by J. Kenner
But no. This isn’t a solo act. I want his hands, his mouth. I want to feel him on top of me. I want his cock inside me.
I want the wildness, the release. I want to see Damien Stark’s famous control shatter, and I want to know that I am the one who did that to him.
Wife, I think.
Damn right.
I keep my eyes on his face, then withdraw my hand. Slowly, I trail my finger up my belly, then over my cleavage. When I trace a circle around my nipple, I see a muscle tighten in his cheek. But when I bring my hand to my mouth and draw my finger in between my lips, his composure breaks and he actually growls even as he crosses to me in one long stride.
I laugh, delighted, then slowly slide my finger out from between my lips. I smile up at him, my eyes wide and innocent. “Feeling a bit desperate, Mr. Stark?”
“With you, always.”
I sigh with satisfaction. I feel exactly the same way.
He is standing even with my shoulder, his hip brushing the side of the bed. Now he reaches out to trace his fingers up my bare arm until he reaches the strap that binds my wrist in place. “Interesting,” he murmurs, then steps backward, letting his fingers trail behind him as he moves, so that he is lightly stroking my ribs, my waist, my hip.
After a moment, though, he steps away from the bed, leaving me bereft when his fingertips leave my skin. I suck in air, only then realizing that I’d forgotten to breathe. He goes to the table, picks up his glass of Scotch, then takes a sip. Throughout it all, his eyes never leave me.
I lay there—I can do nothing else—and as I do, my skin begins to tingle. There is never a time when I am not aware of Damien. When I can’t conjure the sensation of his fingers on my skin or his lips upon my cheek. I have only to think of him, and I can feel him.
But this is different. This is anticipation mixed with need. This is heat. This is the knowledge that I have offered myself for him to do with me what he will—and I do not know how far he will go with that. I only know that wherever he takes me, I will go willingly.
“I wonder,” he says, and then says no more.
I try not to respond, but the word comes despite my efforts. “What?”
His smile is slow and wide and just a little devious. His dual-colored eyes crinkle a little, adding a bit more devilish flair. “I wonder what you would do if I just stood here for the rest of the flight and enjoyed the view.”
I’m not worried. He’s wearing loose-fitting shorts, but they don’t hide his erection. My husband wants me as much as I want him. “We’ve barely gotten underway,” I say. “Ten hours is a long time to stand. And there’s no other seat in this room.”
He glances around as if to verify my observation. Then he moves back another step so that he is leaning against the door. “I’m sure I can make do. I’m capable of putting up with all types of self-denial. At least so long as the prize at the end is worth it.”
“Oh.” I shift a bit uncertainly on the bed. I know damn well he speaks the truth. I know even better that I am the prize—his wife, hot and wild and a little bit crazed with desire, all the more so because she has been teased and tempted, and yet denied.
I drag my teeth over my lower lip as I watch him. He’s not smiling, and yet there is no denying the spark of amusement lighting his face. “You wouldn’t,” I say, projecting a note of certainty in my voice that I don’t actually feel.
“Wouldn’t I?” He takes a sip of Scotch, studying me. “Funny, I thought you knew me better than that.”
“Dammit, Damien,” I say, not certain if I’m pissed or amused. The only thing I am certain of is the feel of my body. The way my skin seems to fit just a little too tight and my breasts are a bit too heavy. My nipples are so damn sensitive that even the faint movement from my heartbeat makes them tingle in a silent demand for more. And my sex—oh, Christ, I’m so damn wet, so swollen, so painfully, desperately, needfully turned on, that even the lightest brush of my fingertips sends shock waves through me and makes my cunt throb in demand. I want him inside me—no, I need him inside me. But if he’s going to torment me…
“No,” he says, as I boldly stroke myself, imagining that my touch is Damien’s, and then arching up as a series of sparks like tiny fireflies begin to dance inside me, a precursor to the lightning storm that is coming.
He crosses to the bed and takes my hand, his thumb brushing lightly over my sex in the process, like some form of casual torment. “No,” he says again as he lifts my hand above my head, then uses the same seat-belt strap that I’d used for the left one to bind this hand as well.
I am completely immobile now. My hands are strapped above my head, bound together at my wrists. My legs are bound on either side of the bed, leaving me wide open and ready. I am naked and helpless and entirely at Damien’s mercy.
I am wild with anticipation, and so aroused that the tightness in my nipples is almost painful, and my sex is so primed for his touch that I fear I will come from nothing more than the weight of his eyes upon me.
“Well,” he says, as if to himself. “What does a man do when faced with unlimited possibilities?”
I don’t answer. I’m too entranced by the expression on his face, like a man who has just opened an incredible gift. It is a look—among so many others—that I have come to know well. It’s a look that says he loves me. More than that, it’s a look that says he desires me.
He pours himself another shot of Scotch, and then takes a sip, as if pondering this knotty dilemma. I continue to watch him, my breathing shallow, my anticipation building. After a moment, he steps beside me again, his glass raised. I expect him to take a sip, but instead he very slowly tilts the glass above me, allowing a thin stream of liquid to fall. It splashes on my breasts, then trickles down my belly, some pooling in my navel, and some easing over my waist to dampen the sheet beneath me.
It is not cold, but I still gasp from the shock of contact, my eyes going to Damien’s. I see heat and purpose, and I watch, mesmerized, as he sets the glass aside, and then slowly removes his shirt, his shorts, his briefs.
I have little enough time to enjoy the view, though, as he tells me to shut my eyes. I consider protesting, but since I know it will only earn me a blindfold, it hardly seems worth it.
And then there is his touch.
The stroke of his hands lightly over my skin, running along my sides as if to steady me. His fingertip strokes a pattern on my stomach, circles and swirls drawn with the Scotch, cooling my heated skin as the liquid caresses me.
He is touching neither my breasts nor my sex, and yet the sensation is so wildly sensual that he might as well be. I feel his touch throughout my body. Heating the flesh between my inner thighs. Making my nipples so painfully tight.
I writhe against my bonds, wanting more. Wanting everything. Wanting Damien.
And yet I can find no relief from the growing pressure of desire. This building firestorm inside me that he is so slowly and so deliberately stoking. I can only ride this wave, losing myself to the painfully sweet torment of his touch.
“Damien, please,” I murmur, but he only brushes his lips across mine.
“Frustrated, Mrs. Stark?”
“You know I am.”
He says nothing, but I swear I can hear his smile. This is what he wants, to take me to the edge, to keep me hovering there, and then—when he finally sends me spinning into the abyss—to be there to catch me as I tumble back to earth.
He lifts his hand from my body, and I whimper a bit.
“I could stand here all night, simply looking at you.” His voice is as soft as the caress he has withdrawn, and it sends shivers over me. “Seeing the way the color changes on your skin when you are aroused. The way your nipples peak and the way your stomach muscles tighten in anticipation of my touch. Every inch of you is ripe with need for me.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
Slowly he traces his fingertip from the indention at the base of my throat all the way down to my navel. I arch up, his touch sending shock waves through me,
and when he stops—so close to where I crave both his touch and the explosion I know it will bring—I moan in frustration.
“I control an empire,” he says, “and I will not deny the thrill of holding that kind of power. But it is nothing compared to the way I feel when you respond to me. When my words make you smile, when my touch makes you wet. And when you are like this, bound and open, so full of trust and desire, giving yourself so completely to me—god, Nikki,” he says, his voice quivering just slightly. “I swear it’s you who has the power, because only you can break me.”
I open my mouth to speak, but there are no words. And when his mouth closes over mine, I fall hungrily into the kiss, then moan in protest when he withdraws to kiss his way down my body, his mouth following the trail of the Scotch.
The sensation is as delicious as the man, and I writhe against his touch, wanting more, so much more. And Damien, thank god, delivers.
With agonizing slowness, he kisses his way down my leg, paying particular attention to the soft skin behind my knee. My muscles are tight, straining for him, and yet I can do nothing but withstand the storm of his touches.
When he reaches my ankle and undoes the bond, I have to bite back a protest. I want the freedom to move, yes, but there is no denying the pleasure of being at Damien’s mercy.
I hear his soft laugh and realize that he knows exactly what I’m thinking. “Don’t worry, sweetheart. I’m not even close to done with you.”
He releases my other ankle, then eases onto the bed so that he is between my legs. I am spread wide open for him, and though he is my husband—though he has seen me this intimately countless times—I cannot help the heat of a blush that spreads over me.
“Beautiful,” Damien murmurs as he lifts my legs to his shoulders. He tries to tug me closer, but I am immobile thanks to the bonds on my arms, and so he leans in, driving me crazy when he gently blows on my clit, making me gasp and squirm and then cry out as his mouth closes over my sex and his tongue sets my senses on fire.
I arch up, because it is too much, but he refuses to relent. He sucks and laves, his expert tongue teasing and tasting, pushing me higher and higher until I am so close that I can almost taste the sweetness of the coming explosion, and I long for it, pushing toward it, wanting and craving it.
And then he stops—and that swirling disk of pleasure that has been hurtling toward me fizzles, dissolving in front of me in the dark abyss of lost pleasure.
“Damien.” His name is a curse, a protest, but my words neither wound nor move him.
“Soon,” he says calmly. “Anticipation, remember?”
“Bastard,” I tease, but the word catches in my throat as he starts to lower me so that my rear is on his thighs and his fingertip skims lightly over my sex.
“I haven’t fucked you like this,” he says. “You on your back, legs up, helpless. Me on my knees, holding you close, slamming deep inside you. Tell me, sweetheart, would you like that?”
I say nothing—his finger is wreaking too much havoc with my senses to let me lasso the power of speech—but my answer is in my body, and Damien well knows it. With a small chuckle, he leans sideways and opens one of the small drawers that line the cabin-side of the bed.
He reaches in and pulls out a familiar bag. It takes me a second to recognize the gift that my best friend, Jamie, and my other girlfriends presented me at my bachelorette party.
“Damien! Oh my god.”
“A goodie bag of sex toys seemed like something we should take on our honeymoon.”
We’ve not had the chance to play with the contents, and now he peers inside and pulls out a bullet-style vibrator and some lube. Considering how wet I am, the lube is hardly necessary. Unless…
“Damien…”
“Shhh. You’re mine, remember. To have. To fuck. To do with what I will. Isn’t that why you greeted me the way you did, laid out and bound for my enjoyment?”
I lick my lips. The man does have a point.
He is kneeling on the bed, and my legs are spread open on either side of him. Now he turns on the bullet and it softly vibrates in his hand. He palms it, then slides it slowly along my inner thighs. The sensation is incredible, all the more so when he brings it to my sex, teasing near but not actually stroking my clit.
Pleasure swirls around me, lifting me higher and higher as Damien teases me with the bullet until, yes, I’m literally begging to be fucked.
“Every way,” he says. “All the way.”
I nod. “Yes. Oh, god, yes.”
“Legs up,” he says, then lifts my hips and guides himself inside me. I’ve not been in this position with him, and as he thrusts into me, his eyes looking into mine, I have to admit I like it. I am on my back, my ass rubbing his thighs, the contact on my clit as he enters taking me higher and higher with each powerful thrust.
“Do you want more?” Damien’s voice is low and sensual and rolls over me like a touch.
“I want everything.”
I hear the buzz of the vibrator, then feel the cool gel on his fingertips as he readies my ass. I bite my lower lip in anticipation, forcing myself to relax as he inserts the bullet. I sigh with pleasure from the sensation of being completely filled by both Damien and this toy, and also from the exquisite tingle of the vibrations dancing inside me, growing stronger with each of Damien’s thrusts inside me.
“Dear god,” he says, and the deep groan that lights his voice lets me know that he can feel it, too.
The sensation builds, growing so wild and burning so hot that I am not entirely sure if it is pleasure or pain. All I know is that it lifts me. That it takes me. And that it is not just this jet that is making me soar. It is the man inside me.
Harder and harder he thrusts, and I meet each motion, drawing him in, deeper and deeper. I want to get lost in him. Already I do not know where I end and he begins. All I know is pleasure. All I know is Damien.
Damien, who sets the world spinning wild around me.
Damien, who commands the earth, the stars, the universe, and me.
Damien, who has brought me to the brink.
“Damien,” I cry as everything that I am shifts and tilts and bursts in a wild cacophony of light and sensation that wash over me with such violence and joy it is a wonder that I can survive.
And yet I do, and it is Damien who pulls me back. Whose soft touch strokes me. Whose gentle kisses bring me down. Who holds me close and keeps me safe. “Damien,” I murmur, as the softness pulls me under and I succumb to the warm, languid pull of exhaustion. I am his, I think. I am loved.
Chapter 6
When I come back to myself, Damien cleans me up and frees my arms, and I stretch, reveling in the sensation of once again having the use of all my limbs. The bed is small, but I like it. I curl up behind him, my face snuggled up against his shoulder and my legs twined with his. I am floating somewhere in that state between waking and dreams, and idly wondering if it is really necessary to ever move again. At the moment, I think I could stay like this forever, drifting through the sky with the man I love.
“Thank you,” I whisper.
“For what?” His voice is soft, too, and I think that if I close my eyes and let go, I will find him right next to me in that dream world.
“For loving me.”
He is silent for a moment, then rolls over so that we are facing each other. Gently, he brushes a stray lock of hair away from my eyes. “I’ve seen what’s in your heart,” he says. “How could I help but love you?”
I let his words glide over me, as warm and soothing as a blanket. “You’re very good at that, you know.”
“At what?”
“At making me feel as special with your words as you do with your body.”
“How many times have I told you, Nikki? I will always give you what you need.”
I ease forward and press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. “Thank you for this honeymoon,” I say. I’m not sure what answer I expect. A smile, perhaps. Or a tease. Even some romantic words.
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Instead, I see a shadow in his eyes.
“Damien?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry. I was just thinking about our hotel in Paris.”
“Problem?”
“I certainly hope not.”
I frown. I’m still confused, but tell myself that there must have been some sort of snafu that was troubling him. But even that seems odd, because Damien is the kind of guy who simply tells someone to fix something, then forgets about it, knowing damn well that his staff will make it happen. Then again, this is our honeymoon. So perhaps he’s taking more of an interest in the details. I snuggle closer, the thought pleasing me.
“Don’t go to sleep just yet,” he says, though his voice sounds as lazy as I feel.
“I’m not sure I have a choice in the matter. You’ve thoroughly relaxed me.”
“I know the feeling, and while I do want you well rested for when we land, the fact is that Katie will be here soon with our dinner. And before she comes, I have a present for you.”
“Really?” Despite the fact that I’m already feeling deliciously spoiled, I’m as delighted as a child at the idea of a gift. I sit up. “What?”
He chuckles, obviously amused at my eagerness. He sits up as well, then trails his fingers casually over my bare thigh before standing and moving to the door. There is a leather folio on the ground. It wasn’t there before, so he must have entered with it, and I was too lost in a sensual haze to notice.
I make a small noise of satisfaction as he bends over, naked, to pick up the folio. “If my present is this view, I like it already,” I say.
“Minx,” he counters, making me laugh.
He returns to sit by me, then places the notebook in my hands. It is leather bound and zips around the edges. On the cover, embossed in the leather, are the words, To Nikki. Because you are my world, I give you the world.
My heart seems to skip a beat, and I look up at him, my eyes wide so as to prevent the tears that I know are inevitable.
He brushes a soft kiss over my lips. “Open it.”
I unzip the case and open it, revealing the map of Europe he gave me the day he asked me to marry him. On that day, there were stickers only on Munich and London. Now the map is splattered with stickers, as if a wash of confetti has fallen atop it.
