by J. Kenner
The thought twists inside me, dark and unpleasant, and I force it away. It’s not true. And even if it is, I am safe with Damien no matter what the source of my desire. He’s proven that much to me so many times.
Suddenly I’m no longer bent over the bed. He has me by the arms and he’s pulling me up to stand in front of him. “Dammit, Nikki,” he says. “Talk to me.”
I press my palms against his cheeks and take his mouth with mine, letting the kiss deepen as he pulls me tight against him. I feel his body relax, and the fear that must have been growing in him as my silence lingered now seems to seep out from his pores.
“I need you,” I tell him when I break the kiss. “You. I don’t need that.” His eyes are intent, and they seem to see so far inside me that I know I can’t keep even the slightest of secrets. I take a deep breath and lay out my heart for him. “I don’t need it,” I say, “but I want it.”
I see the slightest twitch of the muscle in his jaw, as if he’s fighting for control.
“Do you?” he says.
I nod, then swallow. My cheeks are warm, which irritates me. I’ve been more intimate with Damien than with any person in my life, and yet I’m blushing? It’s a ridiculous girly-girl reaction, probably instilled by my mother, and that in and of itself pisses me off—and that gives me strength.
“I want it,” I repeat. “And not because I need the pain. But because I need you.”
I need him even more than I can say. I want his hands on me. I want to be the object of his pleasure, and I want to lose myself in the knowledge that there is nothing Damien wants more than to please me, and nothing I want more than to surrender to him.
He swallows, looking humbled by my words. “I need you, too, Nikki. God, how I need you.”
I breathe in deep, cherishing those words more than he can possibly know. “Then touch me.”
He does—oh, how he does—and though I expect the caresses, the passion, the immediate sensual assault, I am jarred off-center by the fervency I see in his eyes, and by the firm line of his mouth. There is nothing else in the world to him except me, and I can see it with every glimpse of him. I taste it in his hard, lingering kiss.
“Bed,” he says, once he breaks the kiss. “Bend over. Legs apart.”
I raise my brows in question. “Bossy much?”
He slaps me lightly on the bottom, and I gasp, both surprised and excited. “What do you say?”
“Yes, sir,” I say obediently, forcing myself not to smile. I turn back to the bed and bend over, my hands firmly on the mattress, my excitement so raw I’m certain that it clings to me like perfume. I no longer question my motives; I am not in an analytical mind-set. All I want is Damien setting my body on fire. Damien thrusting himself deep inside of me.
His hand cups my rear, moving in slow, sensual circles. I feel a momentary wash of cool air on my skin as he breaks contact, and then I cry out in both pleasure and pain as his palm smacks hard against my ass, then presses against the point of impact, the sweet pressure soothing the sting.
Slowly, he slides his hand down between my legs. “Oh, baby,” he says as his fingers slide over me. I’m desperately wet, and I tremble from his touch, so close that I have to fight the temptation to take one hand off the bed and touch myself where Damien is so carefully avoiding.
Then again …
I keep my weight on my left hand, and dip my right hand between my legs. A shiver runs through me as I brush my fingertip over my clit. I’m swollen and sensitive and so very, very close.
“Oh, you have been naughty,” Damien says, as his fingers brush against mine.
I swallow, anticipating another spank, but it doesn’t come. Instead he bends me over more, so that I have no choice but to move my hand back onto the bed if I don’t want to fall over on my face.
Damien takes his hand away and I whimper at the break in contact. He’s not touching me at all, and that’s the most keen punishment he can deliver. I wonder for a moment if that’s what he has planned. To leave me like this, bent over, naked, my ass in the air, waiting and wanting. He might, I know, and I can’t help but smile at the thought. It would piss me off and drive me crazy, but I know that when the punishment is over and he finally does fuck me, it will be all the sweeter for it.
That, however, isn’t what he has planned. I hear the tug of his zipper, followed by the brush of denim against skin as he quickly strips off his jeans. I bite my lip, then exhale in sweet triumph as his cock presses against my rear, my body opening to him in sweet anticipation. Please, Damien. Take me. Please take me now. I want to cry the words, but I stay silent. I don’t, however, stay still. I can’t help it. My body is demanding and antsy, and my hips gyrate against his cock, and his low moan of pleasure only makes me more frenzied.
His hands close on my hips and hold me still, and I can’t help my whimper of protest. He laughs, and I want to cry out in frustration because he is very thoroughly, very meanly teasing me.
Then I feel the tip of his cock on the slick folds of my vulva and I want to cry with relief. He teases me at first, barely entering, and I bite my lower lip so hard I fear I will taste blood. The anticipation is brutal, but sweet. He is so hard, so ready, and he is tormenting both of us as he controls his thrusts, using my hips to steady himself.
I have none of his control. Every inch of me is desperate and demanding, and my muscles tighten greedily around him with every tantalizing thrust. Deeper. Harder. Oh, dear God, please.
“As you wish,” he says, and I don’t even have time to be surprised that I’ve spoken the words aloud, because he’s inside me now, his cock filling me, his body pressed over me as I keep both hands on the bed to steady myself. One of his hands snakes around my waist, and I am grateful for the support. My rear is arched up, I am on my toes, it is as if my body is doing everything it can to draw him in deeper and deeper. I want to take all of him. To consume and be consumed.
And when he pulls gently out and then thrusts back into me with a single, powerful movement, I am certain that the world will explode around me.
“You’re close,” he whispers, and I can tell from the tightness in his voice that he is close, too.
“Yes,” I say, but my voice is so raw I doubt the word is coherent.
“Touch yourself,” he says.
The excitement that’s been building in me seems to shiver through my body like a jolt of electricity. “What?” I ask, then moan as he continues to slowly torture me, as if he knows exactly how much pressure will take me to the edge—and just how much more is needed to take me over.
“You heard me.”
I lick my lips and swallow. My fingers twitch with the desire to obey. To feel where our bodies are joined, and to stroke the hard length of him even as I tease my oh-so-sensitive clit.
“I—I thought that was naughty,” I say, feeling strangely shy.
His response alone almost sends me rocketing into space: “Maybe I like you naughty.”
I gasp, then swallow. Then I lift my right hand from the bed. It throws off my balance, but he keeps me steady with the arm around my waist. I slip my hand down, barely brushing over my slick clit. My body clenches, my muscles tightening greedily to draw him further inside me. I feel glorious, full, and so desperately close that I know only the slightest touch will be the end of me.
I want it, and yet I also want to feel him. The way our bodies are joined as he slides deep inside me. I ease my hand back along my own slick folds. I feel him there, like velvet steel, and I hear his guttural moan as I gently stroke him.
“Jesus, Nikki, I can’t hold back.”
“Then don’t.” I close my eyes, and my fingers have barely grazed my clit when he trembles, tightening his grip around my waist as he fills me. His release triggers my own, and I clench tight around him, dropping my hand back to the bed so that I don’t fall, too sensitive to continue touching myself, anyway.
“Nikki,” he says when his body stops quivering.
He releases my waist
, then immediately catches me when I start to sag, my legs so weak I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to stand again.
“I think you’ve unraveled me,” I say. “If you were going for punishment, though, you missed the mark completely.”
“Did I?” His voice rises provocatively. “Sounds to me like you’re assuming I’m done with you. I assure you, I’m not.”
“Oh.” My pulse kicks back up again. “That’s a very interesting bit of information.”
“I’m glad to hear you’re intrigued.” He slides a hand down my still weak legs. “But this time maybe you ought to lie down. You seem a bit unsteady.”
“You think?”
He scoops me up so that I am once again cradled against his chest. I feel warm and safe and cherished, and when he places me gently on the bed and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, I want to cry from the sweetness of it all. But then his eyes take on a devilish gleam. “Don’t go to sleep on me yet,” he says as he unties the cord from around my neck—then immediately ties it to my right wrist. He attaches the other end very firmly to the bedpost.
His face is right over mine, his smile undeniably wicked. “I’m going to enjoy this. And, Nikki? So will you.”
I lick my lips, all thoughts of gentleness fading under the weight of Damien Stark’s decadent, silent promises.
He retrieves the robe from the foot of the bed and pulls out the sash. He trails it lightly over my body, then smiles with purpose. “Left hand.”
I comply, raising my hand above my head and gripping the bar of the headboard. My arms are spread wide now, my back slightly arched, and my legs tightly together.
“Nice,” Damien says, once he’s secured that wrist as well. “But I think we can make it nicer.”
With obvious purpose, he slides off the bed, then walks to the door that leads to the patio. It’s made of sliding glass panels, and he opens them now, letting the night breeze come in. The air is cool, but my body is so much on fire that I don’t even notice. He stands next to the door, his hand running gently over the gossamer white drapes that fluttered against me as I posed for Blaine.
“Remember our first night?” he asks.
How can I not? Those drapes. This bed. And me, lost to Damien’s sensual onslaught, my fears and my shame soothed by his kisses and his soft words.
I say none of that now. I only whisper, “Yes.”
“So do I,” he says, then takes two drapery panels, one in each hand, and rips them off the metal rings that attach them to the curtain rod. From my perspective, I see the muscles in his back flex and then the soft swell of filmy white as the sheer material falls to the ground, set free by Damien’s will. A small smile touches my lips; he’s set me free, too.
He is back at my side in no time, and as I anticipated, he uses the drapes to bind my legs to the iron bars at the foot of the bed. The result is sweetly, painfully intimate. I am spread-eagled, arms wide, legs open. I can’t touch him or myself. I can’t roll over. And I certainly can’t close my legs to hide my swollen, sex-slick cunt. I turn my head to the side, part of me wishing I could burrow beneath the sheets, and part of me desperately aroused by the knowledge that I am completely wide open to Damien. His to do with whatever he wants.
I wonder what he has in mind, and then whimper when he moves away from the bed instead of climbing on beside me. I bite my lower lip, suddenly worried. I know that no matter what happens, this will end magnificently. But I also know that Damien’s a master at manipulating anticipation. If he leaves me like this—wide open and ready—I just might have to scream.
“Don’t worry,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “I might have it in me to torment you a little bit, but tonight that would be torturing me, too.”
“Sadism, not masochism?” I say archly, then smile when he bursts out laughing.
“Sadism, Ms. Fairchild? Let me see if I recall the definition. I believe that sadism is the deriving of sexual gratification from inflicting pain, suffering, or humiliation on another person.” He moves to the small table by the bed and opens a drawer. “I’ll admit to the sexual gratification—and I intend to be significantly more gratified before the night is over—but let’s explore the rest, shall we?”
I lick my lips as he pulls a box of matches from the drawer. I trust Damien completely, but what on earth is he planning to do with matches?
“So tell me, Ms. Fairchild, are you in pain?”
I swallow. I’m in very dire straits, but I’m a long way from pain. “No.”
“I’m very glad to hear it.” He crosses the room, then disappears from view. A moment later he returns carrying a thick candle, the flame flickering as he walks. “Candle wax can be very enticing,” he says in response to my questioning glance. “The sensation of the quickly changing temperature. The way it tightens when it hardens on the skin. Have you ever experienced that, Ms. Fairchild?”
I shake my head. “No.” I’m not certain if I’m scared or excited.
“Mmm,” he says, as if marking my words in his memory. “Well, today, I’m interested in only one thing from this candle.” He pauses by the bed and tilts the candle so that the wax drips onto the marble surface of the decorative side table. Then he sets the candle in the wax, letting it harden to form a stand. After that, he takes something else from the drawer. I realize only when the sconce lighting begins to dim that it’s a remote control. Soon we are in darkness, bathed only by the flickering orange of a single candle.
“Oh …”
“Disappointed?” he asks.
“No,” I say. I feel my cheeks heat. “But I might have been a little intrigued.”
“Were you? I’ll have to remember that. But where were we? Oh, yes. Sadism.” He eases onto the bed and kneels between my widespread legs. My breath comes in small gasps as he gently rests his hands on my thighs just above my knees, his thumbs on the soft inner skin. “Humiliation was next, I believe. Are you humiliated, Ms. Fairchild? You’re exposed to me, after all. Wide open like a blossoming flower and so very wet. You’re beautiful, Nikki,” he says, and I hear the raw passion in his voice. “But are you humiliated?”
I’ve turned my head to the side, because the truth is that I do feel exposed. Exposed and open and decadent and wild. I don’t, however, feel humiliated. On the contrary, I feel aroused. And I think it’s that odd combination of emotions that heats my cheeks with a ridiculous blush. “No,” I whisper.
“Look at me.”
I turn my head until I can see his eyes, the amber one shining in the candlelight, and the near-black one as dark as eternity.
“Not humiliated,” he says. “And not suffering, either, I assume?”
“No.”
“Good.” His lips curve into a smile as his hands stroke my inner thighs, the pad of one thumb brushing ever so softly over the worst of my scars. “You are exceptional, Ms. Fairchild,” he says. “I could look at you forever. Lose myself in you forever.”
I draw in a trembling breath. The muscles of my sex clench with longing, and my breasts are so heavy they are almost painful.I want to move—want to satisfy this sexual itch—but I’m stuck fast and helpless.
“I like that I can make you blush,” he says.
I swallow. “Why?”
“Because I know why you do.”
“Really? Well, then please, Mr. Stark, share your insight.”
“Because I have you spread open. Because you’re naked before me and helpless. Because I can do anything to you right now, anything at all. And because that excites you.”
His hand cups my sex, and I release a moan so soft it is little more than a breath.
“So tell me, Ms. Fairchild. If you’re not in pain or suffering or humiliated, how do you feel?”
“Turned on,” I admit, and my cheeks heat even more.
Even in the candlelight, I can see the way his face darkens with my words. I’m not the only one turned on right now.
I start to speak, but he shakes his head. “Hush, now, and close your e
yes. I’m going to kiss you.”
I comply, my lips parted in expectation of his touch. But it’s not my lips upon which he presses his kiss. I feel the rough stubble of his beard on my thigh, then his tongue in the soft crease between my leg and vulva. My breath is coming in little gasps now, and whatever playfulness had been in the air mere moments ago has evaporated, replaced by want and need and quiet desperation.
His mouth closes over me, his tongue laving me in a rhythm designed to drive me completely crazy.
His thumbs tease me, never going so far as to enter, but combined with the erotic power of his tongue against my clit, it is a wonder that my body isn’t ripped apart by the force of the sensations rocketing through me.
My back is arched, my hips grinding. Instinctively, I try to close my legs, trying to forestall this tidal wave of pleasure that is so potent it borders on pain. But I can’t. I am bound open, and I have no choice but to yield to these amazing sensations.
Damien’s hands move to hold my hips, keeping me even more immobile. I feel drunk on lust, intoxicated by desire, and I close my eyes and let my head fall back in complete surrender as Damien’s mouth and tongue work some kind of erotic magic on me, taking me higher and higher until that magic culminates in an explosion of sparks and colors and shooting stars that leaves me spent and breathless.
Slowly, reality returns to me, and I gasp, spread-eagled on the bed. My chest rises and falls, my body so sensitive that I can feel every thread of the sheet below me. I feel spoiled and pampered and adored and used. I am certain that all that is left is for Damien to untie me and then gather me into his arms as we drift off into the bliss of sleep. Because what else could be left for this night? He has utterly, sweetly destroyed me.
I should know better than to assume anything about Damien Stark.
His teeth graze my nipple, and I arch up, thoughts of sleep vanishing. I am battered, ripped asunder by his sensual assault, and yet I do not want it to end. The torment is delicious, and I would happily stay like this forever, forgoing food and friends and the world outside if I could simply escape into Damien’s arms.
