by J. Kenner
"Oh." I wet my lips. "That was very efficient of you."
"I'm a man who likes to plan ahead." He catches my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezes tight. I gasp, relishing the sharp sensation, the pleasure edging toward pain. With his fingers tight, he rolls the hard nub and I bite down on my lip as electricity sparks through me, racing from my breasts to my wet, throbbing cunt.
"Damien." I'm not sure what I'm demanding. I can barely form thoughts, much less words. All I know is desire. All I want is more.
Hell, all I want is everything.
As if in answer to my demand, Damien spreads the rounded ends of the ring, then gently releases it, causing the cold silver to clamp against my nipple. There's more pressure now than Damien had applied, and I suck in air, surprised at first by the fiery pain. It fades soon, though, and I moan in pleasure at the warmth that ripples through me as my body adjusts to the tantalizing torture.
"We've gone so far together, Nikki," he murmurs as he attaches the other one. "I'm going to take you even farther. I want to balance on the edge with you, and see you open and wide and wild."
My breathing is ragged. I'm hyperaware of my breasts, of his touch. And when he slides his hand down between my ass cheeks, his fingers finally--finally--finding me hot and wet and wanting, I cannot help but moan aloud.
"I want to give you everything, Nikki," he says, as his thumb brushes my anus, and I feel the slick lube of my own arousal. "I want the universe spread wide before you. And I want to be the one who sends you tumbling over, shooting off into space, without control, without inhibitions." I feel the firm increase of pressure, then gasp as something small and well-lubed slips inside my rear.
"And, Nikki," he says, his voice rough with passion, "I want to be the one who tethers you and brings you back."
"You are," I whisper. I am as unraveled by his words as I am by the riot of sensations storming through me. "Oh, God, Damien, you know you are. I'm lost without you."
He moves to face me, then strokes my cheek. With a fervency I don't expect, he pulls me close. I gasp as my raw, chained nipples rub against his shirt, but he silences me with a long, almost violent kiss.
"Please," I beg when he releases me. I am helpless, I am melting. The pressure on my nipples sends shocks arcing through my body. That wicked plug fills me, opening me, making me hyperaware of every movement and sensation.
"Please what?" he whispers. "Tell me what you want, Nikki."
"You, Damien. Always you--only you. I want you to touch me." I reach for him, fisting my hands in his T-shirt. "I want you to fuck me because I'm not entirely sure I can survive without feeling you inside me right now."
"I want that, too," he says, and I sag with relief. "But we're going to have to risk your imminent demise," he adds with a very wicked grin. "Because I have something else in mind first."
According to the concierge at our hotel, Club P1 is one of the hottest nightclubs in Munich. The venue is huge and crowded, and the patrons are as polished and bright as the modern interior. It's funky and fun--and at the moment, I couldn't care less. My body is too on fire, too teased by Damien's sweet torture.
The limo ride was bad enough, with Damien demanding that I sit with my knees apart and my hands on either side of me, palms on the soft leather of the seat. He'd dressed me in a shelf bra before we left, leaving my still-chained nipples exposed. In the limo, they brushed against the black silk of my beaded tank top, the sensation making me squirm. And that caused all sorts of other shocks and quivers and pulses to ricochet through my body.
Damien sat across from me, sipping Scotch and watching me with such raw passion that I spent the entire ride in a constant state of unsatisfied arousal.
The ride, thank God, was short, but now that we are here I want nothing more than to go back to the hotel. Dancing, drinking--none of that holds any appeal. All I want is Damien's mouth on mine, his hands on my bare skin, and his cock deep inside me.
Unfortunately, I don't think I'll be getting what I want anytime soon, and so I draw in a breath and try to focus despite this sensual haze in which I am currently living. "You're glowing," Damien says, his mouth curving into a self-satisfied smile.
"Glowing?" I repeat. "Jesus, Damien, I'm practically radioactive."
"Mmm," he says, looking me up and down. "So I see." He pulls me to one side so that my back is up against a smooth wooden wall. He presses his hands to either side of me and leans in close. "A bit on edge, Ms. Fairchild?"
"Just a tad." I catch the scent of him--the whiskey on his breath, the deep, spicy musk of his arousal--and it works upon me like the most potent of aphrodisiacs. In addition to my sparkly black top, I am decked out in a black leather miniskirt, thigh-high stockings, a tiny red thong, and very high, very fuckable heels. I take one step away from the wall and lift myself on those heels, gripping Damien's shoulders for balance. "I'm still trying to decide if I should thank you for this," I whisper. "Or if I should figure out a way to get revenge."
"While I'm very intrigued by the possibility of being at your mercy," he says, "we both know that you're as turned on as I am." He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me toward him. Our hips meet, and I can feel his erection pressing hard against my belly.
"I am," I admit, sliding my hand down between our bodies to stroke his cock through his jeans. The corner is dark and secluded, but I think I would have stroked him even if we were on the dance floor. I am intoxicated by lust, emboldened by passion. And since Damien isn't shifting my hand away, I know that he is, too.
"I'm hot and horny and desperately wet," I murmur, moving my hand in time with my words. I feel him grow even harder and I smile with the knowledge of my own power. "Do you know what I wanted in the limo, Damien? I wanted you on your knees in front of me. I wanted your hands on my thighs spreading me wide, and I wanted your tongue on my clit."
He is close enough that I can feel the quickening of his pulse and his quick shallow breaths. "I wanted to feel my nipples tighten when you tugged on this chain, and my body tense around this plug when you made me come, so hard and so fast that you'd have to carry me into this club."
"Holy fuck," he whispers, his voice so soft I can barely hear it.
"So yes," I continue, as if I hadn't even heard him. "I am turned on." I stroke his cock slowly, because at least for this one moment, I have turned the tables on Damien Stark. "But what I wanted I didn't get. And that, Mr. Stark, is why I want revenge."
"You make a very sound argument, Ms. Fairchild."
"I pride myself on my sharp business skills."
He steps back from me, his eyes gleaming mischievously, then holds out his hand. "Come with me."
"Where are we going?"
"Come with me and find out."
He leads me through the crowded club full of beautiful people who are much more interested in each other than us. I'm relieved. We do not look like the Nikki and Damien who have been in the German news. I'm in my Girl Goes Clubbing outfit and Damien is casual in jeans and a light jacket over a T-shirt, not to mention a day's worth of beard stubble. That's not to say that I haven't seen a few heads turn when we pass, but I think that is more a product of Damien's astounding good looks than his status as either a celebrity billionaire or as a man who narrowly escaped a murder charge.
As far as I can tell, the club has two main rooms, both filled with bright colors and shiny surfaces. The DJs spin an eclectic mix, but the theme seems to be techno-club, and while the music isn't anything I recognize, it is deliciously danceable.
At the moment, however, dancing is not on the agenda. Instead, Damien leads me to the terrace, and we step outside. I pause a moment to take it all in--the candles that illuminate the patrons in a surreal glow. The plush leather sofas and love seats that dot the terrace. Some are in clusters near colored lights and provide a place for energetic dancers to have a drink and get a second wind. Others are secluded, tucked away in dark corners for lovers to curl up together and soak in the atmosphere.<
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The bouncers downstairs made it clear that no one gets into this bar if they look shabby, and here under the starlight, that policy is obvious. Everything glows, including Damien and me. There is a polish to everything that I see, but I know better than anyone how tarnished something shiny can be underneath, and I can't help but imagine this place come morning. The sofas stained with spilled drinks. Cigarette butts stamped out on the stone floor. The ethereal candles revealed as nothing more than globby clumps of wax.
Nothing is as it appears. Not this club nor its patrons nor Damien. And certainly not me.
We weave among the other patrons to one of the love seats tucked in a darkened corner. Damien sits, and I start to sit beside him. "No," he says, then pulls me into his lap so that I am straddling his leg, the hard muscles of his thigh pressing enticingly against the hard knot in my ass as I face him.
I exhale, making a little ah sound as shimmers of awareness crash through me.
"Trouble, Ms. Fairchild?"
I lift a brow and rock my hips, grinding my rear against him and making this hedonistic tempest crackle and pop inside of me. And--if his face is any indication--my lap dance is driving Damien a little crazy, too.
"No trouble, Mr. Stark," I say, as primly as I can manage despite my body being on fire.
"Christ, Nikki . . . "
He tugs me forward so that I am still straddling him, but now I can feel his denim-clad erection against the bare skin of my thigh above my stocking. I meet his eyes, my heart pounding wildly, then moan when his mouth crushes against mine. One of his hands is around my waist, holding me in place at the small of my back. The other slides under my skirt, his fingers finding the thin strip of silk that makes up the thong, then begin to move in slow, easy circles calculated to drive me crazy.
"Damien," I whisper. "Someone might see."
"I want you. Right now. I want to watch you explode in my arms."
"But--" I look around. There doesn't seem to be anyone paying attention, and in the dark it's not obvious where his hand is hidden.
His fingers curve inside me, and whatever protests I might have raised die right then. His thumb presses against my pubic bone as if my body is a handle, and I gasp as he roughly pulls me closer. "Now," he repeats. "I want you coming in my arms."
"Yes," I say, because I am too wrecked, too wanton, to say anything else. Right then I think I'd let him lay me out on the dance floor and fuck me with the crowd cheering us on. He wouldn't, though, and deep inside, under this haze of passion and lust, I know that. We're still in our bubble, hidden in the dark, buried in the corner.
But Damien needs this. This man who once told me he doesn't do public sex. Because that's not what this is about. Instead, he needs proof that I am really here. That I didn't leave after talking with Maynard. That the demons of his childhood haven't pushed me away.
He needs me to get lost in his arms as much as I need to lose myself to him. To know that he is back--and that he is still mine.
"Yes," I repeat, because it is the only word I can manage through my jumble of thoughts and emotions. "Oh, God, Damien, please, yes."
"Good girl," he says, sliding his hand off my back. I'm vaguely aware that he has thrust it into his pocket, but that is not the hand that interests me. Instead, all of my thoughts are centered on the fingers that are teasing me under my skirt, playing with my clit, making me bite my lip so that I don't rock back and forth with these building sensations. I'm just a girl sitting in her boyfriend's lap, after all. Not like a woman about to come like she has never come before from the intimate way that said boyfriend is fingerfucking her.
Just a girl sneaking a brief kiss. Just a girl--
"Oh, God!" I cry, but my shout is swallowed by Damien's hard mouth over mine. The orgasm rips through me--not just because Damien's expert fingers have played me so well, but because of the surprising, shocking, totally mind-rocking vibration of the plug with which Damien has filled me. I want to scream with delight, to writhe and make the sparks build again and again. I want this whirlwind of pleasure to keep pulling me up and up, and the fact that I can't--the fact that I need to stay quiet and still--only increases the fever that is burning through me.
All too soon--or possibly hours later--rationality returns to me. My heart is pounding against my rib cage. I feel as though I have sprinted a mile. And when I lick my lips, I taste blood.
I rub my mouth, but it's not mine, and it takes me a second to realize that I bit down on Damien's lower lip. "Are you okay?"
"Baby, you can bite me anytime."
"Oh my God," I say. "Oh my God." And then, "You didn't tell me it did that."
He pulls his hand out of my pocket to reveal the remote control for the plug. "A man has to keep a few surprises."
I sigh contentedly, then slide off him. I curl up next to him on the love seat, discreetly adjusting my clothes. "Wow," I say. "That was kind of kinky."
His grin is as playful as my words. "And is kinky good?"
"Yeah," I say. "Kinky is very good."
His arm is around me, his hand resting on my hip. After a moment, his lips brush over my ear, and I shiver from the butterfly-soft touch, then immediately laugh when I hear his words--"Your ass is vibrating."
I lift my brows. "Is that a euphemism for what you just did to me, Mr. Stark?"
"Complaining?"
"Hell, no," I say.
"Good. But no, it's not a euphemism. It's your phone."
Shit. I realize that he's right. I'd charged it in the room, then left everything except it and my passport in the hotel. Damien has my passport tucked into the interior pocket of his jacket, but I have my phone in my back pocket, right under Damien's hand. He plucks it out and hands it to me, but when I answer it, there's no one there.
"Must have kicked over to voice mail," I say with a frown. As I wait for the little icon to show a waiting message, I look back at the call information, but I don't recognize the number. Since the voice mail still isn't pinging, I assume it was a wrong number and slide the phone back into my pocket. "That reminds me," I tell Damien. "You got a call earlier. Right before I went to see Maynard. I thought it might be one of the German attorneys, so I answered it, but there was no one there. Did they call back?"
He shakes his head. "Probably not important," he adds, even as he pulls out his phone and begins to scroll through his call information. I see the instant his face changes. It is subtle and quick, and if I didn't know his features in such excruciating detail I might not have even noticed. And when he meets my eyes again, there's no hint that he was surprised or disturbed.
I wrap my arms around myself, fighting an unexpected chill. Once again, Damien is locking his secrets away.
"Who was it?" I say, keeping my voice light but resolute. "Does it have anything to do with the trial or with those pictures?"
"No." The word is both too fast and too firm. And there is a distance in his voice that bothers me. I tell myself it is only the distortion from this thrumming club, but I don't believe myself.
"Do you want to talk about it?" I ask, which is really the stupidest question in the world, since if he did want to, he wouldn't be speaking in monosyllables.
"I don't." He must see something in my face, though, because a moment later he sighs, then lightly strokes my cheek. "I promise you. It's nothing."
A shudder runs through me, desire, yes, but it's mixed with something else. Something darker. I had thought that after everything we'd been through there would be no more secrets. But now there are the photos. And this call. And I realize that I was foolish to have even entertained the possibility that Damien's walls had truly come tumbling down. Damien Stark has many layers, and while I am enjoying the process of slowly revealing the deliciousness at the center of the man, I cannot deny the frustration that goes along with the territory.
Damien squeezes my hand. "Don't look so worried."
I manage a teasing smile. "I can't help it," I say. "I may not be the jealous type, but if you're
getting calls from old girlfriends looking to pull you back into their web . . . " I am joking, of course, and I expect him to laugh and pull me close as the tension slides off him. I am not prepared for his answer.
"Getting the calls and taking the calls are two different things."
"Oh." I thought the call was about the trial or whoever sent those damn pictures or even some business issue. An old girlfriend was not on my radar at all, and I'm certain I look as shocked as I feel.
"I told you I used to fuck around. And I'm sure some of those women want back in my life." He stands, then takes my hand and eases me to my feet before softly kissing my palm. "I also told you I wasn't serious about any of them. There's only one woman I want."
I cock a brow as I glance at his phone. "Do they know that?"
"I know it," he says. "And so do you."
For a moment, there is only silence between us. No, that isn't true. Where Damien and I are concerned, there is never just silence. There is heat and electricity and lust and need, all harnessing the power of the universe to pull us together. And how can I be expected to fight physics?
I step toward him, sliding comfortably into the circle of his arms, right where I belong. "Do you want to dance?" I ask.
"No," he says, his tone sending ripples of heat through me. "I want to take you to bed."
Chapter Seven
"So you're really taking me to bed?" I ask Damien as we speed down Prinzregenstrasse in the back of our limo.
"That's my current plan," he says. "Unless you want to file an objection?"
"An objection? No." I'm leaning against him, and the space between our bodies hums with sensual energy. The orgasm that rocked me at the club didn't take the edge off at all. Instead it just ramped up my appetite like a fine wine before dinner, leaving me feeling slightly intoxicated and ready for the main course.
I flash a mischievous smile, then shift my position so that I am kneeling on the floorboard of the limo, my hands resting on his thighs. "But perhaps I might file one tiny change order?" My fingers make swift work of the button fly of his jeans.
"Nikki . . . " His voice is full of heat and amusement and a hint of warning.
