by J. Kenner
He nods, just a small movement of his head, but I revel in the power. I just might be the only person on the planet to whom Damien Stark will willingly submit.
I lean forward and with slow, deliberate motions, I unbutton the shorts and then lower his zipper. I slip my hand in and stroke his cock through his briefs. He is hard as steel, and when I let my eyes dart up to his face, I see that his jaw is tight and know that he is fighting for control.
I draw his cock out, steely hard and incredibly thick. Damien makes a low noise like a growl of need, and my stomach quivers in response. My entire body throbs with want of him, but not yet. Not until I taste him.
I lick the very tip of his cock, and am rewarded by the way he arches back and the way his fingers reach for me and twine tightly in my hair. Feminine power surges through me, and I look up to see muscles in his chest straining against the shirt. He looks like a man on the precipice, aroused and wild and ready. And I am the woman who took him there. Who will take him further.
I lick him, cupping his balls and following the vein that bulges in his cock up to the tip. He shudders under my touch, then gasps when I open my mouth and take him in, sucking and licking as I try to take all of him, wanting the sensation of making him go over like this, lost to my whim and the pleasure I am giving. I can’t manage, though. He’s too big and I am not at a good angle. More than that, I am driving myself crazy, because as much as I want to take him there, the truth is that I am craving the feel of him inside me. And the more I imagine the feel of him deep within me, the more I know that I have to have him. Dear god, I have to have him now.
“Straddle me.”
The words are little more than a whisper, but they wash over me with the force of an answered prayer. I tilt my head back and find him looking at me with such intensity it seems to burn. “I need to be inside you,” he says.
“I know,” I say as I rise. “I need it, too.”
I hold on to his shoulders and put my knees on the love seat on either side of him. With my eyes never leaving his, I position myself, teasing the tip of his cock and then—oh, dear god, yes—impaling myself on him. Deeper and deeper until I feel like I will lose him inside of me, and me inside of him.
“Christ, Nikki, you feel so good.” His hands cup my breasts as I arch back and we rock together, slow and sensual moments that swirl pleasure around us, as heady as a cocktail.
“I can never get enough of you,” he says. “I know you so intimately, and yet never stop discovering you.”
I close my eyes, surrendering myself to the wonder of his touch and the power of his words.
“There is never a time when I don’t see you and lose myself utterly to you. You’re mystery, Nikki, and you’re truth. Look at me,” he says, and I hear the change of tone in his voice.
I open my eyes and see the intensity on his face.
“We’re together now.” His voice is firm and thick with meaning. “Neither of us is alone. We’re one. And whatever you have to face, I will face it with you. Whatever battles you have to fight, I will fight them with you. I will see us through this.”
I swallow, thinking of how I wanted nothing more than to stay asleep, hiding from whatever new horror awaited me out in the world. Hiding from Damien, too, even as I felt protected in the shadow of his arms. I should have known better. I should have known he would see right through me—and that he wouldn’t let me hide.
“Do you understand?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Does that bother you?”
I think about it, then shake my head. “No,” I say truthfully. “It makes me feel safe. I have no more secrets from you.” I’m not entirely sure that Damien can say the same thing. And, yes, there was a time when that would have bothered me, but no more. I will happily spend the rest of my life peeling back the layers of this man.
He watches my face for a moment, as if trying to convince himself that I am being forthright. Then he nods. “I’m going to have my attorneys deal with this bullshit.”
“Damien—”
“No. It’s your lawsuit, and I get that. But you don’t have a litigator on retainer, and I have an entire team. I am not coddling you, but I am helping you.” He cups my chin. “Okay?”
I glance down to where our bodies intersect, then look up at him with a cocked eyebrow. “You pick the strangest times to have these conversations.”
“It’s the mark of a good businessman.” The corner of his mouth curves up. “Find your opponent’s weakness and exploit it.”
I roll my eyes.
“Okay?” he asks. And because I am not a fool, I nod.
The truth is, before, I simply wanted to hide. To make it all go away. But Damien has reminded me that I am not alone. More than that, he’s reminded me that I’m stronger than I think.
Even better, I am stronger with him.
I want to say all that to him, but instead I simply say, “I love you.”
He pulls me forward to catch me in a kiss, and I take the opportunity to shimmy a bit on his lap. “What was it you said about how we were going to be landing soon? Maybe I should stay like this for touchdown. Might be interesting.”
“Maybe you should,” he says, and for a moment, I think he means it.
Then he pinches my ass. “Then again, that probably violates some FAA regulation. Best not to tempt fate. Besides, I believe Katie’s been keeping dinner warm for us.”
Again, I’m reminded that she is just past that little door and could come in at any time.
Once again reading my mind, Damien glances up, silently reminding me of the privacy button. It has ensured that she didn’t come in. But at the same time, my cheeks heat with the certainty that she knows exactly what is going on in here.
“We are newlyweds, after all,” Damien says. “And to be honest, I don’t think I’m quite finished working up an appetite.”
“Oh, really?” I say, lifting myself a bit and then lowering, slowly at first and then gradually increasing speed. “And what is it you’re hungry for, Mr. Stark?”
“Funny you should ask.” He takes my hips and guides me, increasing the tempo and impaling himself deeper and harder inside me. “Right now, the only thing I’m interested in is you.”
“Good.” I put my hands on his shoulders, letting our rhythm build and our passion grow. Our eyes are locked, and neither of us looks away, both too entranced by the storm that we are building in each other.
“There,” he says, as if he feels what I feel. As if he saw within me that electrical sensation spreading down my inner thighs, a precursor to the explosion.
But I see it inside him, too. More, I feel it in the way his cock hardens, in the quickened rhythms of his thrusts. My body responds in kind, tightening around him. Giving as much as I am taking and moving faster and faster in a sensual dance that breaks us both into a frenzied explosion of light and passion.
“Damien.” His name is a cry, a prayer, and as I cling to him, my body shaking as the storm rips through me, I hear my name, too, as Damien’s release fills me, and then there is silence as his mouth closes over mine and he kisses me feverishly until we both pull away, spent and gasping for air.
“Well,” I say, after my body stops quivering. “I think I’ve got one hell of an appetite now.”
“Funny,” he says. “I’m still only hungry for you. But I suppose nutrition counts for something.” He gently lifts me off him, then reaches for my robe to clean us both off. I raise my eyebrows and he chuckles. “You don’t need to put it back on. I’ll toss it in the laundry bin later. And I rather like the idea of watching you walk naked to the stateroom.”
I release what I hope sounds like a snort of disapproval, but is really laughter. And just to show him up, I make my way to the back, adding a little more swish to my hips as I go.
I pause outside the stateroom and look back. He is watching me, his expression full of love and longing, passion and heat.
I breathe deeply, feeling calm and centered. Yes,
there’s a lawsuit, and yes, that sucks. But that’s just a blip. A chapter in the book of my life. Hell, a footnote.
Damien is the whole story. And our life together is epic.
Chapter 9
As it turns out, we don’t just take a limo to the hotel. We first take a helicopter from the airport to a helipad in the city center. I’ve done many things with Damien, but so far we’ve not commuted over Paris by helicopter. And, yeah, I’m a little giddy.
I lean toward the window, one hand on the glass, the other tight in Damien’s hand, and watch as the pilot brings the bird down gently. After just a few more moments, the staff has unloaded our bags and is escorting us to a waiting limo. It’s smooth and seamless and definitely one of the perks of traveling with Damien.
The limo’s interior is completely frosty, but I barely notice it. I’m too busy gazing out the window at the city that is passing by us. The Arc de Triomphe, the stunning architecture, and even a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower. I feel like a little girl with her nose pressed to the window, not a woman who recently returned from a very similar trip.
All too soon, our drive ends. The limo pulls up in front of what looks like a private residence, but the uniforms on the two men standing by the door make it clear that this is a hotel.
The two livery-clad bellmen hurry forward to retrieve our bags, then whisk them away while Damien and I walk more slowly into the hotel. A distinguished man with a small mustache hurries to greet us. I learn that he is the manager of the Hôtel Margaritte, and that this exclusive hotel just off the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré has only twenty rooms and was once an eighteenth-century private residence.
Damien and I will be staying in the penthouse.
The manager escorts us there, taking us through the lobby, which is still furnished as it would have been centuries ago, with tapestry and gilt, crystal and elegance. I walk with my head in constant motion as I look this way and that, trying to take it all in.
But whatever awe I feel for the lobby fades when we reach the penthouse. It is, in a word, incredible. Taking up the entire top floor, it is luxury personified, with no detail overlooked in the beautiful furnishings, the antique mirrors, the modern kitchen well-concealed behind decorative, period-style doors.
The real showstopper, however, is the huge bay window that arches up into a skylight, giving the living room the illusion of being outdoors. And, as if to remind us that we are in Paris, we have a stunning view of the Eiffel Tower.
“This room was the conservatory at one time,” the manager says. “Mademoiselle Margaritte, the hotel’s namesake, kept it filled with flowers.”
“It’s lovely,” I say, thoroughly delighted.
He finishes giving us the tour, then leaves us in privacy. Only then do I realize we never stopped at the front desk. That pedestrian form of checking in is apparently one of those pesky things that only those who don’t have the means to own small countries have to put up with.
“Do you own this place?” I ask Damien when we are alone.
“I don’t, no. Why? Do you think I should?” He pats his pockets. “Let me check my wallet. Maybe I have enough cash….”
“Oh, sure,” I say. “You can laugh. But I’ve seen you buy some pretty amazing things on the spur of the moment.” When we were in Italy, he’d heard about an authentic Michelangelo that was going to be put up for auction. He’d contacted the seller, made the kind of deal that couldn’t be refused, and then donated it to a Los Angeles museum on the condition that he could take it on loan for two months out of every year to tour his properties, kept under watchful guard in the lobbies of his offices all over the globe, and thus giving the general public a chance to come view a masterpiece.
“True,” he concedes. “But I rarely buy real estate on impulse.”
“There’s always a first time,” I say lightly. “But seriously, why aren’t we staying at one of your hotels? You have one not far from here. Or at least Stark Properties, a wholly owned subsidiary of Stark International, does.”
For a moment, he looks confused, then he grins. “You’ve been reading my corporate magazine.”
“Maybe,” I admit, because there were a few copies on the plane. “But it would still have been a good guess. Because, honestly, where don’t you own property?”
“Greenland. At the moment, I’m completely without holdings in Greenland.”
“Ha-ha.” I turn to examine the suite some more, taking in the plush furniture, the wide-open spaces, even the grand piano that I have absolutely no idea how to play. “I’ll admit this place is exceptional, but why not stay at one of your own?”
“Because this is our time,” he says. “No one knows us personally. No one will knock on the door if there is a crisis. It’s not possible to be entirely anonymous with you,” he adds, taking my hand and tugging me toward him, “but I’d like to at least try to be invisible.”
I lean back against him, then close my eyes as his hands tighten around my waist. We stand like that for a moment, swaying slightly, the top of my head tucked under Damien’s chin.
“Are you tired?” he asks.
“Mmm. That depends on why you’re asking.”
His low chuckle rumbles through me. “That’s definitely one reason to stay awake. But I confess that I was thinking of something a bit more public.”
I turn in his arms. “What about being invisible?”
“I’m sure we can blend,” he says. “Maybe I’ll even buy you a hat to go with your dress.”
“Un chapeau,” I correct, “and I’d like that.” The dress I chose on the plane is a vintage style shirt-dress, with buttons running the entire length and a belted waist that creates a very full skirt. I’m feeling rather Audrey Hepburn, and a hat would be just the thing.
“You’re the one who’ll be recognized,” I point out. “I’ve only become a celebrity by default.” Damien, however, has been in the spotlight since he was a kid, and he played enough tennis and did enough commercials in Europe that I doubt I’m exaggerating the chances of him being noticed. Especially when you factor in how widespread the coverage of his recent trial was.
“I have a disguise.” He grins as he says it, then crosses to the leather backpack that doubles as a briefcase when he travels.
I watch, amused, as he pulls out a white cap with a French flag imprinted on the front.
I laugh and shake my head. He’s still Damien, no question about it, and I think he looks damn hot. But on the whole it’s not a bad disguise. He rarely wears caps, and if he adds some sunglasses—and if we both carry daypacks—we’ll look like any two tourists out exploring the city.
“So do I look like just an ordinary guy?”
“You’ll never be ordinary,” I say. “But close enough.”
The hotel is located near dozens of high-end shops, but it’s only just past eight in the morning, so nothing much is open yet. Damien promises me a day of shopping later, and I am fine with that. I may be hesitant to use my husband’s money to fund my business, but I am not so proud as to turn down designer clothes.
Right now, though, we stay primarily on the side streets, enjoying the local ambiance. We are holding hands, and though I feel as though we are wandering aimlessly, Damien assures me that he knows where we are going.
“So what is on our agenda?” I ask. “It’s Paris, after all. There are about a million things I want to do.”
“What’s on your list?” he asks, as an amazing yeasty scent draws us off the street toward a tiny café with charming outdoor seating.
I start to rattle off everything I can think of, from the Louvre to the catacombs to the Seine and the Eiffel Tower. “And Versailles,” I add as we take a seat at one of the tables. “And Montmartre. And the Left Bank and the Metro and—oh, hell, I don’t know. How does everything sound?”
His smile is indulgent. “Sounds reasonable to me.”
When the waitress arrives he orders two café crèmes and two pains au chocolat. I’m impressed, but not surpri
sed, when he orders in what I assume is perfect French. Stark International, I think, and grin. Why wouldn’t he speak French?
“I’m not quite fluent,” he admits as we sip our coffee and watch the people on the charming avenue. “But I can get by.”
After we’ve finished our pastry and coffee, we meander down small streets and alleyways until we cross a wider, busier avenue, then follow a half-hidden path into a lovely garden.
“It’s like an oasis,” I say. I had grabbed my camera on the way out of the hotel, and now I make Damien stop as I take a few shots. It is as if we have wandered into a fairy tale, and I want to capture the magical aura on film.
“This is one of my favorite shortcuts,” Damien says, as he leads me down a tree-lined path. “And for exactly that reason. It’s an escape. A respite from the crowds and the noise.”
“So where are we?”
“It’s called the Jardin de la Nouvelle France. I think it was set up in anticipation of the 1900 World’s Fair, but don’t quote me on that. I come for the way it looks, not the history.”
As interesting as the history might be, I have to agree, and as we follow the path—taking a few side trips just for the sake of adventure—I can’t deny the joy I feel simply being in this cool, green space. I keep my camera out, delighting in the play of light and shadow, and taking so many pictures that I will undoubtedly have to buy new memory cards before this trip is over.
We wander farther in and find a lovely little bridge, not to mention an actual waterfall.
“Here,” Damien says, taking my hand at one point when I’m certain that we’ve managed to get horribly turned around. “I’ll show you my favorite place to sit.” He leads me to a small pond shaded by a weeping beech. There is a small stone bench, and we sit for a moment, his arm around my waist and my head upon his shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“For what?” he asks.
“You said you were giving me the world. Thank you for giving me these hidden treasures, too.”
When we finally stand to continue on our way, I’m surprised to realize that it’s after ten thirty.
