired last week after we learned the man had made an under-the-table agreement to sell unapproved candid photos of the wedding and reception to TMZ.

  And that’s not even our only problem. I found out yesterday that the lead singer for the band I’d lined up had decided to drop everything and move back home to Canada, which means we are now entirely without entertainment.

  I need to get off my ass and find someone—and I need to do it fast. As Damien had so kindly reminded me, the wedding is just a few days away.

  But, hey, it’s not like I’m feeling stressed or anything.

  I frown, realizing that maybe there is a solid explanation for my nightmares, after all.