by J. Kenner
"And green unlocks it," I say. It's an interesting system--and also makes me realize that we would have had complete privacy if Damien had actually stripped me bare and fucked me against the window, just as he'd described.
I imagine the feel of the cool glass against my back. Of Damien's hands on my breasts. Of his mouth on my neck. And of his cock filling me as he thrusts deeper and deeper inside me until I explode in a cacophony of colors that rival the shining lights of the Pier in the distance.
"Nikki--"
My head jerks up and I realize that the waiter is setting a fondue pot on the table and Damien is gesturing for me to sit down. Although the waiter seems oblivious, I am quite certain that Damien knows exactly where my thoughts had wandered.
Naughty, he mouths.
I flash him my most innocent smile, then bat my eyes for effect.
There is a pattern in the middle of the tabletop that turns out not to be a pattern at all. It's a heating element, and onto it the waiter puts a heavy stone pot--le caquelon--filled with partially melted chocolate. Another waiter has a basket of all sorts of dippables, ranging from juicy strawberries to tiny squares of cheesecake. I grin at Damien like a kid in heaven. "Chocolate fondue?"
"I had considered cheese," he says, after the waiters have slipped out and shut the panel door again. "But this way will ensure that I'm not punished by the withholding of sex."
I must look confused, because he continues. "Alaine imports the chocolate from the Swiss subsidiary I mentioned earlier."
"Really?" I peer into the pot. "I already know you're delicious. I suppose your chocolate will be, too."
As if to prove the point, I reach for a strawberry, but he gently smacks my hand. "No, no," he says.
I stare at him. "Um, hello? Chocolate."
He laughs. "Close your eyes."
I narrow them but don't close them.
"Disobedience, Ms. Fairchild? You do live dangerously ..."
I smirk, but I also close my eyes. After a moment, I feel something soft brush my cheek, then cover my eyes. A napkin or a handkerchief? I'm not sure, but whatever it is, Damien is using it as a blindfold.
"What--" But my question is stalled by his finger on my lips.
"I made you a promise, Ms. Fairchild."
I nod, my nipples tightening and my sex clenching as I recall Damien's words. "You're going to make me come."
"That, too," he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice. "I also said I was going to feed you. Conveniently, I think the two may go together very well."
For a moment, I feel nothing. Then the cord that is still between my legs tightens as Damien tugs gently at it from behind. I gasp, and when I do, something cold brushes my lips. "Open for me," Damien says, and I do. He brushes the mystery item over my lips again. It's soft and rough at the same time, and though I try to catch a scent, the heady smell of chocolate in the room is overpowering.
"Now bite," he says, and when I do, I moan with pleasure as the sweet strawberry bursts in my mouth. Juice dribbles down my chin, and then there is Damien, the tip of his tongue stroking up, dipping into the corner of my mouth, tasting the juice that escaped and teasing me mercilessly in the process.
"I thought you weren't going to touch me," I say, turning my head to try to find his mouth. I want his kiss. I want his touch.
"Holding me to my promise, after all?" he asks as he once again tugs at the cord. I whimper, my hips shifting on the seat. I can feel how wet I am, how slippery the cord is. It's so close to my clit, but not quite there, and I'm craving that sweet, specific attention.
"No," I breathe. I want to beg him to touch me, promise be damned.
He chuckles. "Ah, but I'm a man of integrity. But let's agree that I'll keep to the spirit of my promise and not the letter. Do you want me to gently press my fingertip against your clit? To feel that hard nub beneath my finger? To tease it, stroke it, to play with it until you come?"
"I--"
"Shhh. You don't speak, Nikki. Not until I say that you can. Do you understand?"
I nod.
"Good. Let's continue to discuss the parameters of my promise. Perhaps you want me to slide my hands between your legs. To spread you wide. To lay you back on this bench and kiss my way up your legs. To breathe in the scent of your sex, and dip my tongue in your sweet folds, more delicious than any chocolate could ever be?"
Yes, I want to say. Oh, yes, please.
"Maybe you just want me to fuck you."
I whimper, but Damien ignores the sound.
"To all of those possibilities, Ms. Fairchild, I am saying no. I promised I wouldn't touch you, and I won't. I won't touch your sex, at any rate. As for the rest of you--well, perhaps we shall make one or two small exceptions. Nod if you understand."
I nod.
"Good girl. Now try this."
I open my mouth, and discover a truly decadent treat. Creamy cheesecake that Damien has dipped in chocolate. I moan and swallow it, then lick every bit of chocolate from my lips.
"Naughty girl," Damien chides. "Not even leaving a taste for me." As he speaks, he plays with the cord again. Behind the blindfold, I close my eyes and let the sweet sensations roll through me.
All too soon Damien stops. It's time for another treat. This time, a piece of dipped pound cake. Then a dipped marshmallow. And then--oh, God--it's Damien's finger in my mouth. I lick the chocolate off, then greedily pull him in. I run my tongue over his skin and suck and draw his finger in and out until I hear his soft moan and know that, yes, I've gotten to him.
I wait for the next treat, but instead, Damien tugs at my sleeve. "Pull your arm in," he says, and I do. He repeats on the other side, until both my arms are out of the sleeves and he is able to pull my shirt all the way up to my shoulders. "That looked like such a good idea, I may have to try it myself."
I have no idea what he means--at least not until I feel something warm and wet and sticky on my breast. And then Damien's finger is back at my mouth, and I am once again sucking the chocolate from his skin. But this time, he is doing the same, because as I suck, so does he. His mouth is over my chocolate-coated breast. He licks, he sucks, and with each erotic motion my nipple tightens and my areola puckers. My sex clenches, too, hot and demanding, and wildly stimulated by the cord that Damien plays with, the tempo of the gentle tugs matching the rhythm of his mouth on my breast.
Again and again, the cord slips and slides, sweet friction that comes close to sending me spiraling off.
Again and again, his mouth teases and taunts. Sucking and pulling and biting, not too hard, but enough that I feel it. Enough that the sharp, sweet sensation shoots all the way through me, straight to the cord that is so sweetly tormenting me.
Over and over, more and more, building and building until finally the tremors in my body build to a crescendo that breaks like a wave over me.
I ride it, letting my hips shift as I glide over the cord, concentrating on the feel of Damien's mouth tight on my breast. It is explosive and raw and I gasp as it builds, and then sag with spent pleasure when the orgasm inevitably fades, and I am left grinning in the heady glow.
Slowly, Damien tongues the last bit of chocolate off my bare skin. Then he gently helps me put my arms back through my sleeves. "So tell me, Nikki," Damien says, his voice soft and seductive. "Did you enjoy your dessert?"
"God, yes."
"Do you want more?" he asks, as he tugs off my blindfold.
I blink and breathe in the sight of him, my beautiful Damien with just the slightest smudge of chocolate in the corner of his mouth. I lean in and kiss it away, using the tip of my tongue to taste those last sweet drops.
"No more than that," I breathe. "Now the only thing I want is you."
4
There is no traffic on our return to Malibu, and Damien takes advantage of the empty highway, driving like a demon up PCH and then along the curving roads of the Malibu canyons.
He manages to make the jaunt in less than twenty minutes, which is probably
both a record and proof that the folks at Bugatti haven't misrepresented the car's zippiness.
Despite the shortness of our trip--and even despite the thrill-ride quality of the drive itself--it is the longest twenty minutes of my life.
Now we're in the house, and Damien is slowly--achingly slowly--drawing the cord out from under my outfit. The waistband of the skirt is snug, and that provides some resistance, so that as the cord slides between my ass cheeks and over my sex, I have to bite my lip so as to not cry out against the growing power of the sensations building within me.
"Damien," I murmur. It is the only word I can manage. We are standing in the barren foyer of this unfinished house. The room is huge and empty and even my breath seems to echo. Behind us, the front door still hangs wide open.
I'm not really caring about any of that. At this moment, in fact, the hard marble floor is looking pretty damned appealing.
I meet Damien's eyes, and I see my own desire reflected back. This night has been foreplay, and it has been wonderful. But now it's time for more. I want to be fucked.
I want Damien.
"Take off your clothes," he orders as soon as the cord is fully free, though still hanging from my neck.
I nod and silently comply, stepping first out of the skirt and then tugging the top over my head. As I do, Damien goes to the door and slams it shut. When he returns, I'm fumbling at the knot around my neck.
"No," he says. "Leave it."
He bends to my feet and unfastens the tiny buckles around my ankles. I sigh with relief as I step out of each shoe in turn. The marble is cool beneath my feet, and considering how much desire has heated my body, I'm surprised that steam doesn't rise up from the floor simply from the contact.
I am naked now, with only the cord around my neck, and he is still fully dressed, his clothes not even wrinkled. That simple reality only excites me more.
I am aware of everything around and within me. The heat from Damien, standing only inches from me. The quick beat of my pulse in my neck. The quickening of my sex, so desperate for his touch.
Our eyes meet, and I gasp. I expect the desire I see there, but I am done in by the rest of it. By the raw emotion. By the desperate longing that he isn't even endeavoring to hide.
"Nikki," he says, and with one quick motion he grabs hold of the cord and pulls me to him. I stumble, then find myself pressed against him, my hot flesh against the cool cotton of his shirt. I have no time to think about the feel of him, though, because his mouth closes over mine in a kiss that is more of an assault than a seduction. He is claiming, demanding. I can taste nothing but Damien, feel nothing but Damien. At this moment, he is my entire world, and I know with unerring certainty that in that moment there is no world for him beyond the two of us, either.
"I want to go slow," he says when he finally breaks the kiss. "I want to make you moan with anticipation and writhe with need of me. I want you so ready that you beg for me."
I swallow. I want this, too.
"But, dammit, Nikki, I can't wait."
"Then don't," I say, and my voice is hoarse, the words barely able to scrape past the desire.
"God, what you do to me." The words seem wrenched from him, and he closes his mouth over mine almost before he's finished speaking. At the same time, he scoops me up, one arm around my back and the other under my knees. I curl close to him, relishing the feel of his arms around me, but wanting more. So much more.
He carries me up the stairs, then sets me on my feet in front of the now-closed doors that lead to the balcony. I have barely got my balance when his mouth catches mine again in a bruising kiss and we stumble together backward. The bed is right there, barring our path even while keeping us from falling to the ground in a claiming, grasping flurry of lips and hands.
The mattress brushes against the back of my thighs, but before I can even think to sit, Damien breaks our kiss. "No," he says, and then turns me around. "Bend over," he says. "Hands on the bed."
I comply, the cord dangling from my neck like an ornamental leash. I wriggle my ass as coquettishly as I can manage in such a position. "For someone who says he can't wait you're taking an awfully long time."
"Perhaps I'm waiting for an apology. It's not kind to remind a man that heaven is ending in mere hours," he teases sternly. "A young woman with your meticulous upbringing should have more tact than to bring up such a sore subject several times over the course of one evening. Whatever happened to etiquette and decorum?"
"That's a very good question, Mr. Stark. Perhaps I'm not as polite and refined as you think I am."
"Perhaps not," he says as his fingers trail over my back. "I don't like being reminded that the end is near. It was quite unkind of you to mention it so boldly."
"Quite unkind," I agree. "Rude, even. Definitely thoughtless. And certainly not worthy of the Emily Post seal of approval."
He doesn't answer. I'm pretty sure his silence is masking a laugh.
I manage another flirty ass-wiggle. "Maybe you should punish me."
I immediately know that I've said the wrong thing. He is still silent, but now the quiet feels dark and heavy instead of playful and light.
"Should I?" he finally says, his voice low and controlled. "Do you think I didn't see the way you dug your nails into your thighs in the car on the way to the restaurant? We were only talking about the paparazzi then. It was worse when they accosted us. You kept control, Nikki, but you had to fight for it."
I close my eyes, not wanting to remember.
"Nikki, look at me." His voice is a tight command, and though my instinct is to tease him, I know better.
I don't alter my body's position, but turn my head to the right. He steps sideways into my line of sight, and I force myself to meet his eyes. There's fire there, but there's worry, too. I should have expected it. It is one thing when he initiates, surprising me with a sting to my bottom to complement the ache between my thighs.
But when I ask for the pain, he hesitates. It is his way of protecting me, but right then, it isn't protection I want. It's the sensual thrill of his palm against my ass.
"Nikki," he says. That's it. Just my name. But I hear the question in his voice.
I start to answer, but the words don't come as easily as I had hoped. Because the truth is that I know now that I haven't left the cutting as far behind as I had thought. True, I've done nothing but dig my own nails into my flesh tonight. But it's barely been a week since I tossed a knife across my kitchen, angry and scared by how much I wanted to press the blade against my skin and erase my fears and doubts in the consuming rapture of the pain. I'd won that battle, but I hadn't won the war, and my now-short hair is a scar upon my soul as much as the raised ridges on my thighs are scars upon my flesh.
Is that why I want this? Do I crave the sting of his palm because I need the pain? Does the pleasure I feel when I give myself over so completely to Damien flow from the same place that has fomented my compulsion to cut?
The thought twists inside me, dark and unpleasant, and I force it away. It's not true. And even if it is, I am safe with Damien no matter what the source of my desire. He's proven that much to me so many times.
Suddenly I'm no longer bent over the bed. He has me by the arms and he's pulling me up to stand in front of him. "Dammit, Nikki," he says. "Talk to me."
I press my palms against his cheeks and take his mouth with mine, letting the kiss deepen as he pulls me tight against him. I feel his body relax, and the fear that must have been growing in him as my silence lingered now seems to seep out from his pores.
"I need you," I tell him when I break the kiss. "You. I don't need that." His eyes are intent, and they seem to see so far inside me that I know I can't keep even the slightest of secrets. I take a deep breath and lay out my heart for him. "I don't need it," I say, "but I want it."
I see the slightest twitch of the muscle in his jaw, as if he's fighting for control.
"Do you?" he says.
I nod, then swallow. My cheeks are
warm, which irritates me. I've been more intimate with Damien than with any person in my life, and yet I'm blushing? It's a ridiculous girly-girl reaction, probably instilled by my mother, and that in and of itself pisses me off--and that gives me strength.
"I want it," I repeat. "And not because I need the pain. But because I need you."
I need him even more than I can say. I want his hands on me. I want to be the object of his pleasure, and I want to lose myself in the knowledge that there is nothing Damien wants more than to please me, and nothing I want more than to surrender to him.
He swallows, looking humbled by my words. "I need you, too, Nikki. God, how I need you."
I breathe in deep, cherishing those words more than he can possibly know. "Then touch me."
He does--oh, how he does--and though I expect the caresses, the passion, the immediate sensual assault, I am jarred off-center by the fervency I see in his eyes, and by the firm line of his mouth. There is nothing else in the world to him except me, and I can see it with every glimpse of him. I taste it in his hard, lingering kiss.
"Bed," he says, once he breaks the kiss. "Bend over. Legs apart."
I raise my brows in question. "Bossy much?"
He slaps me lightly on the bottom, and I gasp, both surprised and excited. "What do you say?"
"Yes, sir," I say obediently, forcing myself not to smile. I turn back to the bed and bend over, my hands firmly on the mattress, my excitement so raw I'm certain that it clings to me like perfume. I no longer question my motives; I am not in an analytical mind-set. All I want is Damien setting my body on fire. Damien thrusting himself deep inside of me.
His hand cups my rear, moving in slow, sensual circles. I feel a momentary wash of cool air on my skin as he breaks contact, and then I cry out in both pleasure and pain as his palm smacks hard against my ass, then presses against the point of impact, the sweet pressure soothing the sting.
Slowly, he slides his hand down between my legs. "Oh, baby," he says as his fingers slide over me. I'm desperately wet, and I tremble from his touch, so close that I have to fight the temptation to take one hand off the bed and touch myself where Damien is so carefully avoiding.
Then again ...
I keep my weight on my left hand, and dip my right hand between my legs. A shiver runs through me as I brush my fingertip over my clit. I'm swollen and sensitive and so very, very close.
