by J. Kenner
I press my hand over Damien’s, halting his finger that is still teasing my hem. “He has some master plan, doesn’t he? And I’m right in the middle of it, and once again I just don’t see it.”
Damien’s face is a study in sympathy. “Oh, sweetheart. You don’t know that. For that matter neither do I.”
I lift a brow. “So now you think he’s just a nice guy who wants me to build an app for him? You think he’s so shy and unassuming he didn’t want to talk to me on the island?”
“I think we don’t know what the story is,” Damien says reasonably.
“You’re coddling me—you can’t protect me from everything.”
“Maybe not, but I can damn well try.”
At that, I have to laugh. It lightens my edgy mood, and I know that Damien realizes as much when he takes my hand. “I told you, we’re going to look into him. In the meantime, all I want is for you not to worry. At least not until we know there’s something to worry about.”
“But there is. We can worry about why he said nothing about watching me.”
Damien holds my gaze, his expression stern. “Until we know what he wants and if he’s dangerous, you let me do the worrying. Okay?”
I sigh. “It’s not a question of let, Damien. My mind is conjuring all sorts of scenarios.”
“Fair enough,” he says as he loosens the knot on his tie. “Until we know, will you let me take your mind off it?”
“I—well, yeah. Sure.” I’m actually confused, but when he slides off the seat and moves to kneel between my legs, I know I shouldn’t be.
“Hands up,” he orders, and when I comply he loops the neck portion of his tie around my wrists and then closes it like a slipknot, binding my wrists together. Then he ties the loose end against one of the handholds above us, effectively rendering my hands useless and making me sit up straight.
I lift a brow. “Happy, Mr. Stark?”
“Getting there,” he says. Then he leans around me so that his arm brushes my breast as he grabs something off the bar. It’s not until he’s back in front of me that I realize it’s a corkscrew—the kind with a tiny knife attached.
And that knife is what he opens now.
My eyes go wide as he eases my skirt up and then, very deftly, uses the blade to cut my panties right off me. He meets my eyes, and I realize I’m biting my lip. Not from nerves, but from pleasure. And when he slides his hand between my legs, I watch as passion colors every feature of his face.
“Christ, Nikki. You’re soaked.”
He’s right. I’m desperately wet. Wildly turned on. I think that I should be embarrassed. After all, I know damn well that it’s the blade combined with Damien’s touch that has fired me up. After all, don’t I know better than anyone the exquisite pleasure of a knife near flesh?
But I’m not ashamed. Damien knows that. He knows me.
And he understands that I’ve healed enough that it’s not the blade on my flesh that I want, but the blade in his hand. The teasing. The taunting.
The slight hint of danger.
But that little glimpse was enough. Now I want Damien alone. His mouth. His touch.
Not the blade.
I hold his gaze, and then I say the only word I need. “Please.”
He requires no further urging. He tosses the knife aside, then grabs my thighs and tugs me closer. The motion hikes my skirt up, exposing me even more, and he leans forward, then closes his mouth over my cunt in the softest of kisses.
I squirm, loving the sensation but wanting more. I want it rough. Wild.
And once again, Damien understands me. He teases my clit with his tongue. He clutches my thighs with his hands so hard I’m certain to bruise. He thrusts his tongue inside me. And then he returns to my clit in a slow back-and-forth that creates a euphoric pleasure so intense that I feel myself rising off the seat and pressing my body against his face in a silent demand that he touch me just there, just right.
And when he does—oh, Christ, when he does—I feel the tremors start all the way down at my toes. They rise up, higher and higher, firing my entire body until I can’t take the pressure anymore and cry out, shattering under the onslaught of my husband’s tongue and touch.
And as I do, I have to admit that Damien did a damn good job of making me forget my problems.
—
Despite Damien soothing me, my dreams keep me tossing all night. My mother. Damien’s father. They’re all twisted together, flashing as bright as neon in my mind, as if they’re trying to send me a message. The last image I see before I wake up gasping with my face wet from tears is Ashley, my sister, and she’s holding out a hand to me. You don’t remember, she says. But I’ll remember for you.
“It’s okay, baby.” Damien’s arms are tight around me. He’s dressed for the office and sitting on the side of the bed. But he’s there, he’s right by my side—just like he always is for me. “Only a nightmare.”
“It was so weird,” I murmur, breathing deep as he pulls me down so that my head is in his lap. “My mom was in it. And your dad. And Ashley.” I shake my head as if to dispel the lingering wisps of the dream.
“It’s your subconscious dealing with Dallas’s revelation about Frank.” He presses a kiss to the top of my head. “Do you want me to stay home with you?”
I shake my head immediately. “I’m fine.” I sit up, as if that will prove the point. “Really. I’m going to take a long shower and maybe even work out.”
At that, Damien raises his brows; I very rarely use our gym.
I shrug. “I feel the need to burn off some steam, and,” I add as I see him about to suggest a way to do that without a treadmill or punching bag, “I know that you have a meeting this morning with those guys from Korea. Go,” I insist. “I’ll be fine.”
He studies my face, clearly debating whether or not to argue. I make an effort to look calm and collected. After a moment, he laughs. “Quit trying so hard,” he says.
“Quit thinking you have to put your work aside to babysit me.”
“I’ll always put my work aside if you need me.” His voice is so intense—so full of love—that I almost melt on the spot.
“I know.” I lean closer, sighing as he enfolds me in his arms. “And I love you for it. But I promise you that right now, I’m okay. It was just a dream. And, yes, I’m still a little freaked by this thing with Frank. But I’m okay with waiting until you and Ryan learn more about who he is.”
Damien still doesn’t look entirely convinced.
“Go.” I give him a little shove toward the side of the bed. “Go off and earn a living before we have to downsize.”
That earns a laugh. As Damien has explained to me several times—including once with graphs and a chart—he’s now in a position where he actually makes money simply by doing nothing. Apparently, his dollars have started to breed.
“Well, I would hate to have to give up the apartment in Manhattan,” he quips.
“I’d hate for you to have to give up the chocolate company in Switzerland.” I point toward the door. “I love you. Go.”
He nods, then gets off the bed, but not before kissing me so deeply I feel it all the way down to my toes, not to mention other more sensitive parts of my body.
I take his hand and tug him back.
“Oh, no,” he says. “You told me to go.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“Did you? So now you’re telling me you want my lips on yours? My tongue tasting your ear, your neck? Are you saying that you want my mouth on your breast, sucking hard and making your nipple so tight you feel the ache all the way down to your cunt?”
I whimper. I’d only been teasing, but he’s making the idea of him staying with me very, very appealing.
“Tell me, baby,” he continues, his voice as sensual as his words. “Are you saying you want me to thrust my fingers deep inside you before I slide them between your lips so you can taste how fucking wet you are? Do you want my mouth on your cunt? My tongue working yo
ur clit while I tease your ass with my finger? I want to know, Nikki: do you want me to make you come before I grab your hips and fuck you so hard you come again and again until you’re sore and sated and begging for me to never, ever stop?”
He brushes a soft kiss over my lips, teasing at the end by nipping my lower lip with his teeth before he leans back to look in my eyes. “Come on, baby, say it. Is that what you want?”
“Yes.” I can barely form the word, I’m so limp with desire. “God, yes.”
“Me, too.” He releases my hand, then bends over to chastely kiss my forehead. “Anticipation, baby. I’ll be home by seven.”
“Bastard,” I say with a laugh, then throw a pillow at him as he backs away.
He dodges the pillow, then tosses his hands up in the air. “Hey, I’m only following your orders. Korean executives, remember? Off to earn a living.”
“Following orders, Mr. Stark? And all this time, I thought you were the man who gave the orders.”
“Careful,” he says. “I might have to punish you.”
“Really?” I roll over, letting the sheet fall away as I get up on my hands and knees and give him a very nice view of my bare ass.
I turn my head to the side so that I can see his face—and so that I can also see his erection straining against the trousers of his three-thousand-dollar suit.
“You’re going to pay, baby,” he promises.
“I certainly hope so.” I bite my lower lip and wiggle my ass just a little.
I watch as he slides his hand down to cup his erection, and for a moment I think I may have actually won.
Then the corner of his mouth curves up into a smile. “I’ll see you tonight, Mrs. Stark,” he says. And with a wink, he turns and walks out of the room.
Well, damn.
Chapter 7
Once Damien’s gone, I park myself at the breakfast table and sip on the elixir of life, otherwise known as coffee. I really am less disturbed by the dream now—like all dreams, it’s losing its punch as time goes by. But it’s still lingering in my mind. Not the full dream, but that last pronouncement by Ashley that she would remember it for me.
But what is she remembering?
For that matter, why is my mom thinking about Ashley all of a sudden? Even more, why is she thinking of my dad? As far as I know, until she called me, my mom hadn’t thought of Leonard Fairchild since the day the court granted her divorce after he up and left us one December afternoon.
Not that I remember any of that. I know what Ashley told me, and what little my grandfather said before he passed away. Once or twice I asked my mom about him, but she’d offered only monosyllabic answers to my queries, and after one or two attempts to coax more information, I’d finally given up.
But it’s not just my strange dream and the baffling call from my mother that has me all twisted up. No, on top of that I get to add the mystery of Frank. Maybe he’s simply a client who decided not to intrude on my personal time by introducing himself on the island. Or, alternatively, he could be a raging psychopath out to either destroy me or latch his claws into some of Damien’s money.
I’m hoping for the first. But considering all the past bullshit Damien and I have put up with, I can’t deny that the second is probably a more likely possibility.
What I need is for Ashley to appear in a dream and not spout cryptic clues about who-knows-what, but instead to offer some real insight into all this stuff that’s banging around in my head. After all, the dream-Ashley’s just a manifestation of my subconscious, right? Which means that she knows what I know, and that—
Remember.
I push back from the table, rising so quickly I bang my leg and knock over my mug. Coffee pools on the tabletop, then starts to drip on the floor. But I don’t care.
Remember, she’d said.
And holy crap, I think that I do.
But I can’t be right—can I?
With my heart pounding painfully against my rib cage in a mixture of both excitement and dread, I stumble from the kitchen into the bedroom and finally into my closet. It’s a huge space. So massive that it even has library-style ladders so that I can reach the boxes on the top shelves that hold out-of-season clothes and memorabilia I want to keep, but don’t need to have out.
I tug down a battered pink hatbox and take it to the granite-topped island in the center of the closet. For a moment, I do nothing. Part of me is afraid that I’m right, and part of me is afraid that I’m crazy.
And I’m not entirely sure that I want either of those scenarios to be true.
I consider calling Damien, but that’s just silly. There’s nothing to call him for yet. This is a hunch, nothing more. And now it’s time to see if my hunch has panned out.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the hatbox, then plow through the photos. Images of Ashley flash before my eyes, but I don’t pause. I’m looking for one photo in particular, and when I finally find it, I clutch it tight, then back away from the island, my knees so weak I have to sit on the floor.
It’s him.
It’s Frank.
The photo is of me and Ashley. I’m not even a year old; she’s about six. There’s a man holding me cradled on his lap as Ashley snuggles against him. He’s looking down at me with an expression of such love and devotion that it’s hard to believe this is the man who walked out on his family and never looked back.
It’s even harder to believe that he’s the man who was watching me on the island. Who came to my office and praised my life, my talent, my marriage.
But I’m certain of it. He’s aged, yes. But the face is the same. The shape and color of his eyes. The wide mouth. And though I didn’t see it in the man, in the photo I can even see that I have his forehead and his ears.
There’s not a doubt in my mind. Frank is my father.
I’ve met my dad. I’ve spoken with him. I had drinks with him. He’s right here in my life, and the enormity of that keeps me there on the floor, because if I stand up, I’m afraid I’m going to have to sit down all over again.
Without thinking, I brush my cheeks, and it’s only when my hand comes away damp that I realize I’ve been crying. Sad tears, yes, but also happy ones.
My father.
But even as the word rattles through my mind, the sharp blade of fear sets in. Because my father’s name was Leonard Fairchild, and when I turn the photo over, I see that penciled on the back in my mother’s neat handwriting are the words, Nichole, Leonard, Ashley.
But the man who walked into my office calls himself Frank Dunlop.
And Frank Dunlop didn’t say one word about being related to me. Why?
If he’s my dad—if he came to meet me, as I suspect he did—then why not say something?
Fear twists in my stomach, and a bitter nausea begins to build, growing more noxious as I put even more of the pieces together.
I stumble to my feet and hurry back to the kitchen with the photograph still clutched in my hand. I find my phone where I’d left it by the coffeemaker, and then I do the one thing that I could never have imagined doing five minutes ago.
I phone my mother.
“Nichole,” she says when she answers. “What are—is something wrong?”
“The other day,” I say, jumping straight to the chase, “you called me. Why did you call me? Why were you thinking about my dad?”
“Oh. Oh, dear. Is he bothering you? What has he done?”
“Done?” The dread in my gut begins to calcify into a giant boulder. “What do you mean?”
“Sweetheart, I’m so sorry. I should have told you everything when I called the other day, but I’d hoped…”
“What?” I demand.
“It’s just that he called me after all this time. And he wanted to know where you lived and if it was true that you’d married Damien Stark. And then he said he was going to LA. And…” She trails off into silence.
“Dammit, Mother, what?”
“And the last thing he wanted to know was just how mu
ch Damien is worth.”
Chapter 8
How much Damien is worth?
He wanted to know how much my husband is worth?
Fuck.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
With a wild sweep of my arm, I send the toppled coffee cup flying off the table to crash on the floor. Then I curse aloud, because that accomplished exactly nothing except to make the mess in the kitchen even bigger.
I mutter another curse, then squat on the floor to start collecting the ragged pieces of ceramic, and as I do, I accidentally slice the edge of my thumb, raising a thin line of blood.
I stay there, perched on my heels, staring at the small red beads as they rise against my pale skin. My breath slows, and I feel a low, familiar craving.
I can quell this rawness inside me. I can control it with pain. I can harness it with blood.
If I just cut—just a little—I can pull myself back to center so that I’m not freaking out about all this bullshit.
I can handle it. I can do it.
I can cut—and then I can move on.
Biting my lip, I hold the biggest piece of the mug, imagining that it’s a blade. A perfectly honed razor. I can almost feel the pressure of it against my thigh. The intensity. The release.
Just this once, and I’ll be okay.
Just one time, and Damien doesn’t even need to know.
Oh, god, what am I saying?
I look down at the shard in my hand, and then hurl it violently across the room.
No. No, no, no, no.
That’s not who I am anymore. That’s not how I see myself.
And it sure as hell isn’t how Damien sees me.
Breathing hard, I stand up, then look around for my phone. My first instinct is to call Damien, but once the phone is in my hand, I hesitate. I won’t keep this secret—none of it. And I do need him, always and completely.
But right now, I need to know that I can handle this. Me.
I already know without a shadow of a doubt that I can rely on Damien when the urge to cut overwhelms me. Now I need to be just as certain that I can rely on myself.
