by J. Kenner
Correction again--our private jet, as Damien keeps reminding me. I never aspired to own a jet--and I have a sneaking suspicion that Damien's accountants and lawyers and other Big Important Advisor Types would say that I still don't--but I can't deny the coolness factor. After all, not so long ago I was driving a battered Honda with an equally battered transmission. I think a private jet definitely constitutes a step up in the world.
Damien had flown us out of the resort in the prop plane, and we'd met up with Grayson, who was now in the cockpit, along with Damien and the co-pilot. Damien has co-piloted the jet before, but that is not on the agenda today. Instead, he's only gone up front to attend to something, and I am anxious for him to return.
I press my hand onto the leather of the seat beside me and am comforted by its warmth. With Damien beside me, I was fine. But now the dream has moved back in, small wisps of fear that Damien's simple presence had battled back, but which can run free and wreak havoc when he is away from me. Intellectually, I know that he is only discussing the flight plan with Grayson and generally making sure that all of our travel arrangements are in place and confirmed. But even knowing that, I can't help but think that my dream was a portent, and that no matter how desperately we might want our honeymoon to be a romantic bubble, the world is going to put up a fight.
I grimace and tighten my grip on the stack of magazines in my lap. Yeah? Well, bring it on. Because together, Damien and I can face anything.
"Is there anything you need, Mrs. Stark?"
I jump, startled, and look up to find Katie, the fleet's senior flight attendant, smiling at me. I glance down at my hands, and see that my knuckles are white against the dark cover of this month's Wired magazine. I try to relax. "I'm fine. Just tired."
"Of course," she says, and though her face remains perfectly polite, I can't help but think I hear a hint of amusement in her voice, and my cheeks heat in response. I'm a newlywed, after all. "The stateroom is made up for you now."
"Oh," I say stupidly. I've flown on this jet a number of times now, so I'm perfectly familiar with the stateroom, and often spend the trip back there once we've reached altitude. What I'm wondering is why I'm going there without Damien.
My question must be all over my face, because now Katie does smile. "Mr. Stark said that he'd join you there momentarily."
"Right," I say, feeling a little foolish. I tuck my stack of magazines under my arm, then ease out of the plush seat and head toward the back of the plane. I think of Katie's promise that Damien will be coming soon, and my body warms with pleasant anticipation. The flight to Paris will take approximately ten hours. Considering how hard and fast we've been going since we left Los Angeles, I know that we should get some sleep if we don't want to pass out from jet lag and exhaustion right there on the rue de Rivoli. But even if we crash for a full eight hours, that still leaves two delicious hours all to ourselves.
I hurry the rest of the way, but when I open the door I see that once again, Damien Stark is ahead of the curve. The room glows with candlelight, an unexpected reality that makes me laugh out loud. Who but Damien would think of candlelight on an airplane?
Of course, these are faux candles, but the illumination is just as romantic, and the flickering light from dozens of scattered candles gleams off the room's polished wood and casts dancing shadows that under other circumstances could seem menacing, but tonight are both inviting and comforting.
The narrow bed is still made, the pristine white duvet covered with rose petals. I smile, thinking of the tub back in our Mexican bungalow. Our honeymoon, it seems, has a theme.
There is no champagne, but the small bedside table is topped by a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan next to two crystal highball glasses, and I grin. Before meeting Damien, my drink of choice was bourbon. More recently, though, I've discovered the pleasures of single malt Scotch.
All in all, the room is a delight, and I can't help but think that we will likely be getting less than our full eight hours, after all. Not a problem; I'm more than willing to sacrifice sleep for Damien.
I pour myself a shot of Scotch, neat, then sit on the edge of the bed and sip it, savoring the slow burn and the way I can feel the heat spreading through me. I toss back the rest, then close my eyes and let the slow buzz tingle through me. We didn't eat dinner, and the Scotch is strong. Not as strong as my thoughts of Damien, though, and between my buzz and my desire I am beginning to squirm a bit in frustration.
My nipples tighten, rubbing almost painfully against the fitted bodice of my sundress. I reach up, cupping my breasts, imagining that it is Damien's hands upon me. Damien, who knows my desires as well as I know them. Maybe even better.
I think of the way he took me in the shower. Of the tub filled with scented water and rose petals. This cabin filled with candlelight.
He did that for me. To please and seduce me.
I smile to myself with just a hint of mischief. Now, I think, it's my turn.
I stand just long enough to unzip the sundress and slide the spaghetti straps off my shoulders. I wriggle it off my hips and then toss it across the room so that I am standing naked in front of the bed. I'm not wearing underwear--a nod to the game that Damien and I used to play--but he hasn't yet discovered that little secret. That's okay, though. There's plenty of time for discovery once we get to Paris.
Right now, I have a different kind of surprise in mind, and since I don't know how much longer Damien will be in the cockpit, I know that I have to hurry. I turn and assess the bed, trying to think. I have something in mind, and after a few seconds of mental gymnastics, I think I've figured out how to pull it off.
By the time I hear the light tap at the door, I am ready.
"Who is it?" I call, just in case it is Katie.
"It's me," he says, and because I am already so desperate for him, the simple sound of his voice makes my body tremble and my sex clench with need.
"Come in," I say, but it doesn't matter. He has already turned the knob and the door is pushing inward.
"Sorry about that," he says, still in the hallway. "There was some mix-up with the flight plan, and--"
He breaks off, sucks in air, and shuts the door fast behind him. Then he stands frozen, his eyes taking in every inch of me, the examination so slow and methodical that I almost believe that his gaze is a physical touch.
I am naked and mostly spread-eagled on the bed. The thing about jets is that seat belts are required, and though Damien and I routinely sit in the more traditional main cabin during takeoff and landing, even the stateroom's bed has belts that can be used in the case of turbulence.
Or in the case of seduction.
It had only taken a few moments to use the straps and buckles on the far end of the bed to secure my ankles. Much trickier had been the task of securing my left hand above me. But I'd managed it. Now that arm is extended and bound, leaving me more or less immobile. Only my right hand is free, and I can tell simply from the rhythm of Damien's breathing that he is well aware of the way the fingers of my free hand are stroking my very wet, very sensitive sex.
"Christ, Nikki."
I just grin, feeling both desirable and very, very smug. I know damn well what he is looking at, and the surge of feminine power at having both surprised and silenced Damien Stark makes me more than a little giddy.
"Hi," I say, my voice low and sultry. "I poured you a drink. Why don't you get it and come over here?"
"I don't know," he says. "I'm having a fine time just standing here and watching."
"Really?" I keep my voice light, but soft. And as I speak, my fingers never leave my sex. "I'm having a nice time, too."
"So I see."
"Mmm." I slide a finger deep inside myself, lifting my hips and releasing a low, desperate moan as I do. My plan may have been to get Damien worked up, but it's working equally well on me, and I'm so damned aroused right now that it is all I can do not to take myself all the way, then watch Damien's face as I shatter in front of him.
But no. This isn't a solo act. I want his hands, his mouth. I want to feel him on top of me. I want his cock inside me.
I want the wildness, the release. I want to see Damien Stark's famous control shatter, and I want to know that I am the one who did that to him.
Wife, I think.
Damn right.
I keep my eyes on his face, then withdraw my hand. Slowly, I trail my finger up my belly, then over my cleavage. When I trace a circle around my nipple, I see a muscle tighten in his cheek. But when I bring my hand to my mouth and draw my finger in between my lips, his composure breaks and he actually growls even as he crosses to me in one long stride.
I laugh, delighted, then slowly slide my finger out from between my lips. I smile up at him, my eyes wide and innocent. "Feeling a bit desperate, Mr. Stark?"
"With you, always."
I sigh with satisfaction. I feel exactly the same way.
He is standing even with my shoulder, his hip brushing the side of the bed. Now he reaches out to trace his fingers up my bare arm until he reaches the strap that binds my wrist in place. "Interesting," he murmurs, then steps backward, letting his fingers trail behind him as he moves, so that he is lightly stroking my ribs, my waist, my hip.
After a moment, though, he steps away from the bed, leaving me bereft when his fingertips leave my skin. I suck in air, only then realizing that I'd forgotten to breathe. He goes to the table, picks up his glass of Scotch, then takes a sip. Throughout it all, his eyes never leave me.
I lay there--I can do nothing else--and as I do, my skin begins to tingle. There is never a time when I am not aware of Damien. When I can't conjure the sensation of his fingers on my skin or his lips upon my cheek. I have only to think of him, and I can feel him.
But this is different. This is anticipation mixed with need. This is heat. This is the knowledge that I have offered myself for him to do with me what he will--and I do not know how far he will go with that. I only know that wherever he takes me, I will go willingly.
"I wonder," he says, and then says no more.
I try not to respond, but the word comes despite my efforts. "What?"
His smile is slow and wide and just a little devious. His dual-colored eyes crinkle a little, adding a bit more devilish flair. "I wonder what you would do if I just stood here for the rest of the flight and enjoyed the view."
I'm not worried. He's wearing loose-fitting shorts, but they don't hide his erection. My husband wants me as much as I want him. "We've barely gotten underway," I say. "Ten hours is a long time to stand. And there's no other seat in this room."
He glances around as if to verify my observation. Then he moves back another step so that he is leaning against the door. "I'm sure I can make do. I'm capable of putting up with all types of self-denial. At least so long as the prize at the end is worth it."
"Oh." I shift a bit uncertainly on the bed. I know damn well he speaks the truth. I know even better that I am the prize--his wife, hot and wild and a little bit crazed with desire, all the more so because she has been teased and tempted, and yet denied.
I drag my teeth over my lower lip as I watch him. He's not smiling, and yet there is no denying the spark of amusement lighting his face. "You wouldn't," I say, projecting a note of certainty in my voice that I don't actually feel.
"Wouldn't I?" He takes a sip of Scotch, studying me. "Funny, I thought you knew me better than that."
"Dammit, Damien," I say, not certain if I'm pissed or amused. The only thing I am certain of is the feel of my body. The way my skin seems to fit just a little too tight and my breasts are a bit too heavy. My nipples are so damn sensitive that even the faint movement from my heartbeat makes them tingle in a silent demand for more. And my sex--oh, Christ, I'm so damn wet, so swollen, so painfully, desperately, needfully turned on, that even the lightest brush of my fingertips sends shock waves through me and makes my cunt throb in demand. I want him inside me--no, I need him inside me. But if he's going to torment me ...
"No," he says, as I boldly stroke myself, imagining that my touch is Damien's, and then arching up as a series of sparks like tiny fireflies begin to dance inside me, a precursor to the lightning storm that is coming.
He crosses to the bed and takes my hand, his thumb brushing lightly over my sex in the process, like some form of casual torment. "No," he says again as he lifts my hand above my head, then uses the same seat-belt strap that I'd used for the left one to bind this hand as well.
I am completely immobile now. My hands are strapped above my head, bound together at my wrists. My legs are bound on either side of the bed, leaving me wide open and ready. I am naked and helpless and entirely at Damien's mercy.
I am wild with anticipation, and so aroused that the tightness in my nipples is almost painful, and my sex is so primed for his touch that I fear I will come from nothing more than the weight of his eyes upon me.
"Well," he says, as if to himself. "What does a man do when faced with unlimited possibilities?"
I don't answer. I'm too entranced by the expression on his face, like a man who has just opened an incredible gift. It is a look--among so many others--that I have come to know well. It's a look that says he loves me. More than that, it's a look that says he desires me.
He pours himself another shot of Scotch, and then takes a sip, as if pondering this knotty dilemma. I continue to watch him, my breathing shallow, my anticipation building. After a moment, he steps beside me again, his glass raised. I expect him to take a sip, but instead he very slowly tilts the glass above me, allowing a thin stream of liquid to fall. It splashes on my breasts, then trickles down my belly, some pooling in my navel, and some easing over my waist to dampen the sheet beneath me.
It is not cold, but I still gasp from the shock of contact, my eyes going to Damien's. I see heat and purpose, and I watch, mesmerized, as he sets the glass aside, and then slowly removes his shirt, his shorts, his briefs.
I have little enough time to enjoy the view, though, as he tells me to shut my eyes. I consider protesting, but since I know it will only earn me a blindfold, it hardly seems worth it.
And then there is his touch.
The stroke of his hands lightly over my skin, running along my sides as if to steady me. His fingertip strokes a pattern on my stomach, circles and swirls drawn with the Scotch, cooling my heated skin as the liquid caresses me.
He is touching neither my breasts nor my sex, and yet the sensation is so wildly sensual that he might as well be. I feel his touch throughout my body. Heating the flesh between my inner thighs. Making my nipples so painfully tight.
I writhe against my bonds, wanting more. Wanting everything. Wanting Damien.
And yet I can find no relief from the growing pressure of desire. This building firestorm inside me that he is so slowly and so deliberately stoking. I can only ride this wave, losing myself to the painfully sweet torment of his touch.
"Damien, please," I murmur, but he only brushes his lips across mine.
"Frustrated, Mrs. Stark?"
"You know I am."
He says nothing, but I swear I can hear his smile. This is what he wants, to take me to the edge, to keep me hovering there, and then--when he finally sends me spinning into the abyss--to be there to catch me as I tumble back to earth.
He lifts his hand from my body, and I whimper a bit.
"I could stand here all night, simply looking at you." His voice is as soft as the caress he has withdrawn, and it sends shivers over me. "Seeing the way the color changes on your skin when you are aroused. The way your nipples peak and the way your stomach muscles tighten in anticipation of my touch. Every inch of you is ripe with need for me."
"Yes," I whisper.
Slowly he traces his fingertip from the indention at the base of my throat all the way down to my navel. I arch up, his touch sending shock waves through me, and when he stops--so close to where I crave both his touch and the explosion I know it will bring--I moan in frustration.
"I control an
empire," he says, "and I will not deny the thrill of holding that kind of power. But it is nothing compared to the way I feel when you respond to me. When my words make you smile, when my touch makes you wet. And when you are like this, bound and open, so full of trust and desire, giving yourself so completely to me--god, Nikki," he says, his voice quivering just slightly. "I swear it's you who has the power, because only you can break me."
I open my mouth to speak, but there are no words. And when his mouth closes over mine, I fall hungrily into the kiss, then moan in protest when he withdraws to kiss his way down my body, his mouth following the trail of the Scotch.
The sensation is as delicious as the man, and I writhe against his touch, wanting more, so much more. And Damien, thank god, delivers.
With agonizing slowness, he kisses his way down my leg, paying particular attention to the soft skin behind my knee. My muscles are tight, straining for him, and yet I can do nothing but withstand the storm of his touches.
When he reaches my ankle and undoes the bond, I have to bite back a protest. I want the freedom to move, yes, but there is no denying the pleasure of being at Damien's mercy.
I hear his soft laugh and realize that he knows exactly what I'm thinking. "Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm not even close to done with you."
He releases my other ankle, then eases onto the bed so that he is between my legs. I am spread wide open for him, and though he is my husband--though he has seen me this intimately countless times--I cannot help the heat of a blush that spreads over me.
"Beautiful," Damien murmurs as he lifts my legs to his shoulders. He tries to tug me closer, but I am immobile thanks to the bonds on my arms, and so he leans in, driving me crazy when he gently blows on my clit, making me gasp and squirm and then cry out as his mouth closes over my sex and his tongue sets my senses on fire.
I arch up, because it is too much, but he refuses to relent. He sucks and laves, his expert tongue teasing and tasting, pushing me higher and higher until I am so close that I can almost taste the sweetness of the coming explosion, and I long for it, pushing toward it, wanting and craving it.
