Release Me

by J. Kenner

  His tongue strokes mine, sending erotic sparks dancing through me. My skin, already so sensitive just from his proximity, now seems like an instrument of torture, because the anticipation of his touch is simply too much to bear. A low, demanding ache builds between my thighs, and I press my legs together in both defense and in an attempt at satisfaction.

  He makes a growling noise and shifts me in his arms. Suddenly, his hand is on my hip and the soft material of my skirt caresses my skin as he glides over it toward my crotch. I tense, aroused and nervous, but I don't push him away. My body is pulsing, my clit throbbing, and I want release. I want Damien.

  His entire body is hard against mine. He holds me close and deepens the kiss as his hand slopes down toward my sex, just slow enough to drive me crazy. I shift, leaving one leg on his thighs, but our position is awkward and my other leg slides off. I press the ball of my bare foot to the ground for balance even as I feel a rush of cool air find its way in underneath my skirt to tease my damp panties.

  In this position I'm wide open and vulnerable, and Stark cups his hand over my sex and moans into my mouth. Even through the material of my skirt and the satin of my panties, I can feel his heat. He strokes me through my clothes, his fingers teasing my clit, making me so wet I think I will melt.

  My skirt is hitched up, but it still covers my thighs. Even so, he's close--so close to the secrets I don't want to share, and I know that if he tries to stroke my inner thighs that I will bolt. I'm nervous. Afraid, even. But danger and fear have added an edge to my excitement. I don't think I've ever been more turned on in my life.

  His fingers tease me, making a wild fever burn through me. I'm right on the edge, just a little more--

  But then his hand is gone. I open my eyes, and for just an instant, his expression is warm and open, and I think that I'm the only thing in all the world that he sees. Then something alters, and his face changes as the mask clicks back into place. He shifts my position, pulling me up so that I am sitting half on his lap.

  "Damien, what--"

  But then I hear the voice behind me, a bright, cheery feminine voice saying, "I've been looking everywhere for you. Are you ready?"

  Oh my God. Did she just walk up? How long has she been there?

  I look helplessly at Damien, but he doesn't notice. He's looking over my shoulder at whomever is speaking. "I need to see Ms. Fairchild home," he says, and I shift on the bench so that I can see behind me--and find myself looking at Audrey Hepburn.

  She nods at me, smiles at Damien, then turns and walks away.

  Gently, he slides me off his legs. He stands, then holds his hand out for me. "Let's go."

  My legs are weak--my whole body still limp from his ministrations. But I shove my feet back into my shoes and follow him without question. I'm confused and embarrassed and not entirely sure what to think.

  We find Evelyn and say goodbye as we pass through the thinning crowd. She gives me a hug, and I promise to call her in a day or so. It's a promise I mean to keep.

  At the door, he slips his jacket around my shoulders. We walk down the sidewalk to where a limo waits in the circular drive. A liveried driver holds open the back door, and Damien gestures for me to get inside. I haven't been in a limo since I was a kid, and I pause to take it all in. Black leather bench seats line the back and one side. On the other is a full bar, the crystal decanter and glasses twinkling from recessed lighting hidden in the polished wood of the bar. The floor is carpeted. The entire space screams luxury and money and elegance.

  I sit down on the backseat so that I'm facing the front of the car. The leather is soft and warm and seems to hug my body. I glance at the door, waiting for Damien to enter.

  Except that he doesn't.

  "Goodnight, Nikki," he says, in the same business voice I heard him using earlier in the evening. "I look forward to the presentation tomorrow."

  And then he slams the door and walks away, back to Evelyn's house and Audrey Hepburn who's now silhouetted in the doorway holding out her hand to welcome him in.

  7

  I am alone, and I'm angry, mortified, and embarrassed.

  I'm also turned on. Thus the embarrassment.

  It's my own damn fault, of course. I'd been playing with fire--and I knew it.

  Damien Stark is out of my league. More than that, he's dangerous. Why could Ollie see it and not me?

  But I did see it.

  That hardness in his eyes. The mask he pulls down so skillfully. My first instinct was to tell Damien Stark to fuck off. Why the hell didn't I just go with that?

  Because I thought I saw more than was actually there?

  Because I wear a mask, too, and thought I'd found some sort of kindred spirit?

  Because he's hot and so clearly wanted me?

  Because part of me actually craves that danger?

  I close my eyes and swallow. If this were a multiple choice test, I'd have to pick all of the above.

  I tell myself it's just as well. At the most, Damien Stark wants to conquer me as he's conquered industry. And while I might crave the feel of his body against mine, I am now even more certain that I can never let that happen. I won't expose myself like that to a man who wants nothing more than a fast fuck--hell, I don't want to expose myself like that to anyone. I don't want to hear the questions; I don't want to make the explanations. My secrets are bound up tight inside me.

  I kick my shoes off, then lean my head back and keep my eyes closed. I'm thankful the limo ride is smooth, because my head is already spinning enough as it is.

  The champagne that seemed like such a good idea at the time now seems rather foolish.

  I'm starting to doze off when my phone jars me awake. I jerk upright and dig into my itty-bitty purse to retrieve it. I don't recognize the number, but since I've only given my new California number to Jamie and Carl, it doesn't take a degree in statistics to figure out it's one of them calling from an unfamiliar number or a telemarketer.

  I answer, expecting Jamie, since I'm sure Carl wouldn't interrupt me, not if he thinks that alone time with me is what Stark wants.

  "I am so wasted," I say, because if it's a telemarketer, it just serves them right.

  "I'm not surprised," replies a familiar voice that does not belong to my roommate. "I believe I suggested you slow down."

  "Mr. Stark? How did you get this number?" I push myself back upright too quickly.

  "I wanted to hear your voice." His voice is low and sensual and despite everything I've been telling myself, it curls through me like liquid heat.

  "Oh."

  "And I'd like to see you again."

  I force myself to breathe. "You will," I say primly, because I have to nip this in the bud. "I'll be at the meeting tomorrow."

  "I'm very much looking forward to it. Perhaps it would have been more prudent for me to wait and talk to you then. But the thought of you relaxed and tipsy, leaning back against the leather of my limo ... well, that was an image I simply couldn't pass up."

  My mind is in a whirl. What happened to the man who so coolly deposited me in the back of this car?

  "I want to see you again," he repeats, this time more forcefully. I don't even pretend to misunderstand. He is not talking business.

  "Do you always get what you want?"

  "I do," he says simply. "Especially when the desire is mutual."

  "It's not," I lie.

  "Really?" I hear the interest in his voice. This is a game to him. I am a game to him. The thought pisses me off, and I'm grateful. Angry Nikki has a lot more control than Wasted Nikki.

  "Really."

  "How did you feel when I put you in the limo?"

  I shift uncomfortably. I'm not completely certain where this is going, but I'm pretty confident that I won't like getting there.

  "Nichole?"

  "Don't call me that," I snap.

  I hear silence on the other end of the line and I realize that I'm afraid he's hung up.

  "All right, Nikki," he says, as if he k
nows that he's soothing a very deep wound. "How did you feel when I put you in the limo?"

  "I was pissed. And you damn well knew it."

  "Because I was sending you home alone in a limo? Or because I was sending you home alone in a limo so that I could keep a date with a beautiful woman?"

  "In case it escaped your notice, we barely know each other. You are perfectly entitled to go out with whomever you want, whenever you want."

  "And you're within your rights to be jealous."

  "I'm not jealous, and no, I wouldn't be within my rights. Let me repeat the salient point: I hardly know you."

  "I see. So the fact that we crave each other doesn't play into it? Nor the fact that I made you wet? That I held your cunt in my hand and made you moan?"

  He's about to make me moan again, but I manage to remain valiantly silent.

  "Tell me then, at what level of intimacy can jealousy rear its head?"

  "I--I've drunk my weight in champagne tonight. I am not even going to attempt to answer that."

  He laughs, full and genuine. I like the sound. And, yes, I like Damien Stark. He's not what I expected, but there's something compelling about him--and it's more than just the fact that he's hotter than sin and got me worked up into quite a lather. He seems perfectly comfortable in his own skin. I'm reminded of Evelyn, who so brashly told me that if her party guests didn't like the way she ran the event, they could leave. I'd been shocked--my mother would have had a coronary right then and there. But I'd also been impressed.

  As far as I can tell, Damien Stark takes that attitude to an extreme.

  "Her name is Giselle," he says, and his voice is soft. "She owns the gallery that's showing Blaine's work."

  "I thought Evelyn was showing the work."

  "Evelyn hosted the party. She's become something of a patron for Blaine. But tomorrow morning the paintings will be transported to Giselle's gallery. This cocktail date with Giselle and her husband has been on my calendar for over a week now. It's business, and not something I could get out of. But I did step away in order to call you."

  "Oh." Her husband. "Oh."

  On the one hand, I'm frustrated that I'm so transparent. On the other hand, he's calling to soothe me, and the sweetness of that gesture moves me. Of course, I shouldn't let it. I should be strong and tell him he shouldn't have bothered. Because whatever is happening between us, it needs to be quickly nipped in the bud.

  "So where are you?" I ask, completely ignoring my own wise counsel.

  "Sur la Mer," he says, naming a Malibu restaurant and bar that's so chic even I've heard of it.

  "I've heard it's excellent."

  "The food is exquisite," he says, "but it's the ambience that really sets the place apart. It's charming, but intimate. It's the perfect place to have a drink and discuss business when one doesn't want to be overheard. Or to not discuss business, for that matter."

  The intimate edge has crept back into his voice, and I squirm a little. "And you're there strictly for business?"

  His low chuckle rocks through me. "I assure you that a tryst with Giselle and her husband is not on the agenda. I'm not interested in men. Or in married women."

  I keep silent.

  "I want to see you again, Nikki. And I think you would enjoy the food here very much."

  "Just the food?" In my head the words had been teasing. Out loud, they are soft and provocative. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself before I go hurtling down that slippery slope.

  "Well, the coffee is good, too."

  "I--I like coffee," I admit. I take a deep breath. "But I don't think it's a good idea."

  "Thousands of coffee bean growers across the globe would disagree with you."

  "Dinner. Coffee. A date. With you. I don't think it's a good idea."

  "Really? I find it exceptionally appealing."

  "Mr. Stark ..."

  "Ms. Fairchild," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

  "You're exasperating."

  "So I've been told. But I prefer the word 'persistent.' I don't take no for an answer."

  "Sometimes, that's the only answer there is."

  "Perhaps. But this isn't one of those times."

  I can't help but smile as I settle more comfortably back against the soft leather upholstery. "Isn't it? You forget that I'm the one who has to say yes or no, and I've already told you my answer, and I don't intend to change it."

  "No?"

  "Sorry. But I'm afraid you've met your match, Mr. Stark."

  "I certainly hope so, Ms. Fairchild," he says.

  I frown a bit as I try to guess just where he's shifting the conversation. Because I know damn well he's not giving in. To be honest, I'd be disappointed if he was.

  "I asked you this once and you evaded the question. Let me try again--are you attracted to me?"

  "I--excuse me?"

  His laugh is low and soft. "I'm quite certain you heard me, but in the interest of fair play, I'll repeat the question. Slowly and clearly. Are you attracted to me?"

  I open my mouth, then shut it again because I have absolutely no idea how I should respond.

  "It's not a trick question," he says, though of course I know it is.

  "I am," I finally say, because it's the truth and I have no doubt he knows it. "But so what? What straight female on this planet isn't attracted to you? I'm still not going out with you."

  "I get what I want, Nikki. You should know that about me right from the start."

  "And you want dinner with me? I'd think a man in your position would want something a bit more impressive. Like to colonize Mars."

  "Dinner is just the beginning. I want to touch you," he says, his voice low and commanding. "I want to run my hands over every inch of you. I want you wet for me. I want to finish what we started, Ms. Fairchild. I want to make you come."

  8

  It is suddenly very, very hot in the limo, and I seem to have forgotten the basic steps required for breathing.

  I don't think ...

  I realize the words are only in my head and try again. "I don't think that's a good idea."

  "It's an extremely good idea. Hell, it's all I've been thinking about since I put you in that limo. Touching you again. Stroking you. Kissing you."

  I squirm, determined to hold it together. But I am weak and well-liquored, and my determination is fraying around the edges.

  "Tell me you haven't thought of it, too."

  "I haven't," I say.

  "Don't lie to me, Nikki. That's rule number one. Never lie to me."

  Rules?

  "Is this a game?" I ask.

  "Isn't everything?"

  I don't answer.

  "Simon Says, Nikki. Have you played before?" His soft voice is like a caress.

  "Yes."

  "Is the privacy screen in place?"

  I glance up. I'm at the very back of a very long limo. I can see the driver in the front, his shoulders in the black jacket, the stark white of his shirt collar. He has reddish hair, mostly hidden by a black cap. It seems to me that he is a million miles away. But he's not, he's right there, probably listening to every word we've been saying.

  "He's very discreet," Damien says, as if reading my thoughts. "But why torment the man? The silver button on the console behind you controls the screen. Do you see it?"

  I twist around and see a bank of buttons set into the paneling behind me. "Yes."

  "Push it."

  "You didn't say Simon says."

  His low chuckle delights me.

  "Good girl. Are you suggesting you'd rather leave it down? Think before you answer, Nikki. For what I have planned, most women would like some privacy."

  I lick my lips. If I push that button I'm saying yes to so much more than the damn screen.

  Do I want that? He's talking about seeing me naked. About touching me. About kissing me. About running his fingers over my skin.

  I rest my finger lightly on the button, remembering the feel of his hand. Remembering how I alm
ost let him get too close, how I almost revealed too much.

  But he's not in the car. I can do this. I can lose myself to the champagne and the night and the allure of Damien Stark.

  But am I leading him on? Making him think that fantasy will become reality?

  I swallow again, because I don't care. I want the release. I want this man's voice in my head and the fantasy of his hands on my body. He'll deal. He has rules? Screw that. Right now, I'm making my own damn rules.

  I press the button.

  Slowly, the privacy screen rises, and I'm alone in the luxurious comfort of Damien Stark's stretch limo. "It's up," I say, but my voice is so soft I'm not certain he heard it.

  "Take off your panties."

  Apparently he heard it.

  "What if I told you I already did?"

  "I'm in public, Ms. Fairchild. Don't torment me."

  "You're tormenting me," I retort.

  "Good. Now take them off."

  I lift my skirt and slide my panties down. My shoes are already off, so it's easy. I leave them on the seat beside me.

  "They're off," I say. And then, because I'm making this into my fantasy, too, "I'm wet."

  His low groan sends a spark of satisfaction running through me. "No talking," he says. "And no touching. Not unless I tell you to. That's the game, Nikki. You do what I say, and only what I say. Are we clear?"

  "Yes," I murmur.

  "Yes, sir," he corrects. His voice is gentle, but firm.

  Sir?

  I say nothing.

  "Or I can simply hang up." His voice is hard, but I think I hear triumph. I frown, because I don't want to give him the satisfaction of winning this battle, but I also don't want the game to end. And I'm certain Mr. Nice to Ice means what he says.

  I swallow my pride. "Yes, sir."

  "Good girl. You want me, don't you?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "I want you, too. Does that make you wet?"

  "Yes ..." The word comes out strangled. The truth is, I'm aching now. Hot and wet and desperately turned on. I have no idea what he has planned, but I know I'll agree to anything if only he'll take this further. Take me further.

  "Put your phone on speaker and leave it on the seat beside you. Then lift up your skirt and sit back down. I want your naked ass on the leather. I want you wet and slippery on that seat, so that when I get in that limo later tonight, I can lose myself in the scent of you."