Stark After Dark
Page 16
“Slow and easy,” Damien says when I comment on the time. “Just like a honeymoon should be.”
I take his hand and squeeze. Because, really, I can’t argue with that.
We emerge from the park onto the Cours la Reine, and follow that street for a while before crossing at the avenue Winston Churchill. That road goes to the Seine, and turns into the Pont Alexandre III.
“Are we crossing?”
Damien shakes his head. “We can take the stairs down and walk along the water for a while or stay on street level and check out some of the sights. We’ll pass the Louvre in a few more blocks.”
“Can we go in?”
“We can,” he says, then kisses my forehead. “It’s already on today’s agenda. But there’s someplace else I want to take you first. You still okay with walking? We can catch a cab.”
“I’m great,” I say, meaning it. There is nothing I enjoy more than walking in a new city, unless it’s walking in a new city with Damien.
We stay on the street level until we’ve passed the Place de la Concorde and I’ve oohed and aahed over the Obelisk and taken a dozen more pictures. Then we go down the stairs and walk along the Seine until we reach the Pont des Arts. We head back up the stairs, begin to cross the bridge, and then I stop, confused by the odd appearance of the bridge’s railing.
“What’s that—locks?” I’ve stepped to the side, and Damien is beside me, as I realize that the odd metallic jumble I’m looking at is in fact a collection of padlocks that are attached to the bridge railing like barnacles.
I tilt my head to look up at Damien. “What on earth?”
“This is the bridge for lovers,” he says. “You’ve never heard of it?”
I shake my head even as I look farther down the bridge, not able to fathom just how many lovers have come here to pledge their devotion.
“They come. They write their names on a lock. They attach it to the bridge, and they throw the key into the Seine.”
“For luck?” I ask, and he nods.
“Is that why you’ve brought me here?”
“It is,” he says, and those two words warm my heart. “But I want to switch it up just a little.”
I frown a bit, confused, but nod.
“Not too long ago, part of the bridge fell off—it collapsed under the weight of the locks.”
My eyes widen. “Love is a heavy burden,” I quip, then immediately frown. “Was anyone hurt?”
“No, but even so. I thought we could start our own tradition. Carry our own weight, you might say.”
I cock my head, smiling as I wait for him to explain.
He draws a small box from his pocket, then opens it to reveal a silver charm in the shape of a lock. I pick it up, and see that it has our names engraved on it. “And it has a key, too,” he says, lifting the velvet to reveal the tiny key. “It’s for you, from me. And once I put it on your bracelet, I thought we could throw the key into the river.”
My chest swells and my throat is thick with tears. I nod stupidly because I can’t get the words out. It is romantic and sweet, and I lift my wrist for him, the little Eiffel Tower dangling there as he attaches the lock charm next to it.
“I love you,” I say as he puts the key in my hand.
“And I love you.” He cups his hand over mine. “On three?” he asks, and we start to swing our joined hands. Once. Twice. On the third time, we let go, and the tiny key goes flying.
“Forever,” Damien says.
“Forever,” I agree.
The rest of the afternoon feels just as soft, just as romantic.
We wander along the Seine, looking at the street vendors’ wares, taking silly pictures of each other, and holding hands. Once or twice I see people looking at us—a few even snap pictures—but I tell myself that it is nothing. That if there are less than a dozen people who recognize us, then we are having a good day.
We spend two hours in the Louvre, and I gasp in awe at the majesty of some of the paintings, and then gasp in surprise at how diminutive the Mona Lisa is, certainly not as big as I expected given the enormity of her reputation.
After, we buy cheese and wine and have an afternoon picnic in the Jardin des Tuileries, where we do nothing but laze about enjoying the weather, the surroundings, and each other.
As night approaches, Damien takes me back to the Seine and we take an evening cruise. We sip champagne and watch the lights of the city come on. And when the Eiffel Tower lights and sparkles on the hour, we toast to love and laughter and romance.
As we are heading back to the dock, Damien receives a text, and since he has ordered strict silence except in emergencies, he glances at the screen. I watch him, dividing my attention between my husband and the Parisian skyline.
The muscle in his cheek tightens, so I know it is not good news, and he taps out a reply quickly, his fingers practically attacking the screen. But when he turns back to me, the frustration is gone and he is simply Damien again, a man sharing champagne with his wife on their honeymoon.
“How do you do that?” I ask. “You must have a million things going on and a trillion fires to put out, and yet you can just shut it all down. Turn it all off.” I wish that I could do the same. Because although I have reveled in every moment of this day, the truth is that the threat of that damn lawsuit has been lying under the surface, clinging to my enjoyment like tar.
“I don’t know,” he says, brushing my cheek. “I simply will it away. It isn’t gone. Only shelved.”
“I can’t even manage that.” I press against him, sighing as his arms go around me. He smells of fresh air and grass from the garden, and his body is hard and hot against mine. “Make it go away,” I murmur as I feel the need rise within me. “For just a little while, make me forget everything but you.”
I lean back just enough so that I can tilt my head up to look at him. His eyes are like molten steel, and I quiver simply from the thought of his touch.
“There’s somewhere I want to take you.” I hear the strain in his voice, as if he is fighting back the urge to touch me. The boat has reached the dock, and he leads me off, then pauses on the quai to study me. “I wasn’t sure, but, Nikki—yes. Come on.”
I’m not at all sure what he has in mind, but I go willingly. Eagerly, actually.
On the street level, we catch a taxi and Damien instructs the driver to take us to À la Lune in the Quartier Pigalle. I note the way the driver glances back, his expression almost a leer, and I raise my brows. Damien only shrugs. “Think red light district.”
“Oh,” I say, and then settle back in the upholstered seat. I have no idea what Damien has planned, but I’m completely confident I will enjoy it.
It’s not a long drive, and soon we are in a neighborhood that reminds me a little bit of Bourbon Street and a little bit of Times Square. On one corner, I see a red door and a small neon sign for À la Lune. The driver lets us out without a word, but when Damien pays him, his eyes stay on our faces for just a bit longer than I’d like. I tell myself it’s nothing. If he’d recognized us—if he cared—he’d have pulled out his phone and snapped a picture. As it is, he drives away.
Damien takes my hand and leads me toward the red door, but stops a few feet away on a section of the sidewalk submerged in shadows. “I meant what I said before, about Paris being a city of romance and wanting to share that with you on our honeymoon. But it also has a libertine side. A bit wild. A bit decadent.”
“And that’s a good thing?” I tease, easing up against him, so close I can feel his erection. He cups my ass and pulls me closer.
“It is,” he says, with more seriousness than I anticipated. “Do you remember what you said back in Malibu the other day? We were eating breakfast.”
I grin, certain I finally see where this is going. “I said it felt very domestic. That I liked that.” I ease closer, then grind my pelvis against his. “What’s the matter? Already feeling shackled by matrimony?”
“Shackled wouldn’t be a problem,” he says, “
though I’d prefer it was you and not me. And no. But I don’t ever want us to become…settled.” As he speaks, he steps back so that he can run his finger down my dress. He eases the skirt up, then growls low in his throat when he finds that I’m not wearing underwear.
“I don’t want to be settled, either,” I say huskily.
“Dear god, I love you.” He tightens his hand around my waist and I arch back, letting him explore me, letting his touch excite me. I know that we are outside, but it is dark and this is Damien, and I don’t care. I want this. I want him. And I want the passion to fire so hot between us that it burns away everything else.
“Inside.” His voice is rough. “If I don’t get you inside right now, I swear I’m going to fuck you right here against this wall.”
I’m tempted to see if he means it, but I notice some people walking across the street. I don’t think they’ve seen us, but no sense tempting fate. “All right,” I say. “Let’s see just how decadent Paris can be.”
Chapter 10
As it turns out, it can be pretty damn decadent. The club caters to couples, who can either choose to share partners or not. We are definitely on the “or not” side of the equation, a fact that Damien makes clear to the couple who enter the club at the same time we do.
The hostess greets us in French, then switches seamlessly to English. She explains that she will take us to the dressing rooms where we will put our clothes and belongings in lockers. She makes a particular point to stress that my camera must be locked away, and I am fine with that. I don’t want to take pictures any more than I want someone taking pictures of me.
The club provides robes, sarongs, and towels. We can choose what to wear, or wear nothing at all. She continues to explain the rules, which are basically nonexistent. Anything goes. Anything, anywhere. Except for the hot tub, where actual intercourse isn’t allowed, a statement that drives home that it is allowed anywhere else.
“Are there private rooms?” I ask.
“There are. But you do not have to be concerned about your privacy no matter what you do or where you do it.” She flashes a bright smile, then nods to Damien. “Our members understand discretion.” It is the first time that I realize she knows who we are. And that Damien has been here before.
I glance sideways at him, but he only shrugs. If I want answers, I’m going to have to wait, because we are already on the move and we are following our hostess to the dressing room, women on the left of the plush joint sitting area, men on the right.
She smiles, nods, then leaves.
“I was wondering how you found this place,” I say. “But I guess a member would know where it is.”
“Renewed member,” he says, not at all perturbed by the green fire of jealousy that has crept into my voice. “It’s been years since I’ve been here, but I called yesterday and reinstated my membership.”
“Oh.” I tell myself I’m not going to ask, but then I completely ignore my own sound advice. “Who did you come with?”
“Carmela,” he says, referring to the bitch of an Italian supermodel he dated many years ago.
“Oh.” I swallow. “And about that couples thing. Did you, um, share?”
“I did,” he says. He takes two long steps to end up right in front of me. Gently, he cups my chin, then kisses me so sweetly it almost makes me cry. “Why wouldn’t I? She wasn’t mine.”
His words soothe me more than I want to admit. “I don’t like thinking that there were other women before me,” I admit, though I know it is a foolish thought because Damien Stark is about the furthest thing from a monk on the planet.
“There weren’t,” he says. “There may have been women—they may have even shared my bed—but there was no one before you.”
I nod, still feeling foolish, but also incredibly happy. I wipe a tear away with the edge of my thumb.
He tells me to go change—“not naked; I don’t intend to share even the sight of you”—and to meet him back in this sitting room.
I do, returning in a sarong, and more than happy to find him with a towel wrapped around his waist, the bulge at his crotch making it more than evident that he is ready for whatever delights are on the agenda.
He leads me through a space with couches and chairs and people in various states of undress, all touching and stroking and teasing. I’m not sure what the etiquette is here, but I can’t stop looking. Damien sees me, and pulls me back into an alcove, one of many in this room, and clearly set back for this very purpose. There is, in fact, a small curtain that can be pulled across the opening, turning it into a small but private space, almost like a little dressing room.
“Have you ever watched other people make love?” Damien asks.
I shake my head. “No. I mean, yes. Some porn, but that’s different.”
“It is,” he says. He stands behind me, so that we are in the shadows and I am looking out over the room. Hands stroking. Lips meeting. I don’t know why, but watching these strangers makes my own temperature rise.
“I don’t want them,” I say, as Damien cups my breasts through the thin material of the sarong. “I don’t want anyone’s touch but yours.”
“But it turns you on,” he whispers, and I nod.
“Why?” I ask.
“They’re a mirror. You see passion on their faces and you want it. You see the burn of heat on their skin, and you want to feel it. You hear them cry out when they come, and you want to go there, too.”
“Yes,” I moan, as the truth of what he says washes over me. I’ve never thought I had any voyeuristic tendencies, but watching these people—their hands stroking slick skin, their mouths meeting—is like kindling to the fire already growing inside me. “God, yes.”
I lean back against Damien, feeling the press of his erection against my rear. His fingers tighten on my nipples and I cry out, the cry shifting to a desperate moan as his other hand snakes down to my crotch. “Please,” I say. “Touch me.”
“Are you sure?” he asks, and I hear the hard edge of want in his voice.
I nod. I do not want to be the one being watched, but I so desperately want to feel. “The shadows,” I say. “And the sarong is open at the side.” No one will be able to see, I tell myself. But the truth is, I’m not sure I care anymore if they do.
The slit in the sarong is over my hip, but Damien turns it so that it is over my thigh, just barely covering my sex. He slips his hand under the material and strokes me. I bite down on my lower lip to keep from crying out. I am so hot, so sensitive, that I fear I will explode right there in his hand.
“Nikki, oh, god, baby.” He uses the hand that was on my breast to pull my sarong up from the back.
I know I should protest—but I don’t want to. I want the thrill. I want Damien. I want him to fuck me in this dark corner with this cornucopia of sex spread out in front of us. I want the wildness.
I want it all.
“Yes,” I say, and lean forward so that I can hold on to the edge of the alcove. I yank the curtain partly closed—a nod to privacy—but I do not want to block our view.
I am still wearing the sarong, and Damien is behind me, so I know that we have some privacy, but when Damien grips my hips and thrusts himself inside me—when I cry out from the delicious intensity of taking him in and having him pound hard inside me—I know that anyone who looks toward us must know exactly what we are doing.
I don’t care.
All I want is Damien.
All I want is to feel, and I reach around, taking his hand off my hip and easing it into the sarong, silently demanding that he stroke my clit even as he fucks me from behind.
“Don’t close your eyes,” Damien demands, and I don’t. Instead I watch. Passion watching passion. Heat locked onto heat.
He teases my clit as his cock fills and strokes me. He is working me into a frenzy, and his touch combined with the surroundings pushes me over the edge so hard and so fast that I am certain that without Damien to hold me up, I will tumble and fall to my knees.
He closes the curtain then, and I turn in his arms, then melt into his touch, into his kisses.
“I love you,” he says.
“I know,” I say, then snuggle closer. I am content. And right at the moment, I’m not feeling domestic at all.
We stay a bit longer, enjoying the sauna and the hot tub. Making love slowly in a pirate-themed private room where I let Damien take me captive and then ravage me. It is late when we leave, and I am feeling well-used and wonderful.
“How did you know?” I ask as we exit onto the sidewalk. “How did you know I would like it?”
“How do you think?”
I stay silent; we both know the answer. Because Damien knows me as well as I know myself. And as far as I am concerned, that is a glorious feeling.
I take his hand and pull him to a stop, then lift myself up to kiss him, planning a soft buss, and then laughing as he captures me long and slow and deep.
A bright light flashes, turning the world inside out, and it takes me a second to realize that the light came from the flash of a camera. It is followed in quick succession by a lightning storm of flashes, and I stumble backward, realizing only after the fact that Damien has pushed me aside.
Damien is in the street, and his fist slams hard into the photographer’s face even as I process the words that have been hanging over my head like a cartoon bubble since the first flash went off—“Fucking A. Stark pays for her, then he shares her.”
The accent is heavily British, and when I see the multiple cameras around the guy’s neck as he stumbles backward, his nose a bloody mess, I realize that he is a celebrity chaser from one of Britain’s tabloids.
I don’t even have time to feel sick before I see Damien lunge for the guy.
“Damien, no!” I shout, but my words come too late. Damien grabs the guy by the shirtfront and pulls him back. He seems to hesitate, and then instead of breaking the guy’s face, he grabs one of the cameras and breaks that instead.