by J. Kenner
I press my fingertip against the corner of my mouth. "Hmm. Let me think."
I lift my head long enough to meet his eyes. "I love you."
"I know you do," he says. "And that knowledge is what fuels my days and lights my nights. Now put your head back, baby, and close your eyes. I want to make you fly."
He is as good as his word, and as his fingers and mouth set my body on fire, I stretch my arms out and close my fists around the bedclothes in defense against the pleasure that is rising like a storm inside me.
Down and down he moves until his tongue is stroking the string of pearls that makes up the thong of these exceptionally intriguing panties. And though he is not touching me directly, the pearls are moving intimately over me, making me even more desperate for him than I already was.
"Dammit, Damien, now," I beg, but I tormented him in the limo, and he is not going easy on me now. This is torture by seduction, and it is glorious.
From the floor where it has fallen, my phone chirps, the distinctive cricket sound that I assigned to Jamie's texts. "Ignore it," I say, then make a mental note to strangle my best friend after she repeats the text three more times.
I'm about to tell Damien to go ahead and toss my phone out the window when his phone rings. Another distinctive tone, this one assigned to the Stark International security department.
"Shit," he says, but since I happen to know that the number is for emergency purposes only, I know that Damien will answer. As he reaches for his phone, I decide to grab mine and see what Jamie says.
All her text reads is 9-1-1.
I frown, and turn to look at Damien, who now wears an expression that could bring down a small nation.
"What's happened?" I ask as soon as he ends the call.
"Get dressed," he says, pulling his clothes back on.
"Tell me," I demand as he tugs me toward the closet.
"Jamie and Ryan got an extortion email, too. Another two hundred grand or else the sender releases a sex tape."
"Of her and Ryan?"
"Of her and Douglas," Damien corrects, referring to the rather sleazy next-door neighbor that Jamie banged on more than one occasion.
"Oh, shit," I say, as I pull on a knit skirt and a T-shirt.
"Yeah," Damien says as we head toward the stairs. "I think that about sums it up."
Chapter 8
We start out heading toward Venice Beach, assuming that both Ryan and Jamie are at his house. But a text from Jamie soon has us changing course. Ryan, apparently, has taken off for Studio City. And according to my best friend, he's gone with the intent of beating the crap out of Douglas.
Fortunately, we're not yet to Santa Monica, so we abandon PCH once we reach the Getty Villa and Highway 27, and careen through the hills toward the 101 Freeway.
We arrive right before Jamie, who is squealing to a stop in front of our old building. She's in the Ferrari that Damien and I gave her as a going-away present, and I know damn well that she pushed that machine to the limit to get here that fast. I know, because we did the same thing.
"Ryan's here," Damien says, nodding toward a Mercedes parked at an odd angle across the street.
"He's gonna kill him." Jamie is hurrying toward us. Her eyes are red and her makeup blotchy. "I've never seen him so mad."
"He has reason to be," Damien says darkly. "Come on."
The building entrance is enclosed now, thanks to Damien's contribution to building security, but Jamie has the key code. She taps it in, and we three hurry inside, then up the stairs to Douglas's condo, right next door to the one Jamie and I used to share.
Damien tries the knob, then pounds on the door when he finds it locked. "Dammit, Ryan. Open up."
Jamie joins him in pounding. "Hunter! Open the door!"
For a moment, we hear nothing. Then the door opens, and I see Ryan, looking completely wrecked.
Immediately, Jamie launches herself at him. He catches her, then holds her close as she sobs against him.
Ryan meets Damien's eyes, and I can almost hear the question that is passing between them--Did you do something I'm going to have to clean up?
And, yes, Damien would clean it up--of that much I'm certain. If Ryan Hunter beat the shit out of Douglas the Sex Tape Prick, Damien would do everything in his power to see that Ryan not only got off easy, but that the women of this city threw him a fucking parade.
For a moment, Ryan doesn't move. Then he just shakes his head before stepping aside, silently letting us pass.
Inside, Douglas is on the sofa clutching his stomach, his face so drained of blood it is almost translucent. "Fucker kicked the shit out of me."
"And you deserved it," Damien says.
"I didn't do it," Douglas says. "Kung fu boy there says I threatened to sell a tape of me and Jamie to TMZ or some such shit, but it ain't true, man."
"Bullshit," Jamie says. She looks stronger now, and although she's still holding tight to Ryan's hand, she's standing on her own, and her face is on fire with anger. "You made that thing without telling me. You really think I'm going to believe your bullshit now?"
"Hey, it's true. I don't know how anyone got their hands on that file. Musta hacked my computer or something, because it wasn't me. I mean, shit, my whole life's about getting pussy. How much do you think I'm gonna get if word gets out I'm taping chicks without their knowledge?"
"How much pussy are you going to get in jail, you sick perv?" Jamie retorts.
"Jesus, fuck. Shit." He drags his hands through his hair, making it stand on end. "This isn't on me. Christ, I swear."
In an instant, Ryan is across the room. He has Douglas by the collar and hauls him to his feet. Douglas looks so terrified that I'm surprised he hasn't pissed himself.
For a moment, no one in the room breathes. Then Ryan tosses him back down. "You're not even worth it," he says, then turns away. He walks toward the door, taking Jamie's hand as he does, and wordlessly leaves.
I start to follow, but then stop when I see Damien lagging behind. He meets the other man's eyes and says, very slowly and very calmly, "I'm going to find out who threatened to leak that tape, and if it comes back to you, that kick in the gut will seem like a gentle kiss good night compared to the hell I will put you through. Do we understand each other?"
If I'd thought that Douglas was pale before, I'd been seriously wrong. I watch now as every last bit of blood fades from his face. He starts to nod, but Damien has already turned away; he's made his point.
Once we are on the sidewalk with Ryan and Jamie, Damien puts his arm around Jamie's shoulder, then meets Ryan's eyes. "I'll pay."
"Damien, no!" Jamie's protest is fast and sounds sincere, but Damien barely even acknowledges that she's spoken. Instead, he's looking straight at me. I swallow, grateful that he jumped to protect Jamie, but at the same time hating the fact that he is breaking from his usual pattern. Because Damien Stark is not a man who gives in to this kind of bullshit. Or, at least, he wasn't before I entered his life.
"There's no point in risking that tape getting out. I said I'll pay." He shifts his attention to Ryan. "That's final."
Ryan nods.
"But--" Jamie's protest dies as Damien turns back to me.
"We're leaving."
I give Jamie a quick hug, and hear her whisper, "Don't let him do it," but Damien tugs me away before I can respond. He opens the car door for me without saying a word, then gets in on his side. Immediately, the car is full of the power of his rage, and when he grips the steering wheel, I see that his knuckles are white.
I open my mouth to say something, then close it again. I understand why he is angry--hell, I'm angry, too. More than that, I understand his need to lash out. To push through. To figure out a way to get on top of this and say "fuck you" to the world.
So I am not surprised when he tears away from the curb with all the speed of a rocket.
Instead of turning toward the 101, he follows Laurel Canyon up into the foothills, then turns on Mulholland Drive. That doesn't s
urprise me either, and I simply hold on tight as he maneuvers the curves and straightaways before finally jerking the steering wheel and skidding to a halt in a turnout.
I'm breathing hard--I trust Damien, but this road is brutal. No guardrails, sharp curves, and the city spread out like a net below us.
Slowly, I reach for him and am relieved when his fingers close tight around mine. I want to speak, to soothe. But the truth is I don't know what to say.
Finally, I say the only thing that I am certain must be said. I tell him what Jamie said to me. "You don't have to pay. I don't want you to pay. And Jamie doesn't want you to pay, either."
His eyes are flat when he looks at me. "I'm paying." There is a beat--just one moment of silence--and then he gently tugs his hand free. He opens the door and gets out of the car, then moves to stand near the drop-off and look out over the city. The headlights are still on, and the light is hitting his back, illuminating him like an angel and casting his shadow down upon the world.
My chest tightens, and I wish that I had a magic potion that could make this entire mess go away. Because the truth is that both options suck. Damien isn't the kind of man who willingly pays blackmail. And though it is true that Jamie will survive if that tape goes public, that is not the kind of thing that she should have to be strong for.
I realize that I have been sitting stiffly, my fingers clenched into my thighs so that the pressure from my nails digs into the skin just below the hem of my skirt. Shit.
I sigh. There is no magic potion. There is just me and Damien and our friends and the world. And right now, the world has infringed too much.
I force myself to relax, to loosen my fingers and shut away the pain. I tell myself I don't need it now--not really. I may be a cutter, but it has been a long time since I have cut. I have Damien now to anchor me. Even more, I have found strength inside myself.
I will survive this. And so will Damien. And so will Jamie.
Telling myself that, I open my door and move to stand beside him, though this time I do not touch. This time I will wait for Damien, because I know that he will take what he needs from me, just as he lets me take what I need from him.
A moment passes, and then another. Finally, he speaks. "I will pay," he repeats, as if he is responding to a question I just posed. He has been facing straight ahead. Now he turns to look at me, and what I see in his face is no longer flat, but fierce. "You say that you're strong enough to handle seeing that shit with me and Carmela, and I believe you. But this ... no."
"I can handle whatever comes." My voice is soft, but strong. "With you beside me, you know I can. And so will Jamie. She made her choices, and she knows they were bad ones. She gets it. And she understands what it will cost you to pay extortion money. And, Damien, it's not even your choice. The file was sent to Jamie, not you. Not me."
He manages a twisted smile. "You and I both know who they expected to pay."
Since I can't argue the point, I don't. "Even so, it's not your decision."
"I'm making it my decision."
"Dammit, Damien--"
"No. She made bad choices? She damn sure did. But she's turned it around. She doesn't deserve this. And I won't have her tossed out there to the wolves any more than I will have you hurting for your friends. Not when I can fix it."
"It's blackmail."
"It is, yes." He takes my hands and pulls me close. "Dammit, Nikki. Do you think I didn't see?" He brushes my cheek, and I shiver from his touch. "You were fine when it was just about us--you can stand it because you're strong, and because you've stood it before. But where Jamie is concerned--when you are shouldering pain for a friend--baby, do you think I don't know how it wrecks you? Don't you know by now how clearly I see you?"
I nod, my eyes flooded with tears, because I do know how well he sees me. Just like I know that Damien will do whatever it takes to protect me and mine, no matter how much a sacrifice that protection is.
But this isn't a sacrifice I want him to make. "It does wreck me," I admit. "But I will get through it. So long as I have you to anchor me, you know I will. But what I can't survive is knowing that you did something like this for me, when doing it will chip away at the core of the man I love."
He doesn't answer me. But I see the anguish on his face.
"I love you," I whisper, but I barely get the words out before his mouth finds mine. The kiss is brutal, wild, and claiming. And I know that I was right--Damien will always take what he needs from me, and he knows that it is already his.
"Nikki." My name is a moan, and I cannot respond. Not when he has claimed my mouth again, his tongue warring with mine, teasing and tasting, so deep and wild and hot that I can feel the power of this kiss reverberate through me, exciting every part of me so that I feel as though I will die if I don't feel his hands upon me.
"Yes," I say. "Oh, god, yes."
He pushes me back roughly so that my legs are against the hood of the car. His fingers tangle in my hair, his palm cupping the back of my head as he bruises my mouth with wild kisses.
This is passion, but it is also punishment and domination. Because I had a moment when I needed the pain and I didn't go to him. Because someone out in the world is fucking with us, and he can't find them or make them stop, and swimming in someone else's stream is not something Damien handles well.
I understand all that, and I want to give him what he needs. But right now, this isn't about control or anger or frustration. It's about heat and need. It's about touch and demand.
It's about the absolute certainty that I will not survive one minute longer if Damien doesn't take me right now, and I really don't care that we're on the side of the road with the sky open above us.
"Please," I beg.
And Damien, who will always be there for me, does not disappoint.
He turns me around, pressing me down against the hood of the car. I spread my legs and lift myself on my toes. My skirt is up around my waist, the pearl thong absolutely soaked.
He rips it off, and I hear pearls scattering across the turnout. I don't even care. Right then, I'm lost in the feel of his fingers stroking my sex. I'm wet, and his hand slides over me, then thrusts inside. I moan with pleasure, but it's not enough. I want all of him, and tell him so. Begging. Demanding.
I'm rewarded by the sound of his zipper and then--thank god--by the hard press of the crown of his penis against my slit.
He enters me. Just a little at first, and I bite down on my lower lip, wanting more. Wanting all of him. And yet he is going so painfully, teasingly slow.
It's driving me crazy. Which, of course, he knows.
Then, without warning, he thrusts hard, sliding deep inside me. I cry out, my voice filling the night air. As I do, I arch up, and in that moment, Damien leans over me, his motion driving him even deeper into me. I try to thrust my hips back, wanting everything he has to give. He is filling me completely, and I cannot help but wonder how I survive even a second when I am not so intimately connected to Damien.
Except I am; I always am. Even when I am not touching him, I am connected to him.
The thought makes me soar, and as he cups my breasts in his palms--as he bites lightly on my neck and pounds hard into me--I shatter into a billion pieces, then cry out in passion and relief and exultation as Damien explodes inside me.
And the last coherent thought that I have is that no matter what, Damien and I give each other what we need, and we always will.
Chapter 9
"You're sure that you aren't going to get in trouble?" I ask Sylvia. "And there's no chance he'll walk in and see what we're up to?"
We're in the living room of the Tower apartment, and Sylvia is parked behind the tripod on which I've mounted the Leica that Damien gave me.
"I told you, he's in meetings all morning."
That much I know. Those meetings--including some video conferences that started before dawn--are the reason that we stayed in the apartment last night. "What if he forgot something?"
"It'
s my job to make sure he didn't," she says. "And I promise, he's booked solid. He's doing nothing but meetings until the chopper gets here. But if you're that worried, shut up and let me take the picture. Then I can get out of here and you can be sure we're safe."
"Sorry," I say, genuinely contrite. "I just want it to be a surprise. And I really do appreciate you helping out."
"I'm glad to. The picture taking and the rest of it, too."
We've arranged that Syl will take several shots of me, which I'll download to my laptop from the memory disk while I'm on the plane to the resort. It's not a working trip, but I think it's a safe bet that Damien will have at least one or two business things to take care of. And when he does, I'll do a bit of work, too.
My plan is to manipulate the photo to the way I want it, add a caption, and then email the whole thing back to Sylvia. For her part, she's promised to have it printed, framed, wrapped, and delivered to the Malibu house. When we get back on Valentine's Day, it'll be right there for Damien to open.
Just thinking about it makes me grin. There's something about having to jump through all these hoops that makes the gift feel even more special. Hopefully Damien will enjoy the photo as much as I'm enjoying creating it.
Right now, though, I need to get on that whole "creating it" thing.
"Okay," I say. "Let's do it."
She nods and adjusts the focus. We've already checked the lights and filters, because I'm trying to minimize reflections and glare. The image I want is me in front of the window, the city spread out behind me. I'm wearing my most form-fitting dress, and one hand is flat against the glass as I stand at an angle so as to accentuate all my curves.
If the picture turns out like it is in my mind, it will be stunning. Unfortunately, things don't always work out that way.
I stay still as Sylvia clicks and adjusts, then has me move to various similar poses so that I will have others to choose from if I hate the original idea.
About the time that I think my arm is going to fall off from being extended so long, she calls it a wrap.
"Well?" I ask, and her answering grin is all I need to know.
"You're going to have a hell of a time choosing the best one," she says. "And Damien is going to love it."
I think about what she says as I pack a small suitcase. I hope she's right. Considering the game that Damien put together for me, I feel a little bit like a slacker. Then again, there's no reason I can't step up to the plate next year. Or even for his birthday. After all, surely I could come up with some sort of personalized iPhone app.
