Lost With Me

by J. Kenner

  “I want to be strong for them. For me.”

  “Sharing your secrets doesn’t make you strong. Living with the pain. Getting past it. That’s strength. And that’s you.” He cups my face. “You planned your speech with good intentions. And you didn’t fail anyone today.”

  “Except myself.”

  He shakes his head. “No. What would have been a mistake is pushing yourself to do something you’re not ready to do.”

  I want to believe him. But…

  I lift a shoulder in a shrug, which is the best I can manage.

  He studies my face. “Do you trust me?”

  My answer is automatic. “You know I do.”

  I see a flicker in his eyes, and I frown, remembering a similar reaction when we were outside the gallery. “You do know that I trust you, right? With my life. My heart. My everything.”

  “You? Of course, I do. I’ve never doubted it.”

  I nod slowly, trying to parse through what he’s not saying. Because trust isn’t a bond he has only with me. Trust is at the heart of the business he’s built. It’s the key to his reputation and the spark that fires his empire. My husband can be ruthless in business, but he doesn’t play games. His word is his bond, and it always has been.

  “Damien, what’s happened?”

  For a moment, he says nothing. Then he shakes his head. “It’s not important. Just something Breckenridge said when we were at The Domino.”

  My eyes widen. “Breckenridge? Well, isn’t he the annoying prick these days?”

  “Never mind,” Damien says. “We should mingle. Then we’re spending the afternoon with two little girls. And after that…”

  He trails off and I raise my brows, intrigued. “After that?”

  His smile is the kind that makes me weak in my knees. “You’ll see.”

  That smile lingers in my mind for the rest of the brunch and on into the late afternoon when Damien and I are back home with our girls.

  “Daddy! Daddy! Do you wanna see our show? Can we show you the show? Please, please, pretty please?”

  “Pretty please!” Anne adds, as if Lara’s plea needs additional help.

  We’re sitting around the table in the third floor dining area, and now Damien leans back in his chair. “Well, I don’t know. Usually shows are reserved only for little girls who eat their vegetables.”

  “Okay!” Anne says, then picks up two green beans and shoves them in her mouth.

  Lara just wrinkles her nose. “Do I gotta?”

  “Have to,” Damien says. “And I think you do. How about you, Mommy? Do you think she has to?”

  “Afraid so, kiddo. I ate mine.” Canned green beans aren’t my favorite either, but they are kid friendly. And there are no more left on my plate.

  Lara makes a show of sticking out her tongue, and Damien and I do a valiant job of keeping a straight face when she complains, “Parents!”

  “Eat!” Anne says to her sister, then jumps out of her chair and does a wobbly pirouette. “Eat! Eat!”

  “Okay, okay.” Lara stabs her fork onto her plate, comes up with three green beans, and shoves them into her mouth. She chews, swallows, and scowls. “Can we go now?”

  “Dishes to the sink,” I say. “Then off to the playroom.”

  “Come on, Anne,” Lara orders, carrying both their plates. “You’re coming?” she asks Damien and me.

  “Right behind you.”

  They scamper to the elevator—Anne’s not allowed on the marble stairs without an adult—and Damien and I quickly load the dishwasher and then follow.

  The show is a delightful mess of little girls bouncing around to a child’s version of Mozart on the makeshift stage that Bree taped off earlier. This goes on for over half an hour, and when it’s over, Damien and I clap wildly, equally pleased that the show is over and delighted by the energy and imagination of our kids.

  After the show, we settle down for a game of Memory, which Lara aces, and which leaves Anne mostly giggling, much to her sister’s consternation.

  When that’s over, Damien announces that it’s bedtime, which draws a string of sleepy protests from both girls. “Oh, no,” he says. “Begging won’t get you extra time, but if you’re good, that might earn you a piggyback ride.”

  Both girls immediately make lip-zipping motions, and Damien hoists Lara, and I haul up Anne, and we all bundle into the elevator for the ride up to the third floor. We tuck them in, read them a story, then kiss both our babies goodnight.

  By the time we slip quietly out of their room, our exhausted little girls are already asleep.

  I pull their door shut, then slide into Damien’s arms. “Bedtime,” I say. “Sounds like a good idea to me.”

  “Always a good idea,” he agrees. “But right now, I have a better one.”

  I bend back, my arms still around his waist. “Do you? What’s that?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, he pulls his phone out of his pocket, then hits a button for speed dial. “We need you tonight” he says. “Unless you already have plans.”

  I frown, my head cocked. “Bree?”

  Instead of answering, he says, “The sooner the better. We’ll be staying the night in the Tower, so if you can handle the morning as well.”

  I release him and take a step back, holding out my hand for the phone. He grins, then complies.

  “It’s me,” I say.

  “You two do keep me on my toes,” Bree says, sounding as amused as I feel.

  “You’re sure it’s okay? You didn’t have a date?”

  “Yeah, I did. With Tom Cruise. I downloaded three Mission Impossible movies. But Tom and I will do just fine together in the big house. Trust me. It’s really not a problem.”

  “And tomorrow morning? Anne has—”

  “Lovely Littles, I know.” It’s a toddler art class that Anne absolutely loves. “I can take Lara, too, but—“

  “She’ll whine. I know. I’ll ask Moira. I bet she can babysit in the morning.”

  “That’ll work,” Bree says. “Have fun.”

  I tilt my head to look at Damien. “I will.”

  “So we’re heading to the Tower Apartment?” I settle into the Lincoln’s passenger seat. “I approve of this plan.” Actually, I approve wholeheartedly. Right now, we need each other. Need to burn away all the bullshit and fear and pain. My self-recrimination. My disappointment in myself.

  I always need him. But right now, I need the passion that proves the words. I need him to make me feel strong again.

  And Damien … I don’t know what’s happened, but I do know that he needs to see my trust. To touch it as he touches me.

  “Later,” he says, surprising me. “We’re going somewhere else first.”

  I shift in my seat, confused, but he’s looking straight ahead, and I can’t make anything from his expression. For the first time, however, I consider the car that we’re in. Not the Tesla or the Bugatti or one of his Ferraris. Not a showy car that stands out. A plain, black Lincoln Town Car, just like hundreds—maybe thousands—of sedans in this city.

  I sit back, considering. But I honestly have no clue.

  We drive in silence for a while, but when he turns onto the 10, I can’t hold back any longer. “Okay, I give up. Where are we going?”

  “I talked to Ryan the other day,” he says conversationally, as butterflies start to flutter in my belly. “He mentioned that Jamie had sung the praises of Masque to you.”

  “Oh.” The butterflies morph into something harder. Heavier. Something that makes my thighs quiver and my breasts feel heavy. “Oh,” I repeat.

  Damien glances sideways and his gaze skims over me. Then he turns his attention back to the road, saying nothing.

  I lick my lips. “You know about Masque?”

  His smile is slow. “I know about Masque.”

  “Uh-huh.” I cross my arms, then make a show of looking him up and down. “I assume you know about a club like that from your wild days. You know, the days before you met me.”r />
  “I’m glad you explained. I thought my wild days were the ones with you.”

  I press my lips together until I’m sure I won’t laugh. “I’m talking about your lonely, wicked single days.”

  “Ah, those days. Actually, Masque hasn’t been around that long.”

  I cock my head. “Don’t even tease me. I know you’re not sneaking off to sex clubs without me.”

  “It’s Matthew’s club,” he says. “Of course, that isn’t common knowledge.”

  “Matthew? Matthew Holt?” Our friend Matthew is a triple threat in this town, into movies, television, and music, with shelves and shelves of shiny awards for each. The man has serious pull. Apparently, he has secrets, too.

  “He offered me an ownership interest a few years ago.”

  “Wait. You own part of a sex club?”

  “California is community property, my love. If I own it, you own it.”

  “We own a sex club?”

  “We don’t, actually. I turned him down.” We’re at a light, just about to turn onto Beverly Glen and head up into the hills. For the first time, he looks straight at me, the heat in his voice matching the heat in his eyes. “I thought tonight we’d go see what we’ve missed out on.”

  “Oh.”

  “Unless you’d rather not…”

  “I, um, I’m just surprised,” I admit.

  “But not uninterested?”

  It’s a loaded question, and I bite my lower lip, strangely shy. “Are you interested?” I ask, which is a stupid question considering he picked the destination.

  He reaches over and takes my hand. “Yes.”

  I swallow, remembering the way I felt in the gallery when he touched me in such a public place. The tinge of jealousy when Jamie had described her adventure.

  But all of that is simply prurient. A sexual rush. A physical craving.

  There’s more. A deeper need. Trust.

  “Nikki?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “Yes, what?”

  My cheeks burn as I whisper, “I’m interested.”

  He turns onto a quiet street, then reaches in front of me and opens the large glove box. He takes out a pair of three-quarter face masks, then hands one to me.

  “You came prepared.”

  “They’re the tickets for admission. I didn’t know if we’d ever use them, but Matthew gave them to me when I sold him the house.”

  I blink. “You sold him the house? The house where we’re going? Where Masque is located?”

  He turns into a circular driveway in front of a stunning classical-style mansion that looks like it should be on a plantation in Georgia and not in Beverly Hills. “This house, actually.”

  “This used to be yours?”

  “It was a rental. Matthew made an offer I didn’t want to refuse.”

  A valet approaches the driver’s side, and Damien holds up a finger for the man to wait. “Are you sure? You can still say no.”

  I wipe my palms on my skirt and wonder if Damien can hear the echo of my heart. But that’s just nerves. Underneath, I want this adventure. I want it with Damien.

  “Not a chance,” I say. “We’re going inside.”

  16

  Damien and I put on our masks before leaving the car. They’re made of black cloth, both decorated with gold dust and gemstones. Faux, I assume. But then again, under the circumstances, who knows.

  I check my reflection in the visor mirror. The mask covers my face almost completely, leaving only my lips free. My eyes, too, but my brows are covered, and I doubt anyone would recognize me like this. The thought relaxes me somewhat.

  Then I look at Damien. At those famous, dual-colored eyes. And in that moment, I realize that he’s not anonymous at all. For that matter, how could I have ever imagined that he could be? Damien is larger than life, and the thought that something as simple as a mask could erase him is absurd.

  And if Damien isn’t anonymous, then I’m not either. Because it’s no secret that I’m the only woman who would ever be on his arm.

  “Something wrong? The valets won’t say a word,” he continues, apparently thinking that’s my concern. “Matthew assures me that they’re paid extremely well for their discretion. Though some people don’t even trust that. It’s common to arrive already masked. But to be honest, that didn’t even occur to me.”

  “I don’t think it matters,” I say. “Damien—”

  “Do you want to leave?”

  I don’t know if it truly hasn’t occurred to him, if this is a test for me, or if he actually wants to be recognized. But then I realize that it doesn’t matter. Because I don’t want to leave. And, honestly, the idea that everyone inside those doors will be unknown to each other is a fantasy. The point isn’t actual anonymity. It’s the idea of it. The freedom and the rush that comes with the concept of Masque. Not from the reality.

  “Nikki?” I hear the concern in Damien’s voice.

  “What? Oh, no.” I look at him. At the strong jaw extending from beneath the mask, as if he’s a superhero. “No,” I repeat. “I don’t want to leave.”

  I know him well enough to read his expression even with a mask, and I’m certain that it’s relief I see. He raps his knuckles on the driver’s side window, and the valet magically reappears. Two, actually, as there’s a man in livery at my side as well.

  He opens my door, then helps me out. Damien picked out my outfit for the evening, and I emerge carefully, making sure that the black skirt’s thigh-high slit doesn’t reveal too much. Then I bend my head, hiding an ironic smile. If the night goes as I expect, I’ll probably be revealing a lot more than too much thigh.

  Damien circles the Lincoln, and I watch him move, theoretically anonymous in his mask and slate-gray suit. But he’s not. Even without those eyes, how could anyone not know this was Damien simply from the way he carries himself, cool and confident, as if there’s nowhere he doesn’t belong, and no room he doesn’t control.

  “Milady,” he says, grinning as he extends his arm for me. I take it, and we go to the entrance. Two more servants in livery and eye masks pull open the double doors. We step over the threshold and into a spacious entrance hall. Classical music plays from hidden speakers. The lighting is dim. Waiters move among the crowd holding trays of finger foods and glasses of wine and champagne. There are several bars set up for hard liquor, and I nod that direction, thinking that right now a whiskey is just the thing.

  Because in addition to all the opulent normalcy, it’s clear this isn’t a normal party. The guests are masked, which is no surprise. For that matter, the sexual nature of the party shouldn’t have surprised me either. But even so, I can’t help but gawk at what I see. A nearby couple on a divan, the woman fully naked except for her mask, the man’s face between her thighs as her fingers twined in his hair.

  The two topless women near the back of the room, one leaning against a pillar as they lose themselves in a wild, deep kiss.

  I see a threesome walking hand in hand up the stairs. And on the other side of the room a single man in a tux walks up to a fondling couple, taps the man on the shoulder, then gestures to the woman. The first man leaves, and the new arrival steps up, boldly sliding his hand up the woman’s leg under her skirt.

  “Did you see that?” I whisper to Damien, who nods and hands me a whiskey before tossing his own back and ordering a second.

  I feel a bit as if we’ve gone down the rabbit hole and Wonderland turned out to be pornographic. But I’ve watched my share of porn, and most of it is raw and raunchy. This place has a beauty to it. An odd sort of class. An elegance.

  I remember what Jamie said about it being formal, and she’s absolutely right.

  And while I’m a bit shocked by what I see, I can’t deny that I’m also turned on.

  Beside me, Damien takes my hand. “Well?” There’s heat in his voice, but I hear the question loud and clear. Do I still want to stay?

  I hand my empty drink to a passing waiter, then step closer to my
husband. Boldly, I reach out, pressing the palm of my hand against his crotch. He’s hard, and I keep my hand in place as I step closer, now hearing his tight, controlled breaths. “Yes,” I say. “I want to stay.” I meet his eyes. “So do you.”

  He inclines his head, just a hint of motion, but in clear acknowledgment.

  “Turn around,” he demands, and when I do, he slides his hand into my shirt. It’s a backless silk tank, held in place only by a single tie at my neck and another at my waist. I’m not wearing a bra, and my nipples are hard against the material. Or they were. Now their hidden behind Damien’s hands as he plays with my breasts while we both watch the crowd.

  “Tell me why you like this,” he demands.

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because there’s something exciting in seeing someone else’s arousal. In knowing that you’re not alone in feeling such a deep desire. But it’s more than that,” he continues. “It’s wanting to claim what’s yours.” His fingers tighten on my nipples as he speaks. “In showing the world what—who—you have. And who has you. What you value. What you’re willing to claim.”

  I nod, his words almost a background noise for the pleasure that’s stealing through me, so much more vibrant because of where we are.

  He keeps one hand on my breast, but the other slides up the slit in my skirt. It’s too clingy, and so I’m commando tonight, and I bite my lower lip when his fingers find my slick inner thighs and seriously wet core. “You do like it,” he murmurs.

  “Yes,” I admit.

  He pulls me closer, so that I can feel his erection against my ass. “Me, too,” he says, sliding his fingers in and out of me in a wildly sensual rhythm that is setting my blood on fire.

  His fingers are inside me like that, his other hand cupping my breast, when another couple walks over. The woman runs her tongue over her lips as she looks at Damien. “I like the way you touch her,” she says, even as the man says, “Shall we swap?”

  I tense, a tremor running through me as my body clenches around Damien’s fingers. I hold my breath, certain that he’ll say no, but nervous nonetheless.