by J. Kenner
No, this is something else, and I can't help but think about the threats that have been made against him, and the secrets that I know he still keeps. Damien has seen me stripped bare in every way possible. And yet it seems as though I've only seen glimpses of him, and those cast in shadows.
Get a grip, Nikki. Wanting privacy for a phone conversation isn't the same as keeping a secret. And every phone call isn't some grand conspiracy to hide either his past or some new danger.
I know all of that. Even more, I believe it. But sane rationality doesn't soothe the little pang in my heart or the knot of fear that sits tight in my belly, and standing stock-still and naked and bound is not a straight path to well-adjusted thoughts. Rather, it's a twisting, winding road of angst, and I'm suddenly careening down it without brakes, and hating myself for going there.
I want to hug myself, but my bound wrists make that impossible.
The truth is that I've been on pins and needles since my former boss made his threats against Damien. Carl's company had pitched a project to Stark Applied Technology, and when Damien declined, Carl blamed me. He fired me, too, but he didn't stop there, and the last time I saw him he promised to fuck Damien over. So far, nothing has happened. But Carl is determined and resourceful, and in his mind, he has the moral high ground. As far as he's concerned, Damien squelched one of Carl's most important business deals. The projected loss of capital must be in the millions, and Carl isn't the kind of man who would consider either the money or the slight to be water under the bridge.
That fact that nothing has happened in over a week bothers me. What could his silence mean? I've thought about it and thought about it, and the only conclusion I can reach is that something has happened--and Damien has chosen not to tell me.
I might be wrong--I hope I am. But worry and fear twist inside me, cruelly whispering that although Damien has shone a light onto all my secrets, his are still shrouded in gray.
"Well, hell, Nikki. Now you're frowning." Blaine's gripe is laced with a chuckle. "Sometimes I wish I could crawl into that mind of yours. I'd love to know what you're thinking."
I manage a smile. "Deep thoughts," I say. "But not bad ones."
"Good," he says, but there's a question mark in his eyes, and maybe even a hint of concern. I wonder what Evelyn, Blaine's lover who's known Damien since childhood, has told him about Damien's past. For that matter, I wonder if Blaine knows more than I do about the man who has consumed me so completely. The thought only makes me frown more.
Damien is gone only a few minutes, and when he returns I am overwhelmed by the urge to run to him. "What's the matter?" I ask.
"Nothing that looking at you won't make better."
I laugh, hoping he doesn't notice that the sound is hollow. Once again, he is wearing the face he shows the public. But I am not the public, and I know better. I look hard at him, waiting for his eyes to meet mine. When they do, it is like a switch has been thrown. The hard lines of his mouth curve into a genuine smile, and once again I am alight with the glow of Damien.
He walks toward me, and my pulse increases with the tempo of his steps. He stops only inches from me, and I am suddenly finding it very difficult to breathe. After everything we've done together--after every hurt he's soothed and every secret he's seen--how is it that every moment with Damien can feel like the first one?
"Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?"
"I--" I draw in a breath and try again. "Yes," I say. "As much as you mean to me."
I am trapped in the heat of his gaze and his proximity. He's not touching me, but he might as well be. There is nothing about me at that moment that isn't a reflection of Damien, of how I feel about him and what he's doing to me. I want to soothe him, want to stroke his cheek and run my fingers through his hair. I want to pull his head to my breast and whisper soft words, and I want to make love to him slowly and sweetly until the shadows of the night are gone and the morning light bathes us in color.
From his post at the canvas, Blaine coughs politely. Damien's lips curve up in a grin that matches my own. We've done nothing more than look into each other's eyes, and yet it feels as though Blaine has witnessed something deeply intimate.
"Yeah, right. So, I'm going to head on out. The cocktail party's not until seven on Saturday, right? So I'll come by that afternoon and see if she needs any last minute touch-ups. And I'll take care of hanging her when I set up the rest of the canvases on easels."
"Perfect," Damien says, not looking at him.
"I gotta say," Blaine adds, as he gathers his things, "I'm going to miss this."
For just an instant, I think I see something melancholy in Damien's eyes, but it passes almost immediately. "Yes," he says. "So am I."
I'm not sure when Blaine leaves, I only know that he's gone, and Damien is still there, and he's still not touching me, and that I'm going to go a little crazy if I don't feel his hands upon me soon.
"Is it really done?" I ask. "I still haven't seen it."
"Come here."
He reaches out, and I shift to give him my back, expecting him to untie me. He doesn't, though. Instead he puts his hand on my shoulder and eases me toward the canvas. I have to move carefully because of the red silk cord wrapped around my left leg, but he doesn't make any effort to untangle me. And he certainly doesn't bother to pass me the robe that's laid out on the foot of the bed.
I grimace, lifting my brows in question. Damien doesn't even pretend to misunderstand. "Why, Ms. Fairchild, surely you don't expect me to sabotage such an amazing opportunity."
"Mmm." I try to sound harsh, but I'm pretty certain he can hear the laughter in my voice.
He doesn't respond, though, because we've reached the painting. I gasp--it's me, yes. The curve of my ass, the swell of my breast. But it's more than me. The image is alluring and submissive, strong and yet vulnerable. It's also anonymous, as Damien had promised. In the portrait, my face is turned away, and my golden curls are piled atop my head, a few tendrils spilling down to caress my neck and shoulders. In the real world, those curls no longer exist, my long tresses having recently been traded for a shoulder-length cut.
I frown, remembering the weight of the scissors in my hands, remembering the way I'd hacked at my hair when what I'd really wanted was to take that sharp edge to my flesh. I'd been lost then, certain that the only way back was to hold fast to the pain like a lifeline.
I shiver. It's not a memory I like.
Automatically, my gaze dips to the legs of the girl in the portrait. But her--my--thighs are close together and angled such that the worst of the scars aren't visible. The scar on my left hip is, though. But Blaine has managed to make that raised welt part of the beauty of the painting. The edges are blurred, almost as if it's in soft focus, and the red cord skims over the marred flesh, as if being bound too tight caused the wounds.
When you get right down to it, I suppose that's true.
I look away, unnerved by the inescapable reality that the girl on the canvas is beautiful, even despite the scars.
"Nikki?"
I glance out of the corner of my eye and see that Damien is looking at me, not the painting, and there is concern on his face.
"He's talented," I say, my lips flickering into a conjured smile. "It's a wonderful portrait."
"It is," he agrees. "Everything about it is exactly what I want." There's a familiar heat in his voice, and I understand both his spoken words and what remains unsaid.
I smile, and this time it doesn't feel plastic.
Damien eyes me, and I see the playful light in his eyes.
"What?" I demand, amused but wary.
He shrugs, then glances again at the painting. "It will be a miracle if I get any work done in this room." He nods toward the stone wall above the fireplace where the painting is to hang. "And I damn sure shouldn't entertain in here."
"Oh?" He has a cocktail party scheduled for this very room in only two days.
Damien chuckles. "I find that it's a social faux p
as to host a party with a permanent hard-on."
"Well, then, perhaps you should have planned to hang the painting in the bedroom."
"I don't need the image in my bedroom. Not when I have the real thing."
"And you do," I say, my tone teasing. "Bought and paid for. At least until midnight when I turn into a pumpkin."
His eyes darken, all playfulness vanishing. "Midnight," he repeats, and I wonder at the harshness I hear in his voice. After all, it's not as if I will truly turn into a pumpkin when our game is over. And I certainly won't be going away--to be honest, I don't ever want to go away. All that will change is that there will be no more rules--no more "sir," no more orders, no more safe-words. There will be panties and bras and jeans if I want them. And, yes, there will be a million dollars.
But above all else, there will still be Damien.
"Follow me," he says.
Again, I glance at my leg, then give my bound hands a little shake. "Untie me."
He stands for a moment, his eyes on mine, and I can see that we are still playing games. My pulse pounds in my throat, and my nipples are erect. My hands, tied behind me, pull my shoulders back and lift my breasts. They feel full, needful, and I graze my teeth over my lower lip as I silently wait for Damien's touch.
A game, yes. But I like it. In this game, there are no losers.
Slowly, he lets his gaze drift down over my body. My breath is shallow, and small beads of sweat form at the nape of my neck. I can feel the moisture between my thighs, the quivering need, and it takes all of my effort to stand silent and still and not beg for him to please, please fuck me. The bed is just a few yards away, the prop Damien brought in for the portrait. There, I want to scream. Just take me there.
But I don't. Because I know this man. And most of all, I know that everything with Damien is worth the wait.
Finally, he bends down and untwines the cord from around my leg, but when he gets to my wrists, he stops, leaving them bound together behind my back, the red silk trailing from them like a tail.
"Damien," I say, trying to sound stern, but there's no keeping the amusement--and the excitement--from my voice. "I thought you were going to free me."
"Bought and paid for, remember?"
"Oh." My word is little more than breath.
"Come," he says, and the dual meaning isn't lost on me, especially not when he slides the cord from back to front between my legs, then tugs on the end as if it's a leash. A very erotic, very tantalizing leash. The smooth silk teases my yearning sex, the friction from the cord's braiding making my legs so weak that I'm not sure I'll make it to wherever he's leading.
His tug is gentle, but enticing, and by the time we reach the spalike bathroom, I am weak with desire. Fire courses through my body, and I look with longing at the shower's eight strategically placed jets. The thought of Damien standing behind me, his hands on my breasts, his lips brushing my neck, is almost more than I can bear, and I actually whimper.
Beside me, Damien chuckles. "Later," he whispers. "Right now, I have something else in mind."
My mind whirs through the possibilities. We have already passed the bed. He has resolutely dismissed my thirst for the shower. And as far as I can tell, Damien is paying no heed to the deep Jacuzzi-style tub.
I haven't a single clue what he has in mind--but I don't care. This night is no longer about the destination, but the journey. And considering the touch of Damien's hand upon my shoulder and the tantalizing pressure of the cord against my sex, this voyage is turning out to be very pleasant indeed.
The closet into which he leads me is at least the size of the living room of the condo I share with Jamie in Studio City. This is not the first time I've been in here, but I still feel as though I need a map.
It would take me years to wear all the clothes that Damien has bought for me. And despite the fact that the left side of the closet is full to overflowing, I'm ninety-nine percent sure that at least a dozen new outfits have been worked into the mix since the last time I changed clothes in here.
"I don't remember seeing that one before," I say, nodding toward a silver dress that sparkles in the dim lighting and looks to be small enough and tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination.
"Don't you?" His smile is slow and easy, and it matches the gaze that skims over me. "I can assure you that won't be a problem after you put it on. No one will be able to forget it."
"Least of all you?" I tease.
His eyes darken, and he steps closer, the movement adding slack to the cord and making it drop away from my body. My disappointment at the loss of contact is short lived, however. Damien is right there, only inches from me, and the air between us seems to hum. Every tiny hair on my body stands up, as if I'm standing in a lightning storm with danger crackling all around me. I gasp when his thumb gently strokes the line of my jaw. My lips part. I want to feel his thumb on my lips, in my mouth. I want to taste Damien. I want to consume him as the fire from his proximity is consuming me.
"There is nothing about you that I could ever forget," he says. "You are burned into my memory. Your hair glittering in candlelight. Your skin, dewy and soft, as you step out of the shower. The way you move beneath me when we make love. And the way you look at me, as if there is nothing you could see inside me that would make you want to turn away."
"There's not," I say softly.
Damien says nothing, but keeps his eyes fixed on me. He eases closer, so that my nipples barely brush the soft cotton of his T-shirt. The shock from the contact is electric, and I swallow a gasp. I am tingling all over, and as he gently strokes his fingertips down my bare arm, all I can think is that I want to press against him. I want Damien inside me. Rough, gentle, I don't care. I just need him, right then, right there.
"How?" I say, barely able to force the question past the lump in my throat.
"How what?"
"How can you make love to me with only the whisper of a touch?"
"I'm a very resourceful man. I thought you knew." The corner of his mouth twitches, and I see the hint of a sparkle in his eyes. "Perhaps I should offer you a more imaginative demonstration?"
"Imaginative?" I repeat. My mouth is dry.
"I'm going to make you come, darling Nikki. Without the touch of my hands, without the caress of my body. But I'll be watching. I'll see the way your lips part, the way your skin flushes. I'll watch as you try to control yourself. And I'll tell you a secret, Nikki. I'm going to be fighting for control, too."
I realize that I have taken a step back as he has spoken, and I'm now leaning against the bureau that divides the his and hers hemispheres of this massive closet. It's a good thing, because without that stalwart support, I doubt my trembling legs could keep me upright.
"What are you going to do?" I don't understand why he says that I'm going to try to control myself. I've learned many things during my time with this man, and one thing I know is that with Damien, I am free to go utterly wild. Why then, would I want to rein that in? Why would he expect me to?
He doesn't answer my question, and I find myself biting my lower lip and examining him through narrowed eyes as I try to discern some clue as to his intentions. He steps away from me, and though I am sure that it is only my imagination, the air seems to chill with the increasing distance. The cord that had dropped to the ground now rises. Damien pauses about a foot away from me, but he continues to tug at the cord, taking up the slack so that it lifts between my legs. He moves slowly, but soon I can feel it again. I am so aroused that I gasp from the contact, my body trembling in what is almost, but not quite, an orgasm.
My eyes find Damien's, and I see his victorious grin. "Don't worry, Ms. Fairchild," he says. "I promise there's more where that came from."
He steps toward me, still taking up the slack so that the cord never breaks contact with my body. Each movement makes the smooth braid of silk shift slightly, and I close my eyes, concentrating on not biting my lip and on not grinding my hips. I don't know what kind of game Damien is pla
ying, but I do know that I want it to last.
His fingers brush my neck and my eyes fly open. I tilt my head to look up at him, but he doesn't meet my eyes. He is focused on his task.
He is focused on tying the cord around my neck.
I swallow, my emotions a storm inside me. There's excitement, yes, but it's mingled with fear. Of what, I'm not sure. I'm not afraid of Damien. I could never be afraid of Damien. But dear God, why is he leashing me? And how tight will he make that cord?
"Damien," I say, surprised that my words sound normal. "What are you doing?"
"What I want," he replies, and though the words do not answer my question, a swell of relief washes over me, followed by delicious anticipation.
This is how it began for us, with those three simple words. And so help me, I don't ever want it to end.
2
Damien ties off the end of the cord so that it essentially forms a choker with a very long tail. That tail extends down between my breasts, over my sex, and then back up to where my hands are still bound behind me by the other end of that very same cord. I shift a little. I am antsy and turned on and, yes, a little bit uncomfortable.
Slowly, he looks me up and down. "I'm tempted to commission another painting, Ms. Fairchild. I think I'd like to have you like this all the time."
I smirk. "Are we negotiating, Mr. Stark? I don't come cheap, but for someone of your discriminating taste, I'm quite certain that we could come to terms."
He laughs, and I have to bite my lip not to join in. "There is very little that I'd like more than to negotiate with you. But I'm afraid we're running out of time."
"Time?"
"Places to go," he says. "People to see."
Oh. Suddenly his comment that I will be fighting to keep control makes a lot more sense.
I glance down at my very bare, very bound body. "I don't think I'm dressed for company."
"It's just as well that the traditional morals of our society don't allow me to take you out like this. I'm a very selfish man, and I have no interest in sharing you with the world."
"Believe me," I say, with a wry twist to my mouth, "I have no interest in being shared." My mind turns to the portrait, in which I am bound so similarly to how I am now. A larger-than-life painting that will hang in a room meant for entertaining. In that way, I suppose Damien has already shared me, and I have agreed to be shared. But I am anonymous in the painting. That had been a key term of our deal.
