by J. Kenner
Tears stream down my face, and my legs seem to fall out from under me. I start to collapse and Damien catches me, easing me down to my knees. The irony isn't lost on me; Damien will always be there to catch me. At least I thought he would. Now I don't know, and for the first time, I feel alone in Damien's arms.
"I've thought about it." His voice is low and as serious as I've ever heard.
I freeze. I never knew that hope could feel so cold and lifeless, but it does. "Thought about what?" I ask cautiously.
He hesitates so long that I begin to think he's not going to answer. When he speaks, the words come slowly. "I've wanted you for so long," he says. "And now that I have you, I'm risking everything there is between us."
Yes, I want to shout. Yes! I realize that I'm digging my fingernails into the soft, damp earth, and I force myself to relax as I try not to anticipate his next words. As I try not to get my hopes up.
"I'm not convinced that revealing what Richter did to me is the panacea you and Maynard and the rest of them think it is. But maybe I should try. If it means that the charges will go away, then maybe I should sacrifice the privacy that I've spent my whole life fighting to maintain."
I hear the bitterness in his voice, and I want to reach for him and hold his hand tight in mine. I don't, though. I stay absolutely, perfectly still.
"There is no shame in being a victim, right? So why should I care if the world knows the vile things he did to me? Why should it matter if the press writes about the dark nights in my dorm room. The debasing things he made me do. Things I haven't even told you. Things that I wish I could forget."
He meets my eyes, but I see only the hard lines and angles of his face. "If it means that I can walk to you as a free man, shouldn't I want to shout that story from the rooftops? Shouldn't I want it plastered everywhere? On television, on talk shows, on the front page of newspapers? Shouldn't I want to make my personal hell fodder for the whole damn world?"
Something cool brushes my cheek, and I realize that I am crying.
"No," I whisper, hating the truth even as I say it. But this is the heart of who Damien is. A man who lives by his own code, and it is that core of him that I fell in love with. "Not even for me," I say. "Not even to stay out of prison."
I squeeze my eyes shut, and fresh tears spill out over my lashes.
The pad of his thumb brushes my cheek.
"You understand?"
"No," I say, but I mean yes, and when I open my eyes I can see that he knows it. He moves closer to me, and my breath hitches. I hiccup a little, tasting tears as his mouth closes over mine. The kiss is soft at first, gentle and sweet. Then his hand cups the back of my head even as his other arm snakes around my waist and tugs me onto his lap.
I gasp with surprise at the movement, and he takes advantage, his mouth hardening, his tongue finding mine, his kiss becoming deeper and more demanding. I twine my fingers through his silky hair and lose myself in the sensual firmness of his mouth. In the wildness of this kiss. Our tongues meeting, our teeth clashing. My mouth will be bruised in the morning, but I cannot resist this kiss that is setting us both on fire.
I am breathing hard when he finally pulls away. My lips feel swollen and used and spectacular. I wonder if I've ever truly been kissed before, even by Damien. And right then, all I want is more.
I lean toward him in silent demand, but he catches me with a firm hand under my chin. I stay there, my position awkward, my eyes lifted to his.
"You are my everything, Nikki. You have to know that. You have to believe it."
"I do," I whisper. I see the tremor run through his body, then the way his muscles tighten as he pulls me against him and holds me close. I melt into his arms, so in love with this man that it almost hurts.
"You are my everything," he repeats. "But I can't be true to you if I'm not true to myself."
"I know," I say, my lips against the cotton of his shirt. "I get it." I tilt my head back and look up into his eyes. "That doesn't mean it hurts any less."
"Then let me try to make it better." He eases me away from his body, then bends down to kiss the corner of my mouth. "Is that where it hurts?"
I shake my head as tears tease my eyes and a small smile tugs at the corner of my mouth.
"No? Then how about here?" His lips brush my jawline, and I suck in a breath, undone by the sweetness of his touch.
"No," I say, and my smile is no longer tremulous.
This time, his lips find the indentation at the base of my throat. I tilt my head back, giving him better access, and feel my pulse beat wildly against his lips. "That's not it, either," I whisper.
"Tricky," he says. "How can I kiss it and make it better if I can't even find it?"
"Keep looking," I say.
"I'll never stop," he promises. His lips drift down, pausing over my heart that is pounding in my chest. "Not here, surely," he says, then moves on as I laugh, the sound cut off by a raw, sensual cry when his mouth closes suddenly over my breast.
"Damien!"
His arms around my back support me as he suckles me through the silky material of this insanely expensive dress. His teeth graze my sensitive nipple, and I arch back, lost in a desperate haze of pleasure.
"Here?" he murmurs, his lips never fully releasing me.
"Yes," I say. "Oh, God, yes."
"I'm not so sure," he says when he takes his mouth off me. "I'd better keep looking."
He shifts me gently off his lap and lays me down on the soft grass, his legs straddling my waist.
"Damien," I murmur. "What are you--"
He hushes me with a finger, then leans over me, his mouth on my breast again. I groan with pleasure. "I told you," he says. "I'm going to kiss it and make it better."
His mouth closes this time over my left breast as his hand cups my right. It is as if his body is a live wire, sending current through me at every point of contact. Sparks shoot from his fingertips through my breasts, curling through me and making my body arch up with an insatiable desire for more.
All too soon he shifts, his mouth leaving my breast to trail gently down my body, nothing between his lips and my skin but this thin layer of silk.
His mouth is on my belly, his teeth nipping at my navel. His hands have slid down over the dress, and he is easing it up. The soft material glides over my skin even as Damien's lips ease down. His kisses are feather soft across my skin, along the rise of my hip bone and then gently, sweetly, over my pubis before he continues lower, and then lower still. My back arches involuntarily, and I gasp as his tongue flicks playfully over my clit before his mouth closes, hot and demanding, over my sex.
His hands move to my thighs, his thumbs grazing my scars before stroking the soft inner skin at the apex of my thighs. He pushes my legs apart, opening me wider for him. I want to shift my hips, to writhe from the pleasure of his oh-so-intimate kiss, but he holds me fast, keeping me exactly as he wants me. I raise my hand to my mouth, then bite down on the soft pad at the base of my thumb as I turn my head from side to side in time with the pleasure that grows inside me as Damien's expert mouth and tongue increases the sweet pleasure, slowly, slowly, so painfully slowly.
And then it all explodes, and I arch up, my mouth open, but my cry silenced by Damien who has slid up my body and now holds me down with the weight of his. His mouth closes over mine, and I taste my own arousal. I kiss him deeply, hungrily, then moan in protest when he pulls away. He presses his hands against the soft earth at either side of me as he lifts himself and looks into my eyes. There is heat there, but it is fast fading to playfulness.
"Better?" he asks with a cocky grin.
"Oh, yes," I say, then ease up onto my elbows so that I can sit up.
"No," he says. "Lay back."
I arch a brow, amused. "So demanding, Mr. Stark. What exactly do you want from me?"
"I want you naked," he says, and now the playfulness is gone as fast as it came, replaced by lust and heat so potent it makes me wet all over again.
"O
h."
Slowly, he lifts the hem of my dress. I don't protest. I simply shift my body so that he can pull the garment up and over my head. He tosses it aside, then pulls his white T-shirt off before his fingers go to the buttons of his jeans.
"I'm going to fuck you, Nikki. Right here, on the warm earth with the sky open above us. I'm going to claim you with the entire universe looking on, because you are mine, and you always will be, no matter where we go from here."
"Yes," I say, though his words were not a question but a demand. "Oh, yes."
His hands skim over me, his eyes full of adoration. I have always known that I am pretty, but when Damien looks at me, I feel more than beautiful. I feel special.
I reach up and stroke his cheek and watch as the passion builds in his eyes. I twine my fingers in his hair, grasp the back of his head, and pull his lips down to mine. Our kiss is hungry and wild, like the trees and vines around us. I pull him closer, unable to get enough of him. His hands stroke me, caressing my sides, stroking my breasts, sliding between my legs. His moan when he finds me wet and ready seems to reverberate through me.
He breaks the kiss, using one hand to prop himself above me. "Now." He doesn't wait for my reply, but my legs are already spread in demand, and I lift my hips to meet him as he thrusts inside me. I cry out, not in pain, but in the rightness of it all. This is how it is supposed to be, Damien and I joined together. Damien and I standing fast against the whole of the world.
We move together, wild and frenzied, and when the orgasm explodes through me, I realize that my face is streaked with tears.
"Baby," he whispers, pulling me close.
"No, no," I say. "It's just that it's too big to hold inside."
"I know," he says, and holds me tighter. "Sweetheart, I know."
I do not know how long we stay like that. I only know that I never want to move again. All too soon, though, Damien rubs his hand along my bare arm, then kisses the lobe of my ear. "Are you ready to go back?"
I'm not, of course. I never will be. But I know that Damien needs my strength as much as I need his. And so I only nod and grab my dress before standing up. I reach my hand down for him. "I'm ready," I say. "Let's go."
Chapter Three
Again and again in my dreams I go tumbling over the side of the building, falling down, down, down. Damien reaches for me, his face frantic as he thrusts his arm out, trying to grab me. But it's no use. He is trapped above me and I am drawn unrelentingly toward the hard, cold earth where I will shatter, broken into a million pieces, praying that Damien will come and put me together again, but knowing that he won't. That he can't. Because he is the one who pushed me over that edge in the first place.
I wake screaming, clinging to Damien, my arms wrapped around him. Even the steady beat of his heart and his soft words cannot soothe me, because I can no longer tell what is the nightmare and what is reality.
All I want is for this to be over, but as we exit the Kempinski lobby two hours later--as the cameras flash and the reporters scream questions about the trial that is beginning today--I take it all back. I'm afraid that in wishing for it to end that I have been wishing for my own destruction. Instead, I want all this pre-trial nonsense to continue. I want to stay cocooned in the safety of the hotel if that's what it takes to avoid reality.
From the moment we met, it was as if a magical bubble surrounded us. But the real world has begun to intrude. My mother, who flew into Los Angeles like a storm and ripped apart the fragile life I was finally building for myself. The paparazzi who almost broke me after they learned that I posed nude in exchange for a million dollars. And now this trial that is poised to rip away everything that Damien and I have managed to build together.
I have no intention of leaving Damien, and I believe that he has no intention of leaving me. But I can't shake the fear that despite what we want, fate has other plans. Damien might be the strongest man I know, but can he fight the whole world?
The ride is all too short, and soon we arrive at the Criminal Justice Center, which houses the Munich District Court where Damien's trial will take place. The building is modern, boxy in white stone and glass. It reminds me of both the federal courthouse in Los Angeles and the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion. Considering the show that is about to be put on, I suppose that's appropriate.
Over the last few days, I've been here a number of times for meetings between the attorneys. Those times, though, I hadn't trembled. Today, I can't stop shaking. A bone-deep quivering as if I am too cold. As if I will never be warm again.
I take a deep breath and ease toward the door that the driver is now holding open. I am stopped, however, by Damien's hand upon mine.
"Wait," he says, his voice low. "Here." He shrugs out of his jacket and puts it around my shoulders.
I close my eyes--just for a moment. Just long enough to curse myself. Because, dammit, Damien shouldn't be looking out for me. I should be the one supporting him, and I turn in the limo and pull him close and press a quick, firm kiss to his lips. "I love you," I whisper, and hope those simple words say everything that I'm not saying.
His eyes lock on mine. "I know," he says. "Now put the jacket on."
I nod, understanding the unspoken message: No matter what, he will never stop looking out for me. I can't argue with him about that; after all, I feel the same way.
I climb out of the car and stand up, my Public Nikki smile plastered across my face because reporters surround us, representing all of Europe and the States and even Asia. I'm practiced enough at hiding my emotions that I'm certain I look cool and confident. I'm not. I'm terrified. And from the way Damien grips my hand, I know that he realizes it. I wish I could be stronger, but it's impossible, and I'm simply going to have to accept that. Until this is over--one way or the other--I'm going to be walking on a knife edge. I only hope that in the end, I can tumble into Damien's arms, and not fall the other direction where I am left to plummet into the abyss alone.
"Herr Stark! Fraulein Fairchild! Nikki! Damien!"
The voices surround us, some English, some German, some French. Other languages, too, that I do not recognize.
Ever since I arrived in Munich, the press has been all over us. And not just about the trial. No, the tabloids are just as eager to analyze Damien's love life. They are not--thank God--harping on endlessly about my portrait or the money Damien paid me. But they are gleefully digging through their morgues and running photos of Damien with the steady stream of other women who have been on his arm. Runway models. Actresses. Heiresses. Damien told me himself that he used to fuck a lot of women. And he told me that none of them were special. For him, there is only me.
I believe him, but I still don't like seeing those pictures on newsstands and all over the television and Internet.
Right now, though, I'd be happy if the press's only interest in us was who Damien was sleeping with. But that is not the focus of their attention today. Today, they're out for blood, and murder is on the agenda.
It isn't until we cross the threshold and enter the building that I realize that I have forgotten to breathe. I glance at Damien and manage a wan smile. He shakes his head. "If I could have left you in the hotel today, I would have."
"I'd rather die than not be here with you." Unfortunately, I think, being here may come close to killing me.
The halls are bustling with attorneys and court personnel, all moving efficiently to wherever it is they are going. I barely notice them. Honestly, I barely notice anything, and it's with a bit of surprise that a uniformed guard hands me my purse and I realize that we've stepped through security.
A polished man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair is hurrying toward us. This is Charles Maynard, the attorney who has represented Damien since he burst onto the tennis scene as a nine-year-old prodigy. He holds out his hand for Damien even as his eyes go to me. "Hello, Nikki. The row of seats immediately behind the defense table is reserved for my staff. You'll sit there too, of course."
I nod, grateful.
If I can't be beside Damien, at least I'll only be inches away.
"We should talk before this begins," he continues, his words directed to Damien. He glances at me. "You'll excuse us?"
I want to scream in protest, but instead I nod. I don't try to speak, too afraid that my voice will shake and betray me.
Damien reaches out and squeezes my hand. "Go on in," he says. "I'll see you shortly."
Once again, I nod assent, but I don't move. Instead I stand dully in the hallway as Maynard leads Damien a few yards away and then through the doors of the small conference room that I know has been assigned to his team for use during the trial. I stand a moment longer, unwilling to go through the heavy wooden doors that lead to the courtroom. Maybe if I never go in, the proceedings can never start.
I'm still there, cursing my own foolishness, when I think I hear my name from somewhere behind me, muddled by the sound of the crowd bustling in this wide, echoing hall. At first, I think it's one of the reporters trying to get my attention. But there's something familiar about it. I frown, because surely it's not--
But it is. Ollie.
I see him the instant I turn around. Orlando McKee, the boy I grew up with, who has been one of my best friends since forever. The man who has repeatedly said that Damien is a danger to me.
The man who Damien believes is in love with me.
There was a time when I would have run to him, thrown my arms around him, and spilled out all my fears. Now, I'm not even certain how I feel about seeing him here.
I stand frozen as he hurries toward me. He arrives out of breath, his hand outstretched for mine. Slowly, he drops his when he realizes that I am not reaching out in return.
"I didn't know you were going to be here," I say blandly.
"I tried to reach you at the Kempinski this morning," he says, "but you'd already left."
"I have a cell phone," I say.
He nods. "I know. I should have called. This was last minute. Maynard learned that I went to school with one of the junior attorneys on the prosecutor's staff, and he wanted me here."
"Law school?" I can't figure out why a German prosecutor would go to a United States law school.
He shakes his head. "Undergrad. Small world, huh?"
"Does Damien know you're here?" My voice is cold and clipped, and I'm certain that Ollie knows why. If Damien were selecting the legal team, Ollie would not be included.
