Complete Me

by J. Kenner

  "My universe today extends only to the two of us."

  At first, I think he's being romantic. Then I see the hard lines of his face. I push the box aside and perch on the edge of my desk. "You've learned something. Is it good or bad?"

  "A bit of both, actually."

  "All right. Tell me the good first."

  "The court ruled against the motion to unseal the photos."

  "Damien," I say. "That's huge."

  "It is," he agrees. "But the press isn't stupid. The odds are they'll try the back door route and do the same thing I'm doing--try to figure out who sent the evidence in the first place."

  "Have you learned anything new?"

  He hesitates, then nods. "About the photos, no. About our leak regarding your portrait, yes. Turns out the ATM camera was very effective."

  "Seriously? That's wonderful. Who is it?"

  "I still need confirmation," he says. "Let me see where it goes, and then I'll lay the whole thing out for you."

  "Okay," I say, though I'm disappointed he won't tell me right then, even if he is still investigating. I consider pressing the point, but decide not to. I don't think that his closed-mouthedness stems from the desire to keep secrets but simply from Damien's innate need to keep control. Of his business. Of information. And, I think, glancing at the doghouse-shaped box, of me.

  The intercom buzzes. "Ms. Fairchild, you have another delivery. May I send them back?"

  "Sure." I glance at Damien, but he holds up his hands. "This one's not from me. I swear."

  I don't believe him, of course. At least not until I take the envelope from the courier and see his Damien's face. "Let me open it," he says sternly.

  My chest goes cold. The negligible weight of the plain manila envelope turns heavy in my hand. "You don't think . . . "

  "I don't know." He reaches for it. "But I'm going to find out."

  I pass him the envelope, irritated with myself for not having the guts to rip it open, and at the same time desperately grateful that he's there beside me. He holds the envelope in a handkerchief, then uses a small pocketknife from his keychain to open it. He pushes the envelope at opposite corners so that the slit gapes open, then starts to peer inside.

  "No," I say firmly. "I want to see when you do."

  His expression is tight, and I expect him to say no. But then he nods. I move to stand beside him, and then he upturns the envelope over the desk, spilling the contents onto the polished surface.

  Six photographs. Me in kindergarten. Me in a tiara at my very first pageant, my hair in ringlets. Me, me, me, me.

  In every photograph, my face has been crossed out with a red pen pushed so hard into the photographic paper that the emulsion has been scraped off, leaving a series of ragged red x's where my face should be. There is one piece of paper mixed in with the photos. Block letters cut like a cliche from newspapers and pasted on the sheet: YOU DON'T EVEN EXIST

  I stare at it all, surprised that the room is silent. Surprised that I'm not screaming, because this is so very wrong. But the world is as silent as death. Hell, the world looks like death. No noise. No color. No light.

  It's all gray. Even those red x's have faded to gray. And the gray room is actually shifting to black. A cloudy, inky black that surrounds me, blanketing me, drawing me down, down, down . . .

  Nikki!

  Nikki!

  I feel a sharp sting across my cheek. "Nikki!"

  "Damien." It's my voice, but it sounds horribly far away. I lift my hand and touch my cheek.

  "Sorry," he says, though he sounds more worried than sorry. "You fainted."

  "I--what?" I sit up, groggy, and realize that somehow I've ended up on the love seat. I focus on Damien. "Fainted?"

  I haven't fainted in years. Not since I was accidentally locked in a storage closet during college. Dark enclosed spaces have always freaked me out, and I'd passed out. But never have I simply slipped into a faint like this.

  "You had reason," Damien says, correctly reading my face.

  Those photos. My photos.

  I shiver. Whoever did this is in my life. This isn't just nasty texts. This is flat-out targeting me. And if I don't exist, then what the hell does that say about their endgame?

  I draw in breath and try to calm the machine-gun beat of my heart. I sit up straight, my hands on my thighs. My skirt is hitched up a bit, and I clutch tight to the bare skin above my knees, digging my nails in tighter and tighter, using the pain to help pull me out of this fog.

  I breathe deep. "My mother," I say. "Whoever is doing this got these from my mother."

  Beside me, Damien gently plucks one hand off my thigh and holds it tight. Guiltily, I relax my other hand.

  "Your mother?" he says. "What are you talking about?"

  I relay Jamie's conversation with my mother.

  "This is good," Damien says, releasing me long enough to type out a text on his phone. "It's solid information," he adds, since I must look confused. "A definitive connection. I'm going to have Ryan speak with your mother. I think he'll have better luck getting her to cooperate than I will."

  I nod, then arch my neck as I look toward the desk. There is nothing there. "Where--"

  "I put it away." His voice is as gentle as the hand that eases my fingers once again off my thigh. I jump a bit; I hadn't realized I'd started again, but I can see the small red crescents where my nails cut into my skin.

  "I--" I look away. I'm too transparent, my wounds far too visible. I desperately wish that I didn't need the pain, but I do. I do exist, goddammit, and if I'm going to have any chance of pulling back to myself, I need it desperately.

  "Tell me," he says softly. "Tell me what you need."

  I look down at the fading crescents. "You know," I say, my voice low.

  "I do, baby." He slides off the love seat to kneel on the floor. His hands are on my knees and he gently spreads my legs. "You want me to touch you." His voice is as gentle as the pressure of his thumb upon my inner thigh. "You want me to fuck you. You want to feel the sting of my hand against your ass or the burn of a rope around your wrist."

  His words mesmerize me. They slide over me like warm water, seductive yet dangerous. So deep I could drown in them.

  "You want to draw in the pain--to turn it around inside you." His hands slide roughly over my thighs, pushing the skirt up around my hips to expose the white lace triangle over my sex.

  My breath comes faster now and I am hyperaware of my body. Of the way the nubby upholstery presses into my thighs. Of the heat coursing through me, running in vibrant currents from Damien's hand to my cunt, to my breasts, to my nipples. I arch my back and slide forward a bit with my hips. I want to feel his hands upon me. Hell, I just want to feel. I want the explosion, and yet at the same time, I want this. His touch. His words. His slow build to passion and that sharp sting of pain mingled with pleasure that I know is coming.

  He grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head in one swift, violent motion. I hear myself moan and feel my breasts tighten with need as the muscles of my sex clench with longing. Damien tosses the shirt aside and grabs my hip with one hand, shoving the skirt up around my waist. With the other hand, he fingers me over the lace panties, rubbing and teasing me through the delicate material as I spread my legs wider in shameless, wanton greed.

  I want it hard and fast. I want to latch on to the pain--to use it as a rope to find my way back. I want it--and I am certain that Damien understands it.

  His fingers glide over bare skin on either side of the thong, so close to my sex and my clit--but without actually touching--that my frustration is almost as keen as the pain he knows I am craving. He slides the hand on my hip up to my breast, then pinches my nipple through my bra as he yanks the thong to one side and slides three fingers deep inside me.

  My breath comes in shudders and I squirm against him. I'm no longer sure what I need anymore except him. And now. Oh, please, now.

  "You want the pain because it's what gives you the power to beat
it--to haul yourself back and say fuck you to the world. It's a gift, Nikki--that red-hot sting. And I will be the one to give it to you."

  He tugs his fingers out of me, then flips me over as if I weigh nothing and carries me toward my desk. He puts me on my feet in front of it and orders me to bend over. I do, the bulk of my skirt between my hips and the edge of the desktop providing some padding.

  He stands off to one side, and as I watch, he tugs his belt free. I bite my lower lip, imagining the feel of leather against my rear. I wanted his hand, but this--oh, yes, I can imagine it. The shock, the sting. The building sensation as I close my eyes and grab hold letting the pain focus at my core.

  "Is this what you want?" he asks, and from his tone I realize he had not intended that. But Damien is nothing if not adaptable, and I see the tip of his head and the rise of his brow. Then the slow smile when he nods. He moves behind me, one hand stroking circles on my bare back. "You'll have my hand, too, because I can't bear not to touch you. But if this is what you need--"

  He punctuates the word with a lash to my ass and I cry out from surprise and pleasure. The sting is exquisite, and I bite my lower lip, then moan in delight as he rubs his palm over the tender flesh. There is another sting, then another, and with each I feel myself getting wetter. I imagine my rear turning red, and Damien's large hand cupping me tenderly, stroking away any lingering pain that I have not claimed and drawn inside.

  "Is that what you needed?" he says after four strokes. He is behind me, his trousers and briefs gone. His palms are on my rear, and his cock is hard between my legs, the length of it stroking me and teasing my clit. "Do you need more? Tell me, Nikki. I want to hear what you need." His voice is raw with excitement, and I know that he needs this as much as I do. And that knowledge turns me on even more.

  "You," I say, lifting my ass and spreading my legs wider. I grip the sides of the desk and sigh from the sweet sensation of my breasts hard against the desktop. "Inside me now. Like this. Right here on my desk. And hard. Please, Damien, fuck me hard."

  "Oh, baby." He thrusts inside me, using his hands on my hips to piston us together as he pounds and pounds, using me, taking me. I feel the stirrings of my climax inside me, and squeeze my eyes shut, wanting to draw it out. He is so thick, and he's going so deep, and all I want is for this to last. The sensation of him filling me. Of every thrust causing the bunched up material to rub against my clit. I am lost in a sensual web, and it isn't until I feel the tremors run through Damien and know that he is close, that I start to let myself go so that--oh, God, yes--I can explode when he does, my body squeezing tight around him, drawing every last bit of pleasure out of him.

  And then, sated and breathing deep, I sink my head down onto the desk with a moan of deep satisfaction.

  He molds his body over mine, and I do not know how long we stay like that. Then he scoops me up and carries me back to the love seat, curling me up on his lap and covering me with his suit jacket.

  I snuggle close, then lift my head to look at him. I cleave now to Damien instead of the pain, and the beautiful, wondrous thing is that he understands. Hell, he understands better than I do.

  A single tear escapes and he brushes it away with his thumb, his eyes like a question mark.

  "I need you, Damien--God, I need you in ways that you understand better than I do. But I feel so selfish. So--"

  He lifts a brow, but his smile is gentle. "Are you under the impression that I don't need you, Nikki?"

  "I--no. But I--" I stop, confused. Because the truth is, that has been my fear, but now that he has spoken it aloud, I feel foolish. I think of the way he claimed me the night he lost himself in a flurry of tennis balls. And all the times that he has bound me, controlled me, as a counterpoint to a world spinning away from him. We soothe each other, and I know that. I see that. And yet I still cannot quell the fear that while Damien wants me desperately, he doesn't need me the way I need him. That he doesn't love me as desperately as I love him.

  He runs his fingers through my hair. "Do you remember what I told you in Munich? About not wanting to touch you with those images in my head."

  Remember? How could I forget? But all I say is, "Of course."

  "I wasn't entirely accurate."

  "Oh." Since I don't know what else to say, I simply wait.

  "Pictures or not--those memories are always there. I can't shake them. I've never shaken them. But you make them tolerable." He is looking hard at me now, the emotion so raw it seems to cut right through me. "You're what gives me strength. If I am what centers you, Nikki, then you are what anchors me. Every time I touch you, every time I bury myself deep inside you--Nikki, don't you see? You are the talisman of my life, and if I lose my grip on you, then I have lost myself."

  "Damien," I say, because I need to hear his name. His words swell inside me, as if they will make me burst at the seams. But I hold tight to them, for they are too precious to lose.

  But though I believe his words, I cannot help but realize that however much he might think I anchor him, when the abyss loomed in Germany, I had no power to pull him back.

  The thought makes me shudder, and I cling to him harder.

  Because those photos are still out in the world. And they have the power to destroy the man that I love.

  Chapter Twenty

  By Tuesday morning, I once again feel like I have a grip on my life.

  Damien and I did not stay at my office on Monday. He held me, fucked me, helped make me whole again. But that was not a place I wanted to be, and he took me to the Tower apartment, his penthouse at the top of Stark Tower. During the drive, he called Ryan, instructing him to go out to the Malibu house to check on both the security there and on Jamie.

  In the penthouse, he settled me in a bath with a glass of wine. He pampered me with wine and cheese in bed. He coddled me with old movies, and he made love to me so sweetly my body sang, and when morning came I was willing to give the world another chance.

  I am also acutely aware of reality, and that is why I am being driven to work by Edward, who I have learned is not only Damien's driver, but part of the security team. And he has assured Damien that he will walk me into the office himself.

  Which is why he balks when I tell him I want to stop first at Starbucks.

  "Ms. Fairchild, this one doesn't have a drive-through."

  "Just park in front. I won't be five minutes."

  The privacy screen is down, and I can see his scowl when he looks at me in the rearview mirror.

  I tilt my head and scowl back at him. "Do you really think someone is lying in wait in the coffee shop for me?"

  "I think that anyone willing to call your mother for photographs is willing to study you, learn your habits, and be very, very patient."

  Since I can't argue with that, I invite him to come in with me, sweetening the pot by offering to buy his coffee.

  We're standing in line, chatting about The Fountainhead--the audiobook he's currently engrossed in--when the door opens and Monica comes in. She waves and hurries over. "I was hoping I'd see you today. I wanted to tell you to ignore them. They're just money-grubbing pricks."

  I glance at Edward. I have no idea what she's talking about. From the expression on Edward's face, though, I think that he does.

  "What?" I say, first to Monica and then to Edward.

  "You haven't seen? It was on one of those gossip sites this morning," Monica says. "It's probably been tweeted all over creation."

  "What has?" I repeat, speaking slowly and clearly.

  Edward reaches into his messenger bag and pulls out an iPad. He taps it a few times, then hands it to me. "Mr. Stark thought it would be better not to bother you with this today."

  "Oh, really?" I glance at the screen and my stomach curls. Yeah, I think. I could have lived without this.

  The article is topped by a picture of Jamie in a teeny-tiny bikini walking on the beach. That picture features an inset of Damien's Malibu house, along with helpful text to inform the average rea
der that Jamie is in Malibu, strutting her stuff at the home of billionaire Damien Stark.

  HAS STARK BEEN NICKED FROM NIKKI?

  According to sources in the know, billionaire Damien Stark--who some believe recently bought his way out of a murder conviction--has cooled his red hot romance with pageant pretty Nikki Fairchild in favor of Nikki's roommate, Jamie Archer, an up-and-coming actress more recently seen on the arm (and who knows what else) of heartthrob Bryan Raine. According to sources in the Inland Empire, Archer was recently hospitalized following an accident which landed Archer in the ER and one of Stark's prize Ferrari's in the junkyard. And yet she's still residing at Chez Stark? What do you think, kiddies? Surely it must be love.

  But has Stark really ditched the Fair Child? Or is the king of excess looking for excess in his women, as well? According to insiders, Archer and Fairchild have been on-again-off-again lovers for years. True? We don't know, but photographs circling on Twitter show the threesome looking all too cozy recently in Lake Arrowhead where Stark keeps a mountaintop love nest.

  "That," I say as I pass the iPad back to Edward, "is a load of crap. But Jamie's going to be pleased. They said she was up-and-coming, after all."

  "So you're not pissed?" Monica asks.

  I shake my head. "Irritated. I'm sick to death of my personal life being twisted around in the press. But the story itself? It's such bullshit it's funny."

  "Well, I'm totally relieved," Monica says. "I mean, I figured it was all crap, but it got to me anyway. I had a bad breakup," she adds.

  "I'm sorry."

  "We were hot and heavy for a long time, and then he decided he was in love with someone else. Men," she adds, glancing at Edward with a tight little smile.

  "That must have hurt." I try to imagine Damien tossing me aside for somebody else, but the image just won't play in my brain.

  "Oh yeah," she says. "It was like someone took a knife and sliced my heart to bits. But I'm okay," she says with a sigh. "What we had was really special. And that girl? She's just a fling. Temporary. He's going to come back to me. I know it."

  I want to tell her to move on. Instead, I just smile and say, "I really hope you're right."

  I treat Edward to a latte, and he walks me to the office. "I'll bring the limo around as soon as we have you inside," he says, then goes with me into the building and past reception. Once I'm settled in, he disappears, presumably to park the limo in the lot and listen to his audiobook until I'm ready to go.