Stark After Dark

by J. Kenner

  And, yes, it’s about pleasure. About passion.

  And as Damien and I know better than most, pleasure and pain have the same core. And I willingly surrender to both of them.

  The first spank makes me gasp, the sting spreading out, and then calming down as Damien rubs the curve of my rear, softening the sting. He smacks me again, just a little harder, and I feel my sex clench with longing. He slides his hand between my legs to stroke me, and I know that he is aware of how aroused he is making me. Of how much I want this—and how much I will want him after, once my ass is red and he has had his fill.

  Again and again. Five more spanks and I am on fire, from the sting of flesh against flesh, but also from the erotic need to be fucked, to be taken.

  “Damien.” I only whisper his name, but it is enough, and he helps me up, then settles me on his lap, my knees on either side of him so that I am straddling him as he sits on the end of the lounger, his hands at my back keeping me steady.

  “I want to watch it build in your eyes,” he says. “I want to see the moment when we float away.”

  “Yes.” I rise up on my knees, then lower myself onto him, slowly at first and then faster and faster until that precipice looms in front of me again, and I can see the explosion building in his eyes, my own passion reflected right back at me.

  “Now,” he demands when we are both at the edge. “Now, Nikki, dammit, come with me.”

  I arch back, a slave to his demands, and burst into a billion pieces even as he explodes inside me. He holds me tight, keeping me from getting lost in the ether and providing a tether to bring me back to myself.

  I collapse against him, breathing hard, relishing the comfort of his arms, strong and safe, closing around me.

  “Damien.” That’s all I can say, but it is enough.

  “Yes,” he says, his voice so tender it brings tears to my eyes. “I know.”

  Later, he carries me up to the house, because I am not at all convinced that I will ever have the power to walk on my own again.

  I manage to stand for a shower, then dry off and settle back on the bed, naked, as Damien stays in the bathroom to shave.

  I drift off, sated, only to be roused by his voice wafting over me. “Now, that is a very lovely view.”

  I stretch and roll over, opening my eyes to find him naked in the doorway—and once again fully erect.

  With a laugh, I prop myself up on an elbow. “You, Mr. Stark, are insatiable.”

  “You make me insatiable,” he counters, coming to sit beside me on the bed. “I could spend the entire day here with you. Maybe the week, the month, the year.”

  “I like it. Though we’d have to figure out how to eat.”

  “Oh, I intend to eat my fill,” he says, nipping his way down my belly.

  I squirm, delighted by his touch, and then I tense. I cock my head as something pokes at my memory. Something about eating…about sweetness…

  About love.

  I twine my fingers in his hair. “Wait—”

  He lifts his head, one brow cocked.

  I glance at the clock, see that it’s still early enough, and grin at my husband. “Sorry, sweetheart, I’m cutting you off.”

  “Oh?” His expression is vaguely amused. “And why is that?”

  “I’ve nailed the first clue.” My tone is smug. I am certain that I’m right.

  “Really?” He eases his way up my body until I am trapped beneath him. “Tell me.”

  I shake my head. “Nope.”

  He kisses my neck. “Please?”

  “Not a chance, buddy. At least not until you buy me a meal.”

  “A meal?”

  “Lunch,” I confirm. “In Beverly Hills. And after my meal,” I add with a wide, smug grin, “I want my dessert.”

  —

  We end up having a late lunch at one of the outdoor tables at 208 Rodeo, and we split an order of sweet potato fries and a burger while we do the people-watching thing, scoping out both tourists and locals as they stroll along Rodeo Drive or wander up the stairs to Via Rodeo. Not surprisingly, there’s a significant amount of reciprocal watching, and I catch sight of more than a few people taking surreptitious snaps of us with their phones. A few even stand boldly across the street and aim powerful zoom lenses in our direction, clicking furiously as they rattle off shot after shot.

  Again, I don’t care.

  It’s a gorgeous day. I’m with my husband on a Valentine’s Day scavenger hunt. And I’m still basking in the glow of some outstanding morning sex.

  Seriously, life is good.

  A perky waitress who looks like she’s ready to star in her own sitcom bounces to our table. “Can I get you some dessert?”

  I meet Damien’s eyes. “Thanks,” I say. “But we’ve already got a plan for that.”

  We settle the check, and then stroll the two short blocks to Love Bites, the exceptional bakery owned by Sally Love. She’s been featured on every food program known to man and has graced the pages of wedding and food magazines. She’s known Damien for years, and I adored her—and her cakes—from the moment I met her. And after just one bite of her dark chocolate and Kahlua cupcake, I knew that no one else could cater our wedding.

  I’m convinced that what is sweeter than Love leads like an arrow to Sally Love and Love Bites. Valentine’s Day and love go together—and love leads to weddings. So how could the bakery that catered our wedding not be where the clue leads?

  But though I might be certain, Damien, damn the man, has steadfastly refused to either confirm or deny.

  Soon enough, though, I’ll know if I’m right.

  I’d called Sally just seconds after my aha moment, and though the bakery is technically closed on Sundays, she said that she was on-site getting ready for a luncheon she’s catering tomorrow and invited me to stop by.

  “Look at you two,” she says the moment she tugs open the glass doors to her sugar-scented shop. “The very picture of marital bliss.”

  I simply grin and return her enthusiastic hug.

  “Now, what’s this all about?”

  “Apparently my wife has a craving for your cupcakes.”

  “Does she?” Sally says, her brows rising. “I’m flattered, but what brought this on?”

  I look between the two of them, suddenly unsure of myself. “Um, it’s just that nothing is sweeter than love, right? So that must mean your cupcakes.”

  She points a finger at me. “Now, there’s an excellent slogan for an ad campaign. Mind if I borrow it?”

  I glance toward Damien. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  “It’s all yours,” he says.

  “Easiest deal I’ve made all day,” she says with a wide grin. “But seriously, what do you need from me, Nikki?”

  I hand her the tiny piece of paper and watch as she squints at the words. When she looks up at me, I see both interest and confusion on her face. “This is from where?”

  “From him,” I say, pointing toward Damien.

  “Oh, really?” There is laughter in her voice, as if the very thought of Damien Stark writing silly poetry and organizing a scavenger hunt is beyond the realm of possibility. She looks so perplexed, in fact, that I’m about to tell her that I must have made a mistake.

  That’s when I see the tiniest smile touch her mouth.

  “Oh, you are so playing me,” I accuse. “Both of you.”

  She holds her hands up in mock surrender. “Sweetie, I swear I have nothing in the store you’d want tonight. But if you’d like to special-order something for delivery to your office tomorrow…well, I’m sure I can come up with a treat that will intrigue you.”

  I keep my own expression businesslike, but inside I’m jumping with glee. I knew I’d figured out the clue. I’d just done it faster than she or Damien had expected. “That sounds great. I always need a sugar boost by the afternoon. Why don’t I let it be chef’s choice?” I add, smiling innocently.

  She holds my gaze, then nods. “I think that’ll work out just fine.”<
br />
  Damien and I spend a few more minutes chatting with her, and when we leave, I have a chocolate cupcake in hand—one that she said was leftover from the catering job she was preparing in the back.

  “It’s delicious,” I say to Damien, who has taken my wrist and is starting to lift the confection to his mouth for a bite. “And it’s all mine.” I tug my arm very firmly out of his grasp.

  “Oh, really?” The humor is plain in his voice. “And why is that?”

  “We both know I got it right. You’re just keeping your mouth shut to torment me.”

  “Tormenting you is one of my favorite activities, Mrs. Stark.”

  “I know that very well, Mr. Stark,” I retort, keeping my voice and my expression prim despite the heat that his sultry tone has sent coursing through me. “But this time it’s my turn to torment you. No sharing unless you play nice.” As if to illustrate my point, I take another bite of the cupcake.

  With a laugh, he tugs me close. “You can withhold chocolate,” he says, dipping me. “Just don’t withhold anything else.”

  And then—as the well-heeled Rodeo Drive crowd looks on and applauds—my husband licks the chocolate from the corner of my mouth before kissing me long and deep and very thoroughly.

  Chapter 3

  Despite having weeks of work stacked up on my desk and an email inbox that is full to overflowing, I am having a terrible time concentrating at my desk on Monday. I manage to spend the morning getting some work done, then eat lunch at my desk as I plow through emails. But by mid-afternoon, I’ve lost my focus. Instead of computers, I’m thinking about cupcakes. Not to mention the present that I have planned for Damien—and yet haven’t had nearly enough time to work on.

  The problem with buying presents for a man like Damien Stark is that if he doesn’t already own something, then it’s probably not something he’d want anyway. I considered naming a star for him, or stealing him away for a romantic weekend, or even donating in both our names to one of his favorite charities.

  But while I have no problem with any of those ideas in theory, none are intimate or original enough for our very first Valentine’s Day.

  No, I’m going with handmade—more or less—and personal.

  Unfortunately, the “handmade” part has been giving me some trouble, and I’ve realized that I’m going to have to break down and ask for help.

  Since that is at least some distraction from wondering about Damien’s present to me, I pick up the phone and call Sylvia, Damien’s personal assistant.

  “Nikki! Hey, welcome back. He’s spending all day on nineteen with Preston,” she says, referring to the head of acquisitions for Stark Applied Technology. “But if you hold on, I’ll call down and let him know you’re on the line.”

  “No, that’s okay,” I say. “I called to talk to you.” Sylvia was one of the first people to learn that not only was I the model for the life-size nude portrait that hangs in the Malibu house, but that Damien paid me a cool million dollars as a fee. When she told me that Damien had gotten off cheap, I knew she and I would get along fine.

  And after she attended my bachelorette party at Raven—a local male strip club—any lingering wife-of-the-boss awkwardness was soundly swept away. Once you’ve shared the experience of having a half-naked cowboy’s package gyrating in your face, it’s hard not to be friends.

  “What’s up?”

  “You know the photographs that hang in the thirty-fifth floor reception area? The redwood and the bicycle and all the others?”

  “Of course.”

  “Damien told me they were done by a local photographer. Out of Santa Monica, I think. Do you know his name?”

  “Sure, but can I ask what’s up?”

  “Valentine’s Day,” I admit. “I’ve got this idea to do a photograph of me. Kind of artsy—I have a pose in mind. And then I’ll adjust the color on Photoshop and add a caption. I know I’ve waited till the last minute, but I’ve set up the self-timer a dozen times, and I just can’t get the composition right without me being behind the lens.”

  “He’ll love it,” Sylvia says. “Perfect for the man who just acquired the very last thing on earth that he wanted.”

  “What’s that?” I ask, completely confused.

  Sylvia laughs. “Duh. You.”

  “Oh.” I feel a blush of pleasure rising up my neck because the truth is, I know that she’s right.

  “His name is Wyatt Reed, and I’m happy to give you his number. But I happen to know that he’s out of town. He’s on a shoot in Australia until March.”

  “Oh. Well, damn.” I consider my options. “Do you know any other photographers? Someone in the PR department or—”

  “I could do it.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t take a lot of shots of people, but I’ve been into photography for years. Architecture, mostly. But if you show me what you’re going for, I’m sure I can make it work.”

  “That would be amazing,” I say. And not only because she would be solving my problem. How cool that she is into photography, too.

  “Listen, I’ve got a call coming in. Shoot me an email and let me know when you want to do this thing, okay?”

  I agree and end the call just as Mrs. Crane—the receptionist for my shared office suite—buzzes me. “Ms. Archer is here.”

  “Really?” I’m not expecting Jamie, but I can’t deny that I’m glad to see her. I’d called her last night to schedule lunch and gossip for later in the week, and then, of course, I’d given her the quick-and-dirty rundown on Damien’s scavenger hunt, the first clue, and my frustration.

  “So?” Jamie asks as she bursts into my tiny office. She looks around—as if shocked that the decor hasn’t changed in the few weeks since she’s been by—then flops down on the little sofa. “Has the cupcake come yet?”

  I shake my head. “Why are you here?” Her condo is just a few miles away, but she’s been staying in Venice Beach, and that’s way the hell and gone from Sherman Oaks.

  “One, I am loving this scavenger hunt thing—I’m totally stealing the idea.”

  “You can love it without driving to the Valley,” I point out.

  “Which brings me to reason number two. Audition,” she says, then holds her hand up for a high five, which I happily supply.

  “Seriously? What for?”

  “Pilot for a new drama. I’ve actually got a really good shot according to Evelyn,” she adds, referring to Evelyn Dodge, one of my absolute favorite people who is now also Jamie’s agent. Jamie makes a face. “Of course with my luck that means I’ll get the job, I’ll kick serious ass, and the network won’t pick the damn thing up.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “This is a no-pessimism zone. Only positive thoughts once you walk through that door.”

  She rolls her eyes, then curls her feet under her, tilts her head back, and starts to chant.

  “Jamie, what the hell?”

  “I’m visualizing. Shut up for a second. I’m about to give my speech at the Golden Globes.”

  I snort back a laugh, but I’m saved from having to think of a snarky comeback by the sharp buzz of the intercom again. This time, Mrs. Crane announces a delivery for me, and Jamie and I both spring for the door.

  “It’s okay, Mrs. Crane,” I say. “I’ve been expecting it.”

  I yank open the door, probably terrifying the skinny guy standing there in a delivery uniform. Once I have the package and have sent the guy on his way with a tip, Jamie and I take the box back to my desk. I sit in my chair and she perches on the wooden desktop beside me.

  “Well?” she says. “Open it.”

  Since I’m not sure what I’m waiting for, I nod, then use a letter opener to slice through the tape that is holding the decorative pastry box closed. It’s only slightly bigger than a cupcake, and when I open it, I’m surprised to see that it holds exactly that—a cupcake.

  Specifically, a lovely cupcake with green fondant icing and the numeral “4” printed perfectly across the top in blue
icing.

  I glance at Jamie, who looks just as baffled as I feel.

  “That can’t be all of it.” I reach for the cupcake. “There must be a message underneath.”

  But if there is more to the message, it’s not on the box beneath the cupcake where I expect it. So when Jamie very reasonably suggests that the clue might be baked into the cupcake, I use my iPhone to snap a picture of the treat—just in case—and then I use the letter opener as a knife and carefully cut the cake in half. There’s nothing hidden inside. No secret message baked in the cake.

  But as soon as we’ve both picked up our halves to feast upon, I see the carefully printed website written on the bottom of the paper muffin cup.

  “I knew it.” I am feeling so smug and triumphant that I have to battle the urge to call Damien and gloat. I don’t, though. I’m not home free just because I’ve found a website.

  “Well?” Jamie sounds impatient.

  “I’m on it.” I pull my laptop closer to me, then type in the URL as she comes around my desk to look over my shoulder, then mutters, “Well, fuck,” when all that pops up is an input box for a username.

  I echo her sentiments as I lean back in my chair, thinking. “This has to be it,” I say. “Somehow, this leads to the next clue.”

  “I adore Damien,” Jamie says, “but couldn’t he have just taken you out for dinner and a movie like a normal guy?”

  “I thought you loved the scavenger hunt idea.”

  “Well, sure. Until it got hard.”

  I laugh and shake my head. Not only is Damien a far cry from your average guy, but I’m so delighted by this game—which plays to both my romantic and geek sides—that if I weren’t already full-up with love for my husband, I would fall even further.

  “Four,” I say, even as I type the numeral into the box. I glance at Jamie, hit enter, and cross my fingers.

  A moment later, the screen changes, and I feel a little tug of glee:

  Welcome, Nikki Stark

  Please Enter Password

  My glee fades when I realize there is yet another hurdle.