by J. Kenner
My breasts are full and heavy, my nipples puckered with desire. I pull gently on my nipples and the corresponding tug in my sex makes me gasp.
"Damien--"
"I know, baby. You can feel it, can't you. The way your sex throbs. How hard your clit is."
"Yes."
"We've done this before, remember? Our first night. You in the back of my limo, and I was miles away on my phone and so hard I thought I'd explode."
I nod. It's one of my most vivid memories. I was drunk and heady with lust, but I was alone and I could fool myself into believing that the extent of my arousal was my own secret.
Now, there is no hiding how turned on I am. And even though this is Damien, who has seen me at my most wanton, my most needy, it has always been for him that I have opened myself. Now, it is my own touch that I am craving. My touch, and his words. I feel naughty. Reckless. And, so help me, I want him to take me all the way. I want to finger myself until I come in front of him--and when I do, I want to open my eyes and see my own passion reflected right there on his face.
"I didn't have the pleasure of watching then. I intend to enjoy it now."
"Yes. Yes." It's the only word I can manage. It's the only word that fills my head.
"Slide your right hand down. Take your time, baby. You have such soft skin, I want you to feel it. To touch it."
Once again, I comply. I keep my left hand on my breast, almost like an anchor, then spread my right so that my palm grazes my belly, my pelvis, and then my fingers dip under the band of my thong. I bite my lower lip as my hand slides over, then moan as my fingertip brushes my clit before easing farther down to soft, slippery flesh.
"Open your eyes," Damien orders. "Look at me and touch yourself."
"I--" But my words die on my lips when I open my eyes and see his face--the bold heat in his eyes, the flush of his skin. His hands are on the armrests of the chair, and he is gripping it so tightly I can see the whites of his knuckles. And his cock is so hard beneath his tailored trousers that I am afraid it will split a seam.
"Fuck me," I whisper. "We both know you want to."
"More than anything," he says as our eyes meet and lock. Sparks burst through me merely from the connection of our gazes, and the heat grows in anticipation of his touch. "But no," he says, making me want to weep. "This is about you. I want you to feel it, too."
"Feel what?"
"The pleasure I take from your body," he says simply. "I want to watch. I want to lose myself in the vision of you." As if in illustration of his words, his eyes drag slowly over me. "Don't stop, baby. Slide your fingers inside. Tease your clit. Let me see it. Let me watch the way your skin moves when you're about to come. Each tiny gasp, each shudder. The way you drag your teeth over your lower lip. The flush that colors your skin before orgasm, and the just-fucked look in your eyes after you come."
I am so hot, so wet, and I do as he says, fingerfucking myself hard and then lightly teasing my clit. I am dizzy with lust, and I reach out with my other hand, taking it off my breast so that I can clutch the side of my desk to steady myself.
"Oh, God, Nikki. Do you know how much watching you turns me on? How hot you make me? I have only begun to memorize the bits and pieces that make up you. You are my obsession."
"Yes," I whisper. "Oh, yes."
The sharp shrill of my phone fills the room, and I jump. "Don't stop," he orders. "Just ignore it."
I do, too lost in this sensual haze to care about something as foolish as a phone. I grind my hips in time with the rings, then keep going even after it stops. I hear the ping that indicates a voice mail, followed by the buzz of a text message.
I manage to stifle the urge to throw my phone out the window.
"Don't even think about it, baby. Just this. Just us. You're so close, Nikki. God, I can see it on your face, in the way your lips are parted. Imagine it's my mouth on your cunt, my tongue stroking you, tasting you. Baby, you taste so good."
I whimper, so close, but not quite there, and my hips grind against my own hand. Soon, soon, so very soo--
"Ms. Fairchild?"
The receptionist's voice bursts through the speaker, and I jump, feeling guilty and exposed, even as Damien bites out a curse.
"Ignore it," he growls, but the voice continues, unable to hear our side of the conversation.
"Mr. Stark's assistant is on the phone," she says, as cold fingers of dread trail up my spine. "Apparently a Ms. Archer has been trying to reach you. I'm afraid there's been an accident."
Chapter Seventeen
I release Damien's hand and burst through the door to Jamie's tiny room on the third floor of the San Bernadino hospital, then sag with relief when I see her sitting up in bed watching SpongeBob. There's a nasty bruise rising on her left cheek, and a white bandage taped across her forehead. Other than that, though, she looks intact, and for the first time since Sylvia called, I breathe easily.
"I'm sorry!" she says the second she sees us. "I'm so, so sorry."
"But are you okay?" Thanks to Damien's helicopter, it didn't take us that long to get here, but I still spent the entire flight imagining the worst. Now I rush to her side and wince at the bruise that covers one arm, then disappears under her hospital gown.
"I'm banged up, but I'll be fine. Really. But--I mean--oh, shit." She glances Damien's way. "Oh, God, Damien. The Ferrari's toast. I totally fucked up."
"You're not badly hurt," he says, moving to my side. He twines the fingers of one hand with mine, then takes Jamie's hand in his other. "That's all that matters."
"Is the other driver okay?" I ask.
"It was just me," she says, her voice as anguished as I've ever heard it. "I'm such a fucking loser."
I am fighting hard not to cry. "You're not, and you know it. It was an accident," I say, but Jamie just shakes her head and doesn't meet my eyes.
I frown and glance at Damien, who looks at least as concerned as I feel.
"So tell me what happened," I say gently. I ease up to sit on the edge of the bed and Damien pulls up a chair. I put my foot on the seat cushion beside his leg, and he rests his hand on my ankle, just below the platinum and emerald bracelet. I focus on his touch, grateful for his strength and so desperately relieved that he is here with me.
Jamie sniffles and drags the back of her hand under her nose. "I went down the mountain to go check out some happy hours," she says. "I mean, I had this frigging awesome car, so why not, right? And I met this guy and he was so totally hot." She looks toward Damien and shrugs almost apologetically.
"Would you like me to step out?"
Her eyes widen. "No! I mean, you deserve to know how I totaled your car. And it's not like my reputation doesn't precede me, right?"
Damien, wisely, stays silent.
"Go on," I prompt.
"Well, there were sparks, you know? And I haven't banged anyone since Raine except for that one time with Douglas," she says, referring to our horndog of a neighbor. "Honest," she adds, holding her hand up in a Boy Scout salute. "I was practically a nun while you two were in Germany. Anyway, he needed a ride home, and I was happy to oblige because, well, why wouldn't I be? And that part was great. And the part after was great, too," she adds, cutting her eyes toward Damien.
I get it. For that matter, I'm sure Damien gets it, too. She fucked the guy. A perfect stranger. But this isn't the time for yet another lecture, and I bite back my reprimands and instead say simply, "Go on."
"So I'm lying there, right? And it's nice. I mean he's nice. Or at least, I think he is. Until this alarm clock beside the bed goes off. Then he sits up and starts pulling on his clothes."
I catch Damien's eye. I do not like the direction this is heading, and I already know that it ends badly.
"I ask him why he's getting dressed, and he snaps at me to hurry. Because his wife--his fucking wife--is going to be home soon and I need to get the hell out of there."
"Oh, Jamie . . ."
"I know, I know. Believe me, I know. But right then I
was just pissed. And scared, because he tells me his wife's a cop. I mean, seriously, it's like a goddamned movie of the week or something." She draws in a deep breath. "So I'm hurrying, right? And he's pushing me to move faster, and he's basically turned into this total asshole. And I swear, if she wasn't a woman who carried a gun I would have stayed and told her that her fucktard of a husband screwed around. But I'm not keen on getting shot and he's practically screaming at me by now."
"And somehow the wife caused the accident?"
Jamie shakes her head. "Other than by coming home and scaring the crap out of me? No. But I pull out of his house and I head down the street to get out of the subdivision and back to the main road. I'm distracted, and I know I'm driving faster than I should, and--oh, Damien--I'm so, so sorry. But that was it. Just too fast. I wasn't being reckless, I swear to God. But when I turn the corner, this other car is pulling out. They couldn't have planned the timing better if they tried. I mean, it was like they were just waiting for me to come, which is stupid, right, but that's just the kind of day I was having. So I swerve, and I lose control and I wrap the car around this huge stone fence that marks the edge of the development. The airbags did their thing, but I still managed to bang my head." She presses her fingertips to the bandage on her forehead. "I'm not even sure what I hit it on."
Her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a deep breath. "So that's it. The whole thing was my fault. I was pissed off and driving too fast and the whole goddamn thing is because I spread my legs for some fucking stranger who only wanted a quick lay while his wife was off catching bad guys."
I know she wants me to console her. To tell her it wasn't her fault at all. And sure, that kind of accident can happen to anyone. But Jamie has fucked around for too long, with me and everyone else telling her that it can only end in trouble. I'm not about to say "I told you so," but I'm also not going to tell her it's no big deal and that it could have happened to anyone.
"You scared the shit out of me, James," I finally say, and feel the tears well in my eyes again. "What would I do if something happened to you?"
Jamie got lucky--that's the basic, bottom-line, absolute fact. A few inches in another direction, a few miles per hour faster, a little bit of oil on the road--just one tiny change and things could have been much, much worse.
I shiver, unnerved by the direction of my thoughts. By the knowledge that I could not stand to lose my friend. And by the certainty that if the worst happens, it is the sharp steel of a blade that I will crave--and if Damien is not beside me, then it is a blade that I will turn to.
Unnerved, I squeeze my hands tight, feeling my nails dig into my palms. Damien's hand tightens around my ankle.
I sigh and savor the connection. For right then, it is enough.
When the nurse comes in to take Jamie's vitals, Damien goes out into the hallway to find someone who can bring pillows and extra blankets. There is a hideously uncomfortable chair in the room that pulls out into a hideously uncomfortable bed, and that is where I am sleeping tonight, curled up tight against Damien's side.
Despite the uncomfortable bed and the nurse visits that wake us every three hours or so, I am actually somewhat refreshed when I'm awakened the next morning by the smell of strong, slightly burned coffee.
"Nectar of the gods," Damien says as he presses the Styrofoam cup into my eager hand. I sip it, make a face, and take another long swallow.
"The gods aren't too picky this morning," I say.
He brushes a kiss across my lips. "I'm sure Edward will be happy to stop for a latte."
I frown, confused. "Why is Edward here?"
"I'm sending you and Jamie home in the limo."
"We're not riding back with you?" I hear the near-whine in my voice and immediately wish I could take it back. Yes, it's Saturday, but the man has an empire to run, and he's already been away from it for far too long. "Sorry," I say. "I know you have to work."
"There are things I need to take care of," he says, and something in his tone catches my attention. "I'm going to San Diego," he adds, obviously noticing my frown.
"Oh." His father lives in San Diego, and I realize that he is going to confront the man about the photos sent to the court. I do not envy him the trip. My mother may have failed Parenting 101, but Jeremiah Stark never even took the class. "Hurry back," I say, even though what I want to do is throw my arms around him and keep him safe. I do not want to see his heart wounded any more than it already is. And yet at the same time, I'm silently cheering inside. He could have so easily told me that he had business meetings, but instead he let me in. "I love you," I say.
He cups my chin and tugs me in for a kiss. "Stop worrying. I'll be fine."
I nod, desperately hoping that he is right about that.
Since the cogs of the medical establishment do not turn quickly, it's a full two hours before Jamie and I are finally settled in the limo. "If I have a mimosa, are you going to lecture me?" Jamie asks.
"I haven't lectured you at all," I reply indignantly. "I've been extremely non-lecturey. And it's not like you have a drinking problem, James."
"You're right," she says as she pours two and passes me one. I'm not really in the mood, but I take it anyway. Best friend solidarity and all that. "I don't have a drinking problem; I have a fucking problem."
I happen to agree, so I wisely say nothing and just take a sip from my mimosa. Since Jamie is a reasonably observant person who happens to know me well, my silence isn't lost on her. She shrugs. "I know," she says. "Nothing you haven't been telling me for years."
"I just don't want to see you get hurt," I say. "You were lucky, James. But this could have been bad."
She doesn't meet my eyes. I'm not surprised. Jamie has moments of self-awareness, but long contemplation is not her strong suit. But at least the wheels are turning.
"I called Ollie," she says. I blink, confused by the transition. "I'm elaborating on my fucking problem," she says, by way of explanation. "I called him after Raine got me fired from the commercial."
"Oh, Jamie," I say. "You promised me. For that matter, he promised me. He told me there wasn't anything going on with you two anymore."
"Wait. You talked to him? When?"
"He was in Germany," I say. "The firm sent him over to help with the trial. You didn't know?"
She shakes her head. "I haven't seen him. Not since . . . well, not since he came over that night."
"You called him." It's not just a statement. It's an accusation. Hell, it's a reprobation.
"I needed someone to talk to, and he's the dude who had the golden ticket."
"And you slept with him?" I'm pissed. I'm seriously pissed. As much because they did it as because Ollie lied.
"We didn't! I swear!" She holds up her fingers in a Boy Scout salute. "But there was a tug, you know?"
I'm relieved. But it's a cold kind of comfort. "He's engaged, Jamie. And he's a mess."
"As to the first, I know. As to the second, so am I. Maybe we're soul mates."
"Friends, yes. Lovers, no." Just the idea makes me shudder. I can picture the movie of their relationship in my head, and it is definitely not one of Evelyn's romcoms.
"I know," she says. "I really do. You'd be proud of me. Nothing happened."
"Proud of you?" I repeat, hearing what she's carefully not telling me. That had it just been up to Ollie, something would have happened. That part he left out.
"You're missing the point," she says. "I didn't sleep with Ollie. And I really wanted to because of the commercial and I felt lower than dirt, and, well, you know. But I didn't--and I thought maybe that meant I was getting my act together." She sucks in a breath. "And then I go and fuck an asshole and wreck Damien's Ferrari."
I may have used a blade against my own flesh to cope, but Jamie uses men. From a distance, it looks like my method is the more dangerous, but sometimes I'm not so sure. For years, I've seen the way Jamie's casual fucks rip her up. Now, I'm afraid I'm seeing a different kind of danger. "The bottom line is
that I worry about you."
"I know you do," she says simply. "I do, too."
For a few moments, we're both silent, and I think that we're done. Then Jamie draws her knees up and hugs herself. "I'm thinking about going back to Texas."
My mouth hangs open and I am literally speechless. Of all the things she might have said to me, this was not even on my radar.
"I can't afford to keep the condo, though. So you'll have to find another roommate. Unless you move in with Damien. If you do that, I might sell. The market's gotten better. I might even make enough to buy a place in Dallas and have some cash leftover to pay Damien for at least part of the mess I made of his car. I figure my condo should cover about a hubcap, don't you think?"
"Wait, back up. What are you talking about? You hate Dallas. You've always hated Dallas."
"Look at me, Nik. I'm a mess. I go from fucking movie stars to screwing strangers. But all I'm really doing is screwing myself."
"I don't disagree," I say baldly. "But moving to Dallas doesn't change anything but geography."
"Maybe that'll be enough. Maybe there's too much noise here. Too much temptation."
I want to tell her she's wrong, but I'm not entirely sure that she is. All I know is that I don't want her to move fifteen hundred miles away. But what I want and what Jamie needs are two entirely different things. "Just think about it before you do anything rash," I finally say.
Her eyes meet mine and we both laugh at the irony of my words. "I wouldn't dream of it," she says, and we laugh even harder.
We leave the serious shit behind and spend the rest of the ride cranking up the tunes, singing along with Taylor Swift, and downing mimosas. Because, after all, you can never have too much vitamin C.
"Did you see that we're finally famous?" Jamie asks, about the time we see the skyline of downtown LA.
"What?"
"Or, I am. Damien's been famous forever, and you've been racking up your share of the press, too. But check it out." She rummages in her purse for her phone and then passes it to me. "I took screenshots of all the stuff I found on the Internet. Just check out my photos."
I do. There, mixed in with pictures of an absolutely gorgeous guy, are candid shots of me and Damien and Jamie at the shops at Lake Arrowhead. Eating, talking, laughing. There's even one with Damien's arms around each of our waists. She peers over my shoulder and taps the screen. "That one's all over Twitter," she says. "I'm not sure if it's because Damien's famous or because he's fuckalicious, but it's totally gone viral."
