Lost With Me

by J. Kenner

  I’m about to wrap up the call, when she clears her throat and says, “Actually, there is just one last thing.”

  Something in her voice makes me cringe, and I hesitate before saying, “Okay,” in that long, drawn-out way that suggests bad news is just around the corner.

  “No, no,” she says hurriedly. “It’s no big deal. I just wanted to let you know we got a new resume in today for the programmer position. Brian Crane. You used to work with him, right?”

  I make a face, and I’m immediately glad she can’t see it. Brian worked with me at C-Squared, and my distaste for that company stems from the fact that the company’s owner, Carl Rosenfeld, was a total prick. It’s only by proximity to him that my co-workers were sullied. Brian was a solid programmer back then, and I can only assume he’s gotten better. “Forward it to me, and I’ll take a look. If nothing else, I’m curious what he’s been up to.”

  She assures she will, then hangs up, and I draw a long, slow breath. Brian Crane. The man holds no particular interest to me, but Carl raises all sorts of emotions, with vile dislike being right there at the top of the pile.

  But maybe I’m being unfair to him. After all, if it weren’t for Carl, Damien and I might never have gotten together.

  My phone rings, and I tap the earpiece. “What did you forget?” I ask, certain that it’s Abby.

  But it’s not Abby. It’s Damien.

  “Forget?” His voice, strong and sensual, fires my blood, making my body tingle with at least as much awareness as if he were standing right beside me, his dark eyes skimming over me, taking my body to full awareness. I realize I’m standing, as if the force of his voice lifted me to my feet. “I don’t think I’ve ever forgotten a single thing about you.”

  “That’s good to know, Mr. Stark.” My voice sounds husky, laden with desire. And as the cool ocean breeze teases my now-heated skin, my nipples contract into tight beads inside the bikini top.

  Even after so many years together—even after two children and sleepless nights and toddler tantrums—it only takes a word from Damien to melt me. Sometimes I wonder if the desire that boils between us will ever calm to a simmer, but I don’t really believe that could happen.

  “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

  I close my eyes, imagining him standing in front of me, tall and lean and commanding. “I was just thinking about you,” I admit. “You ought to know I’m always thinking about you.”

  “Then that’s another thing we have in common, Ms. Fairchild.”

  “That’s Mrs. Stark, thank you very much.” I’m confident he can hear the smile in my voice.

  “Yes, it is,” he agrees. “And I like the sound of it very much. What exactly were you thinking?”

  “About that first night at Evelyn’s house. And how even though Carl is a vile little worm, if I hadn’t been working for him that night, we might never have gotten together.”

  “We would have,” he says, his tone leaving no room for argument. “As soon as I learned that you were in LA, I would have sought you out. Count on it, Mrs. Stark. We’re part of each other, Nikki. We’re inevitable, you and I. And Carl Rosenfeld was merely an extra on the stage of our life together.”

  I hear the truth in his words and sigh happily. He’s right, of course. Somehow, we would have found each other. “What were you thinking about?” I ask.

  “That it’s been over sixty hours since I’ve seen you, and by the time I get home tonight, we’ll be pushing dangerously close to seventy.”

  “That’s far too long,” I agree. Damien left for Chicago early Tuesday morning. It’s now Friday. And although he flew back to LA this morning, he went straight to the office.

  “Fortunately, I have a very active, very visceral imagination.”

  “Do you?” My mouth has gone dry in response to the heat in his voice. “What were you imagining?”

  “My wife, naked and panting and desperate in our bed. The way my cock hardens as I watch her lips part and her back arch when she’s about to explode. The way she grinds against my face as I eat out that beautiful cunt.”

  “My God, Damien.” My voice is so heavy with need I almost can’t push the words out, and I squeeze my legs together in a futile attempt to quell the desire pulsing between my thighs.

  “I want you waiting for me. Not at the house, though. I want you to myself.”

  I nod wordlessly, which is ridiculous since he can’t see me.

  “I’ll come to you at the bungalow,” he says. “I want you naked, your body bent over the railing as I fuck you from behind, my hands on your breasts and my face lost in the silk of your hair. I want to feel you tremble beneath me, your skin on fire. I want to draw it out, to take you close but never over. Not until the moment when the sun finally slips below the horizon, and as that last glow of orange and purple explodes in the sky, I’ll make you explode in my arms.”

  My legs have turned to jelly, and I lower myself back into the deck chair. “Christ, Damien. I think I just did.”

  I’m rewarded by his soft chuckle. “Three days is too damn long. I’m claiming you, Nikki. Marking my territory. Tonight, I’m taking what’s mine.”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “Thank God, yes.”

  “And after we can both breathe again, I want to walk hand-in-hand with you to the house so that we can go see our girls.”

  “They’ve missed you,” I say, happiness wrapping around me like a warm, safe blanket.

  “I’ve missed them, too.” He makes a raw noise in his throat. “I used to enjoy traveling. Now it’s like cutting off a limb every time I go away.”

  “For us, too,” I say. “Of course, I make do.” I add a lilt to my voice. “Like last night, for example. I wasn’t alone in our bed.”

  “Is that so? Did someone negotiate her way into my side of the bed?”

  “Just like her Daddy,” I say. “That one’s going to broker big business deals.” Our oldest, Lara, will turn four in a couple of weeks, and already she’s a prime manipulator. “She said she wanted to keep me company so that I wouldn’t be sad that Daddy was away. How could I say no?”

  “You’d be stronger than me if you’d managed. I wouldn’t have been able to deny her either.” For a moment, he’s quiet, the silence weighing heavy. “I missed all my girls this weekend.”

  “We missed you, too. Desperately. Do you have to go back next week?” I try to keep my voice neutral, but I fear I already know the answer, and it’s not one I like. He’d come back to LA because of a series of meetings that couldn’t easily be moved. But if the Chicago crisis hasn’t been resolved, I have a feeling I’ll be kissing Damien goodbye at the Santa Monica Airport come Monday morning.

  “That’s one of the reasons I’m calling, actually. To give you fair warning that I’ll want my side of the bed back next week. I’m afraid your bedtime companion may be disappointed.”

  “That Daddy’s home? Not a chance.” I feel a thousand pounds lighter knowing he won’t be leaving again, and it’s only when I realize that my wide smile actually hurts my cheeks that I fully acknowledge how much I was dreading Damien leaving again come Monday.

  “What are you doing now?” he asks.

  “Other than talking to my husband? I wrapped up a phone meeting with Abby right before you called. At the moment, I’m just enjoying my view.”

  “What a coincidence,” he says. “So am I.”

  I picture him standing in front of the floor to ceiling windows that make up one wall of his penthouse office at Stark Tower. His body long and lean, his midnight black hair gleaming in the morning light. A modern gladiator in a tailored suit surveying his domain.

  “You’re so damn beautiful,” he says, and it takes a minute for my mind to shift gears. He’s not looking out his window. He’s looking at me.

  I turn, putting my back to the ocean so that I can see inside the bungalow. But he’s not there, and when I frown in consternation, his low chuckle ripples over me.

  The security cameras.


  Deliberately, I turn so that I’m facing the one mounted at the corner of the roof. I tilt my head and rest my hand on my hip. “Aren’t you supposed to be running an empire?”

  “It’s on today’s agenda. Right now, I’m getting in the mood for some world domination.”

  He stresses the last word, and I stare boldly into the camera. “In that case, Mr. Stark, I look forward to seeing you this evening. Although…”

  “Although?”

  I smile innocently. “I’d planned to take a quick walk on the beach before I meet Jamie for lunch. Get a little sun, a bit of relaxation. You know…”

  “Sounds like an excellent way to unwind.”

  “It does,” I agree, then turn so that he’s looking at my back, “But I’m not sure that’s the kind of unwinding I need anymore.”

  As I speak, I unbutton the loose blouse that I’m wearing, then let it fall to the deck, revealing my bikini top.

  “Nikki…”

  “You shifted my mood, Damien. Wound me up even tighter. Got me craving a different kind of heat.” I reach back and unfasten the clasp that hits between my shoulder blades, then I use one hand to hold up my shoulder-length blond hair while the other tugs on one of the ties at the base of my neck. The bow comes loose, and I release the string, letting the bikini top flutter over the rail to the sand.

  “Better,” I say, as Damien simply breathes. “But not good enough.” I’d intended to walk in the surf later, and I dressed accordingly. Now I untie the knot at my hip and let the scarf drop to the wooden deck.

  “Nikki.” His voice is rough. Tight.

  “Hmm?” In contrast, I’m all innocence as I wriggle out of my bikini bottoms, then step daintily out of the puddle of material that has collected at my feet. Now I face the ocean, completely nude, my back to the camera, the open sea in front of me. Not to mention yards of thankfully empty beach. That’s one of the benefits of this location. Lots and lots of privacy. “Isn’t this how you wanted me?”

  “Christ, Nikki. I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  I force myself not to smile as I turn to face the camera. “Slacks fitting a bit tight?” I ask, my voice full of earnest innocence as I slide my hand slowly down my abdomen until my fingers slip between my thighs. I’ve been thinking of Damien, and so of course I’m wet, and I can’t help the little gasp of pleasure that escapes my parted lips.

  I close my eyes and dance my fingers over my slick core as I lift the forefinger of my other hand to my mouth. I suck gently, then skim my fingertip over my nipple. I’m already wildly aroused from the knowledge of what this show must be doing to Damien, but the sensation of the ocean breeze against my dampened areola sends shivers of pleasure coursing through me.

  “I missed you,” I say. “And even though you’re back, you’re still too far away.”

  “I can be home in forty minutes. Less if I take the helicopter.”

  I laugh. “Tempting,” I say. “But I need to put some clothes on, then hit the road. Jamie’s expecting me.”

  “How unfortunate,” he says. “I suppose I’ll have to wait.”

  “Anticipation, Mr. Stark.”

  “Tonight, baby.” The words are rough. Raw.

  “Every night,” I counter.

  “Yes.” He draws in a breath. “I’ll be home by six. Until then, imagine me, touching you.”

  I close my eyes and nod as he clicks off.

  I always do.

  2

  I hum to myself as I stroll the path that leads from the bungalow back to the main house. It’s almost eleven, so I’m going to have to change and put on makeup in a hurry if I have any chance of making it to my interview on time. But I can’t head out until I see the girls. So instead of taking the outdoor stairs all the way up to our third-floor bedroom, I enter the house on the first floor from the pool deck.

  I circle around the floating marble staircase that is the focal point of our home’s entrance hall, then make my way to the second of the three guest suites located on this floor. Damien and I have already talked about letting both girls move into their own suite when they hit their teenage years. By that time, I figure we’ll appreciate having a little space between us and our teens.

  Right now, though, the kids are coming on two and four respectively, and we’re content to have them share the bedroom located behind our master on the third floor. Originally intended as the smallest of our home’s four guest suites—five, if you count the actual guest house located beyond the tennis courts—it shares a wall with the master closet and is plenty big enough to house two little girls. Even little girls as rambunctious as ours.

  In a nod toward keeping their room tidy—and because Damien has a habit of buying them sizable gifts—we decided to dedicate one of the first floor suites as a playroom, which better holds the walk-on keyboard, tumbling mat, and five foot tall plush elephant that Damien swears he couldn’t resist.

  I’ve repeatedly told him he’s going to spoil the girls rotten, but he doesn’t seem too concerned. They’re his little princesses and spoiling them is a daddy’s job. Or so he tells me.

  I hear them before I see them. Or, I hear Lara, anyway. Her drama-filled voice announcing, “No, no, Anne. I’ll show you.” And Anne’s soft giggles suggesting that she’ll eagerly do whatever her big sister orders.

  Our nanny, Bree, flashes me a quick grin as I step into the room, then turns her attention back to the lunch she’s setting out on the low toddler table. Lara is oblivious to the PB&J sandwiches, apple slices, cookies, and milk. She perches her hands on her hips, then pulls her mouth into a pouting moue as she focuses on her blonde imp of a sister who stands wide-eyed beside a squat plastic table covered with crayons and half-finished drawings.

  “You watch me, okay? Eyes on me,” Lara adds, mimicking one of my mommy-phrases in a tone so like my own that I almost lose it.

  “See?” Her silky black hair is pulled into a pony tail that hits below her shoulder blades, and it bounces as she puts her hands over her head, then turns a wobbly circle on tippy-toes, her feet encased in tiny pink ballet slippers. Just seeing that brings tears to my eyes, because it wasn’t that long ago that she was post-surgery and forbidden to be on her feet at all, much less on tiptoes.

  Lara was born with polydactylism, a condition we were aware of when we found her picture on the website of a Chinese adoption agency and started the process to bring her home. We adopted her at twenty months, and she still had the extra two toes, one on each foot, when we arrived in LA after the long trip back from China. Since the extra toes were large and positioned in such a way to prevent her from wearing shoes, one of our first challenges was the removal surgery.

  We didn’t want her first memories of her new life with us to be shrouded in pain and fear, so we waited a few months before scheduling the procedure even though she was already past the recommended age for removal, as most kids with the anomaly have the extra digit removed before they start to walk.

  We don’t regret waiting, but kids grow fast, and that meant she was older and more active right about the time the doctor insisted she be sedate. Hard enough for an adult, but a nightmare for an active toddler. Things were stressful for a while, what with balancing Lara’s post-op toddler tantrums with Anne’s baby needs.

  Now Lara is fully recovered, Anne is an active toddler, and the exuberant chaos that fills this room never fails to put a smile on my face.

  “Mama!” Anne calls, something else that always tugs at my heart. She’s wearing a fairy princess outfit and now she lifts her hands like Lara and twirls. “I dancing! I dancing!”

  “Good, Anne!” Lara says seriously. “That’s real good.” She turns to me, her smile both wide and smug. “I taught her!”

  “You did great,” I say, squatting down and opening up my arms to embrace my two little angels. “Both of you.”

  “Missed you, Mama!” Anne clutches my leg, almost throwing me off-balance. I compensate by grabbing her around the waist and letting her hang upside
down as I rise.

  “Can we play Memory?” Lara begs. “Please, Mommy.” The card-matching memorization game is her current favorite. “Pretty please.”

  “I can’t right now, precious,” I say, giving her my free hand as I flip Anne down so that her feet hit solid ground. I walk the rest of the way with both girls trotting alongside me. “I wanted to come in and see my girls, but now I have to go do a work thing and then meet Aunt Jamie for lunch.”

  “Jamie!” Anne claps her hands.

  “You’ll see her soon, precious,” I promise. “In the meantime, I bet Miss Bree would play Memory after your lunch. It looks yummy. I’m jealous.” I really am, too. About the chocolate chip cookies, anyway. Since I’ve gotten more serious about working out, I’ve also been eating better. I’ve only dipped into my stash of frozen Milky Ways once this month. And that was when I was missing Damien.

  “Memory?” Bree says absently from where she’s crouched on the floor. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”

  “Bree?”

  With the meal set out, she’d moved on to laying blue painter’s tape on the floor. Now the colorful line forms part of the perimeter of a rectangle that extends out about five feet from the wall, and I can’t help but wonder if this project—whatever it is—is what’s distracting her. Because she definitely seems distracted.

  “Sorry,” she says, her familiar sweetness returning. “Mind wandering. And of course Miss Bree’s happy to provide lunch for all of the Stark women. Or just cookies for the adult Starks,” she adds with a grin for me.

  “Tempting,” I admit. “But no.”

  “Cookies!” Lara says, clapping wildly. Which, of course, encourages Anne to do exactly the same.

  I get them settled at the table with stern instructions to eat the meal before the cookies, and they both dig in as Bree peels herself up off the floor, then shoves a lock of long dark hair out of her eyes. The daughter of a Cherokee mother and a Jewish father, Brianna Bernstein is stunning, with olive skin, sharp cheekbones, and dark eyes that seem to reach back into infinity. Even on a day like today, when she’s smeared with colored chalk and has been crawling around on the floor, she looks put together and on top of things.