by J. Kenner
I cry out, surprised as much by the impact as I am by my reaction to it. A slight sting, yes, but then a sweet, spreading heat. Pleasure mixed with pain.
"Did you like that?" His palm cups my breast, kneading it, making it grow heavier and so unbearably sensitive.
I drag my teeth across my lower lip, but I can't lie. It's against the rules. More, I don't want to. I am in thrall to this man, and every touch is like a gift. "Yes," I say. "I liked it."
"I told you there might be pain, but only to bring you pleasure."
"I remember. I--I want more."
"Nikki, oh, fuck, Nikki. Do you know what you do to me?"
"If it's anything like what you do to me, I think I have some idea."
His low laughter is raw, but dies when he closes his mouth on my breast. His teeth graze my nipple as he bites and sucks until my breast is nothing more than a live wire topped by a hard, thrumming pearl. And then his mouth is gone and there's something cold and--"Oh!"--tight and hard.
My eyes flick open.
"No," he says, and I close them again.
The initial stab of pain fades quickly, leaving a low, thick pressure. A tight awareness and an undercurrent of deep, flowing pleasure. A moment later, I feel that same sharp stab of exquisite pain on my other breast.
"Your nipples are so sensitive," he whispers as his hand slips down to explore my sex. "Oh, yes," he says. "This time I don't think I have to ask if you like it."
I don't remember ever feeling so aware of my body. Even the air is erotic, its whisper touch making me quake.
I gasp as the pressure to both my breasts increases. Slightly at first and then with more force. He's tugging on the chain that connects the two rings, pulling me up, the weight of my own body making the tug on my nipples even more exquisite. Not painful, but tight and aroused and ready.
"Damien." His name is a demand and he answers by closing his mouth over mine. The kiss is hard and needful, and I thrust my tongue in his mouth, desperately trying to claim this moment. He matches me, but all too soon pulls away and then gently eases me back onto the bed. "Keep your eyes closed."
I feel the soft caress of the leather as he trails the whip gently over my belly, then over my legs. I start to squirm, then freeze under his sharp command that I keep still.
Then it's trailing between my legs. My muscles spasm in anticipation and then there it is--snap, a light spank on my vulva. I gasp. Never would I have thought I'd feel such exquisite pleasure from getting smacked in such an intimate place, but maybe it makes sense. I imagine Damien pounding into me, fucking me hard. Yeah, maybe it makes a lot of sense.
I wait, my body raw and open. Wanting and needing. But there is no second strike.
"Again," I beg. "Damien, please."
His moan of pleasure tells me everything--he'd been waiting to see if I liked this new play. And I do. So help me, I really do.
Once again the strips of leather land lightly against my sensitive skin. I arch up, my clit feels huge and swollen, and as he smacks me once more, I fear that if one of those straps lands directly on it I'll explode from the combination of pleasure and pain.
"Damien," I say, and that's all it takes. The sensation changes, and it's not the leather on my sex, but his mouth. His hands are on my thighs, and his tongue is inside me, and I can hear his low, hard moans. I'm close, so close, my hips twisting and bucking shamelessly against his face, the scrape of his beard stubble tickling my sensitive skin.
I'm there--right on the edge, when he eases away from me. I cry out in protest, but my cry changes to a gasp as Damien thrusts inside me. I open my eyes and see him above me. He's looking right at me, his expression one of such intensity that I can't resist drawing my arm around his neck and bringing his mouth to mine.
We kiss, as deep and as hard as he's fucking me, and I'm already so close that I come in just seconds, in what has got to be the most massive orgasm of my life. He's not far behind me, and when he's spent, he eases next to me on the mattress, our bodies still connected. I see the whip where he laid it on the pillow. I look at it and smile. "I think I'm going to like being a bad girl."
He chuckles. "I know you are." After a few minutes, he sits up, then gently takes the rings off my nipples. Immediately, I feel the warm rush of blood. Dear God, I could fuck him again right now.
He kisses the tip of my nose. "A lovely thought, but I need to make a run to the office."
"How do you do that? How do you read my mind?"
A smile is his only answer, but it doesn't matter. I already know how, and it doesn't scare me: Damien Stark can see beneath my mask.
"You really need to go? It's so late."
"I can't stay much longer. I have a conference call scheduled with Tokyo. Unfortunately, I have files in my office that I need."
"I'll see you in the morning, then."
He shakes his head. "Blaine's still in La Jolla. He wants to switch your sitting to tomorrow evening. Why don't you come by around five. I'll take off early and we can have a drink before he arrives."
"What if I'm not thirsty?" I say teasingly.
"I'm sure we can find something to satisfy both our appetites." He holds out his hand. "Come on. Let's get cleaned up."
We take a mostly chaste shower, during which he gently soaps me down and rinses me off, touching me as softly as if I was fragile and precious. When we return to my room, I pull on a robe, while Damien gets back into his jeans and T-shirt. He puts the nipple rings back in the jewelry box, and then moves to my desk. "Keep them," he says. "Someday, I may tell you to wear them under your clothes."
I lick my lips and nod. He sets the box down, and in the process bumps my laptop. The screensaver dissolves, revealing the image I now use as wallpaper--Damien Stark looking exultant on the beach.
"Well," he says, looking at the screen, his expression odd.
"I love that picture," I say. "You look so happy."
He turns away from the screen long enough to eye me. "I feel very exposed."
I laugh. "Really? More than how I feel standing naked for a portrait?"
His brow rises. "Once again, you've made a good point, Ms. Fairchild."
"Here," I say, grabbing the camera from the drawer of my bedside table. I place it on the desk and set the timer, then I tug Damien's hand and pull him onto the bed with me.
"What are you--"
"Hush," I say. "Say cheese."
"Nikki--" But he's cut off by the intense flash and the click of the shutter.
He cocks his head, and there's censure in his eyes.
"No," I say, before he says a word. "I'm not deleting it, I'm not erasing it, I'm not ignoring it. I want a picture of the two of us together, and you can just deal with it."
The way he's looking at me, I'm seriously afraid I'm going to lose this battle. But then he nods and leans forward to kiss the tip of my nose. "All right," he says when he pulls back. "I want a copy, too."
*
I sleep late the next morning, and when I go into the kitchen for coffee, I find a note on the dining table from Damien beside the clothes he's picked out for me: Wear these. D.S. Apparently he was doing more than just watching television--he'd also gone through my laundry. He's selected a short denim skirt and a cheap concert T-shirt that really shouldn't be worn without a bra. Not exactly what I would call a stellar wardrobe choice, but I'll wear it. After all, I'm only going to take it off again once I get to the Malibu house.
A wry smile touches my lips. The man sure does love to control every little thing.
After I'm caffeinated, I stand in the shower and let the scalding water pound the life back into me. I am a shell of myself, but it feels so damn good. Yesterday was astounding, like an explosion of the senses. Relaxing, exciting, passionate, erotic, sensual. Most of all, it was fun.
It's a simple thing, but I like seeing Damien happy. And I can't deny the fact that it gives me a special thrill to know that it was me that helped him wipe away the dark remnants left over from his visi
t with his dad.
I squirt some shampoo into my hand and start to lather my hair, my mind still on the man and his father and their fucked-up relationship. I don't know--because Damien hasn't told me--but I can guess that it is at least as toxic as my relationship with my mother. Even so, it must have been hard, firing his dad as his manager, especially since he was only a kid at the time.
I turn the thought over in my head. There's something about the situation that's familiar. I tilt my head back and rinse my hair, working my fingers through the strands to get the soap out. I can't think what it is, but something is bugging me, dammit, and it's still bothering me when I get out of the shower and pad back to my room.
I'm slipping on the skirt when it hits me. Control. Not the fact that he needs it, but the reason driving the need.
I remember so many things that now seem like clues: the way his face looked when he told me that he'd wanted to quit tennis and his father wouldn't let him. His nonanswer when he told me about the new bastard of a coach and I asked if it was the bump up in competitiveness that stole the fun from him. His foundation to help children. Evelyn's reference to secrets swept under the carpet.
And always back to control. In his business. In his relationships. In bed.
I could be wrong, of course, but I don't think so.
Damien was abused as a child.
I poke around some more on the Internet, but I don't find anything to bolster my theory. Even so, it feels right. I don't know if his abuser was his coach or his father or both, but I suspect it was the coach, and that it was guilt from the abuse that drove the bastard to suicide.
The image currently up on my web browser is of a fourteen-year-old Damien after he's won some local tournament. He's smiling and holding up the trophy. But his eyes are haunted and dark. Yes, they are inscrutable.
I need to know the truth, but I can't ask Evelyn. This is the kind of thing that I want Damien to tell me.
I run my fingers through my hair, wondering if I should just confront him. But no. He has to be the one who comes to me. Because this isn't just about what Damien needs. It's about me, too. I need to know that this man I've spilled my heart to trusts me with his secrets.
But until he does, I'll have to be satisfied with my certainty that I understand a little bit more about the man still hidden behind the mask.
*
When I arrive at his house at a quarter to five, Damien is outside on the terrace, his back to me, his face to the ocean. He's damp from a recent shower and completely naked. I pass the heap of his clothes on the floor then pause at the threshold. I want to stand there and simply take in this glorious sight. The whole sky looms above him and the vast ocean spreads before him, and yet it is the beautiful, strong body of Damien Stark that dominates the view. There's power in the tension of his shoulders. Confidence in the way he stands. Strength in that back that carries so much.
This is a man who knows what he wants and goes after it.
He wants me, I think. And I feel a sharp stab of something that can only be pride.
"You're early." He doesn't turn to speak to me. I don't ask how he knows I'm there. I've felt the hum of energy between us, too. I don't need to see him to know when Damien Stark is nearby.
"How could I resist an extra minute with you?"
He turns to face me. "I'm glad you're here."
He smiles, but I can see now that the tension in his shoulders is across his whole body.
"Damien? What's wrong?"
"Lawyers and assholes," he says, then shakes his head. "Sorry. It's been one of those days."
"Should I go?"
"Never." He holds out a hand and I go to him. He pulls me against him and I feel his cock harden against my thigh. "Nikki." He sighs, his lips in my hair.
I start to tilt my head up, longing for his kiss, but the sharp ring of his phone interrupts and he gently pushes me away.
"I've been expecting that," he says by way of apology as he grabs the phone off a table. "Is it done?" he demands. "Good. Yes, I understand that, but I also understand that I pay you for advice. The ultimate decisions are mine. Yes, I do. Twelve-point-six? Fuck it, I would have paid more, and you goddamn well know it. I'm damn sure it was the right call; she's not getting dragged into this mess. No--no, it's done. I'm not interested in reevaluating the decision. I made my play, we're running with it."
There is a long pause, then, "Shit, Charles, that isn't what I want to hear. Well, then why the fuck do I pay you?"
So he's talking to Charles Maynard. I realize I'm being nosy, but I pay more attention, trying to discern meaning from a one-sided conversation. It isn't easy.
"Right, right. Did your PI locate the man I'm interested in? Oh, really? Well, that's a bit of good news. I'll deal with it first thing tomorrow."
I have no idea what he's talking about. I shift the conversation to the back of my mind and only half listen. Especially since the call seems to go on forever.
"What about London? She's settled again? No, it can't be helped. I'll fly over next week. What? Well, she's not leaving me much choice."
He sighs and paces. "And the San Diego problem? I want someone on that. What? Are you fucking kidding me? Shit, how did they dig that up?"
I pick up Damien's discarded clothes, intending to hang them up for him. But I'm overcome with a devilish little urge, and I give in to it, then tug the slacks over my hips and slip my arms into Damien's sleeves. There's something wonderfully sensual about being clad in Damien's clothes, even if I am technically breaking the rules with the pants.
I'm so preoccupied with the shirt's buttons that I don't even realize the call has ended. More than that, I don't notice Damien's raw temper until I hear the sharp smash of plastic and glass colliding with the stonework above the fireplace.
He's thrown his cell phone.
"Damien?" I hurry to him. "Are you okay?"
He looks me up and down, but I'm not sure he's seeing the clothes. Not sure he's hearing anything but the conversation that he must be replaying over and over again in his mind.
"Damien?"
"No," he snaps. "I'm not okay. Are you--oh, God, Nikki."
"Me? I'm fine. I'm--" He shuts me off with a kiss, hard and brutal. Our teeth clack together, and he twists his fingers in my hair to hold my head in place while he assaults my mouth with such force I'm certain my lips will bruise.
He moves us backward, then throws me down on the bed, his hands going to the waistband of the pants. They are loose on me, and he tugs them down, but not off, so they remain on my calves and ankles, like strange ropes binding my legs in place.
He scoots me back and roughly spreads my knees, and I'm wet, so damn wet as he moves to straddle me. Before I know it, he thrusts his cock deep inside me. He pumps, hard and fast and brutal. I watch his face. The face of a man fighting a battle. The face of a man who will keep fighting until he wins.
I reach for him, but some instinct has me dropping my hands. Damien needs this--he needs to take me. To truly take me.
And in so many ways, I need to be taken.
He releases a long, slow groan, and I feel it as his orgasm shudders through him. He collapses on me, but only for a moment. Then he pulls himself up and looks at me, and I see pain sharpen his eyes.
"Shit." His curse is little more than a whisper. He pulls out of me, then starts to leave the room. He pauses by the fireplace and turns back to me, his mouth open as if to speak, his eyes full of regret. I wait for the words, but they don't come.
After a moment, he walks away.
I kick the pants off so that I can move properly, grab the sheet and curl up in it, trying to decide what to do. I have no idea what that was about, but it's clear enough that it originated with that phone call. And even though he seems to want to be alone now, I don't think I'm going with that plan. Tonight, he's damaged. And if I can't fix him, I want to at least hold him.
I strip off the rest of his clothes and pull on my red silk robe, which is where it always
is before a session, draped across a stool by Blaine's easel.
Barefoot, I go in search of Damien.
The task is harder than it sounds. The house is the size of a small country, and in the unfinished areas, sounds echo strangely, and it's difficult to tell where to go.
I hear a strange, rhythmic thump, and finally manage to follow it down to the first floor. I find Damien in a huge, unfinished room. It has a treadmill, a basic floor mat, and a punching bag.
It's the sound of his fists pummeling the bag that has led me here.
"Hey," I say. "You okay?"
He throws one last punch and then turns to look at me. He's put on a pair of briefs, but he didn't bother with boxing gloves. His knuckles are raw and bleeding.
"Oh, baby," I say. I look around and see a towel and a water bottle in a plastic crate, along with the gloves he should be wearing. I dampen the cloth and then return to him. "This might sting a little."
"Dammit, Nikki." He pulls his hand away from me and cups my face. The dark wildness that was in his eyes earlier has vanished. Whatever demon he was battling, I think it's been laid to rest. Or at least admitted to ICU. "Are you okay?"
"Of course." I take his hand back and gently tend to his battered knuckles. "You're the one I'm worried about."
"I hurt you." There's such pain in his voice that I think my heart's going to break.
"No," I say. "You didn't. You needed me. I want you to need me." I smile up at him, trying to be a bit lighthearted. "And I think we've established I can handle a little pain."
From his expression, it's clear he doesn't appreciate my levity.
"Not like that," he says.
"Why not?"
"Dammit, Nikki, I told you I'd never hurt you."
I shrug, tilting my head sideways to look at him. "You spanked me. Hell, you whipped me."
"That turned you on. It was a game. And I did it because I was hot for you and because you got off on it, too."
I'm biting my lip. What he says is absolutely true.
"But what I did just now--" He turns away from me and jabs out two quick punches, pummeling the air. "Goddammit. I was pissed off about something and I fucked you in anger, and I don't do that."
I go to his side, determined to get through to him. "Damien, I'm okay. I don't know what all of that was about, but I do know that you were upset. You came to me. I wanted you to come to me."
