Claim Me: A Novel

by J. Kenner

  I want to pour my heart out to him, but I can manage only one simple word: “Yes.”

  He has finished binding me, and the ropes are tight. They cut into my skin just past the point of pleasure and into the realm of pain. I close my eyes and draw it in, idly wondering if other women need time to get used to this. I do not. I simply lie back and revel in it. After the night we’ve had, I want this; I want everything that Damien is willing to give.

  I want the pain and the pleasure and everything that comes between.

  Slowly, methodically, Damien places his hands on my shoulders, then traces his fingertips down my body, over my breasts, along my waist, down my inner thighs.

  I bite my lip, fighting against the painfully sweet sensation, but he’s right; bound like this, there is no escaping—and the pleasure crescendos, leading toward the edge of pain.

  When he finally stops touching me, I exhale in a burst, only then realizing that I’ve been holding my breath. I gasp, my chest rising and falling, my eyes wide open as I watch Damien rise and stand near my own bound feet.

  Slowly, so painfully slowly, he takes off his clothes. His cock is hard and thick and I inhale, my breath shuddering in my chest, the desire pooling in my wide open sex. Then, with slow deliberation, he comes to me and kneels over my bound feet. Gently, he places the pads of his thumbs on each of my inner thighs, then slides his hands upward. I shiver, my body primed to explode, but he still doesn’t touch me where I crave him most, and I am left hanging on a precipice.

  “You’re a cruel man, Mr. Stark.”

  “Am I?” He leans farther in, and those hands that I want so desperately between my legs move up to cup my breasts. I gasp as he pinches my nipples, once again sending hot threads of desire all through me. I bite my lower lip and squeeze my eyes shut. I swear if he does that again I really will come, and I silently beg him to do just that.

  Naturally, he doesn’t, and I teeter there on my imaginary cliff, so very ready to leap into the chasm, but quite unable to take myself there.

  “Cruel?” he whispers. “Or am I being very, very good to you?”

  “Cruel,” I say very firmly, then smile when he laughs.

  He slides his hands off my breasts to curve around my sides. I can feel the fragile bones of my rib cage beneath his strong hands, a reminder once again of how much I am his in this moment. Bound. Helpless. His to tease, to torment, to command.

  Tenderly, he kisses the tiny scar above my pubic bone. I feel the rough brush of his beard stubble against my sensitive skin.

  “Tell me what you want,” he says. “I want to hear you say it.”

  I open my mouth, but no words come. “You,” I finally manage. My voice is rough. “I want you inside me.”

  “Why, Ms. Fairchild,” he murmurs, his lips grazing my pubis and his voice so low I can barely hear him. “Are you saying you want to be fucked?”

  “God, yes.”

  “I like your answer.” He gently cups my needy sex. His skin is hot, but not as hot as mine. “But I don’t think you’re quite ready.”

  It is entirely possible that I will die from frustration. I suck in a breath and find my words. “Mr. Stark,” I say sternly, “if you can’t tell how ready I am, then I’m afraid you’re not as skilled a lover as I had thought.”

  “On the contrary,” he whispers. “I’m an exceptional lover. You just need to be more patient and let me prove it to you, slowly, methodically, and very, very thoroughly.”

  I say nothing. Every sensation in my body, every ounce of feeling and desire has rushed between my legs. I feel heavy and swollen and desperate.

  I need him inside me. If he doesn’t fuck me soon, I’m one-hundred-percent certain that I will implode. “Damien, please.”

  “This?” He slides two fingers inside my vagina, and I gasp as my body tightens hungrily around him. My hips gyrate without me even thinking about it, and it’s an odd, amazing sensation with my legs bound open like that, because he is right. Not even the slightest shimmer of my desire can be hidden.

  “Yes,” I manage, forcing the word to my lips. “But more. You.”

  He adds another finger and begins a slow, sensual in-and-out. I tilt my head back, letting the pleasure build. I’m close, so very close, my muscles constricting to pull him in, harder and deeper. And then, finally, he gives me what I really want. He shifts his body over mine and holds himself up with one hand near my waist. The other he slides under my ass, lifting me just slightly. It feels strange because I cannot help. My knees and feet are not my own, but it’s not something I’m particularly worried about—for that matter, I’m no longer worried about anything, because Damien penetrates me now, his hips thrusting forward, his cock hard inside me as he holds my hips with his hands and pulls me toward him to meet his thrusts.

  His movements are steady, even, and the tingling sensation in my body is like electricity building to a thrumming, steady power. But that’s the thing about electricity—it can surprise you, and when Damien changes the rhythm, I cry out, my body shuddering as a powerful, unexpected orgasm bursts through me, sending vibrant sensations throughout me like ripples from a rock in a pond.

  Damien doesn’t stop. He thrusts again, harder and faster, again and again, until he, too, explodes. And, more than that, I explode again with him.

  “Oh, baby,” he says, as his body melts against mine.

  “That was spectacular,” I say, surprised that I can actually manage to form words.

  He leans up on his elbow and looks at me. “Are you okay?”

  “Mmm.” I moan in satisfaction. “More than okay. But just a little stiff,” I add.

  He chuckles, then kisses me softly and tells me to wait. A moment later he is carefully cleaning me, then slowly unbinding me, massaging each place where the rope cut into me, and gently stretching out my limbs.

  He picks me up and carries me to bed, then eases up to spoon behind me, his arms around my waist. I sigh, lost in the pleasure of being so well attended to. I feel spoiled and cherished. More than that, I feel safe.

  For a moment, we are silent, but as my mind drifts back over the evening, I cannot keep my question in any longer.

  “Damien?”

  “Yes?” His voice is tired. Sleep will soon be upon both of us.

  “What was your father talking about? Why do you need to be squeaky clean?”

  He is quiet for so long that I hold my breath.

  “He’s yanking my chain,” Damien finally says. But that is not the truth, and I’m certain that Damien realizes I know it.

  “Damien—”

  He rolls me over, and something about his eyes tells me that this is it. If I press, he will tell me.

  I swallow. Because this isn’t about learning the truth, it’s about Damien willingly sharing the truth with me.

  I begin again. “How did you know where to find me tonight?”

  For a moment his expression reveals nothing. Then I see the smile light his eyes, though it does not reach his lips. He cups my head with his hand and looks at me with an expression of such adoration it takes my breath away.

  “Don’t you know, Nikki? No matter where you go, I will always find you.”

  12

  My legs are deliciously sore when I wake Saturday morning. I roll over, searching for Damien, but he isn’t there. I consider staying in bed—after all, at some point he has to come back—but the lure of coffee wins out and I head for the kitchen.

  The man knows me well, because the note he left for me is taped to the coffeepot.

  A few things came up. At the office. Loved last night. The image of you naked and bound, spread wide for me, is burned into my mind. I expect that I will find it difficult to concentrate. I may just have to spank you later for distracting me so …

  I smile and tuck the note into my purse. Then I shower and change before heading through the door in the back that connects the apartment to the office. When I finish navigating the maze of hallways and find myself in the reception are
a, Ms. Peters greets me with a smile.

  “Good morning. He and Mr. Maynard are on the phone. Would you like to wait?”

  “That’s okay. He’s obviously busy.” I think about the reporters and what they said about an indictment. If Charles is here, there must be some legal wrangling going on with one of the Stark International divisions.

  Edward isn’t working until later, but Ms. Peters arranges another car for me. Only the cat greets me when I come through the door. Jamie, I assume, is with Raine.

  I haven’t been alone that much lately, and it’s nice to be in my room with my things. Especially since so many of my things now remind me of Damien.

  I look over at the Monet he gave me—haystacks at sunset. It’s stunning, and thank God it’s insured. I’m still nervous, though, but at the same time, I don’t want it anywhere else except the room in which I sleep. Well, the room in which I sleep when I’m not with Damien, anyway.

  I settle in front of my computer and start looking through my image files. I should be doing work stuff, but I so rarely have time to spend on the gift I’m making for Damien—a scrapbook filled with mementos of our time together. A snapshot of the Monet. Dozens of pictures of sunsets, and lots and lots of images of the two of us together. As much as I hate the paparazzi, I have to admit they’ve captured a few nice candid shots.

  I work on organizing the pictures and writing captions for a few hours, then decide I ought to tackle cleaning the apartment before I shower for tonight. Weirdly, “cleaning” includes making up the bed in our living room.

  As I vacuum, the sound of grunts and moans comes from next door, loud enough to be heard over the machine. I close my eyes, silently thankful that Jamie is not still sleeping with Douglas, our too-loud, too-fucked by too-many women, neighbor. Mostly, I wish she hadn’t fucked him in the first place, especially since he’s been making hints about wanting her again.

  By the time Jamie gets home, Douglas’s latest fuck buddy has gone and I’ve moved on to the kitchen counters.

  “Wow,” she says. “You’re hired.”

  I lift a brow. Jamie’s idea of cleaning is to let the place get completely trashed, then spend an entire day complaining about how much she hates cleaning. It drives me nuts.

  “Will there be food tonight?” she asks.

  “Appetizers and drinks,” I say.

  “Wanna grab a late lunch?”

  I shrug. “Sure. Edward will be here at six to get us, so we want to leave time to come back and change.”

  “In the limo?” Jamie perks up.

  “I don’t know,” I say, tossing her a sponge. “But if you go wipe down the bathroom counters, I’ll text Damien and tell him that’s what we want.”

  And that, I think as she trots off to clean, is how to manage a roommate.

  “Holy architecture, Batman,” Jamie says as one of the staff that Damien hired for the party opens the door for us.

  I follow her inside, and stop just over the threshold. Apparently Damien has house elves, because the huge room that was bare just yesterday is now furnished in a manner that is both welcoming and opulent. The white marble tiles, which extend through the entrance hall all the way to the back of the house, gleam, a perfect stage for the equally white furniture that now fills the space, the only color provided by the vibrant artwork decorating the two walls to the left and right. The far wall is glass and is constructed like the door to the third-floor balcony so that the panels can be thrust aside and the room opened to the pool deck and the negative-edge pool that extends beyond. The ceiling extends up all four floors to a glass skylight, giving the room an atrium-like feel.

  The two focal points—the pool outside and the massive marble staircase—complement each other, as if each is beckoning the visitor to come exploring, promising all sorts of delights no matter which direction the guest chooses to go.

  “This place is fabulous,” Jamie continues in a stage whisper that probably carries all the way to the third floor.

  “I know,” I say as a kind of proprietary pride swells through me. I have had nothing to do with building or decorating this house, and yet there is no denying the simple truth that it feels like home. “Want a tour?”

  “Drink first,” she says. “Tour later.”

  “Come on, then.” I lead her to the marble stairs and we climb up to the third floor. The second floor is really more of a balcony or mezzanine and has no enclosed rooms. Instead, it is an area that is accessed from either a set of stairs near the kitchen or from the small service elevator. What makes the floor unique is that it serves as a library, and as our climb takes us even with that level, I hear Jamie suck in air. “Wow,” she says.

  “Amazing, huh? The workers just finished the shelving a few days ago. I have no idea where Damien was storing all those books.” From our perspective on the stairs we appear to be completely surrounded by cherrywood bookshelves filled top to bottom with every volume imaginable, ranging from rare first editions to spine-broken sci-fi paperbacks that Damien has read over and over again.

  Like the rest of the house, one entire wall is made of glass and looks out over the ocean. This glass, however, is especially designed to block damaging rays that could harm the books. Four leather armchairs make up the focal point of the reading area. They are a deep, chocolate brown and they are covered with a buttery soft leather that I happen to know feels wonderful against naked skin.

  Even with no enhancements, the library would be awe-inspiring. Tonight, though, it is magical. Damien must have had a crew working all day, because the intricate iron railing now sparkles with strings of white lights. They glow softly, invitingly, and when we ascend the stairs and pass by them, the twinkle of lights gives the illusion that we are passing by the stars and entering heaven.

  I’ve brought my Leica tonight, despite the fact that my camera bag does nothing for the stunning blue dress that Damien bought me, and I pause on the stairs long enough to take a photo of Jamie with the lights shining behind her.

  I tuck the camera back into the bag and we continue up to the third floor, then step out onto the landing. Beside me, Jamie gasps. I do, too.

  Because the first thing I see is me, my naked body, standing strong and bound for the world.

  “Not a bad way to greet visitors, eh, Texas?” Evelyn smiles broadly as she hurries over to envelop me in a very un-LA-like bear hug. Evelyn is not an air kiss kind of woman. “You are as gorgeous in that painting as you are in real life,” she says, adding another squeeze to the hug.

  She releases me and turns to face Jamie. “And you must be Jamie.”

  “I guess I must be.”

  “Well, then, turn around and let me have a look at you.”

  I’ve never seen Jamie intimidated, but I think she’s a little bowled over by Evelyn because Jamie spins without complaint, showing off the red sheath dress she purchased for the party.

  “Good ass, nice tits. Definitely got the face and the hair.”

  “What?” Jamie asks, deadpan. “Is there something wrong with my legs?”

  Evelyn snorts and looks at me. “I like her.” She turns back to Jamie. “Texas tells me you’re an actress.”

  “Trying to be,” Jamie says.

  “Well, assuming you can actually act, you’ve got the right equipment to make it in this business. And between you and me, your assets are good enough that you can probably even make it without that pesky talent thing.”

  “I can act,” Jamie assures her.

  “You find me later. We’ll talk. I may not be in the business anymore, but that doesn’t mean I don’t still have a hand in the pie.”

  “Sure.” If Jamie smiles any broader, she’s going to injure her facial muscles. “Thank you. That would be great.”

  Evelyn turns to signal one of the waitresses, and as she does, Jamie faces me. Wow, she mouths. I know, I reply.

  When the waitress arrives with a tray topped with wine and champagne, Evelyn hands a glass to each of us. “Come on in, girls. No poin
t in standing here on the landing all night.” She indicates the room, which is now sparsely furnished in the same style as the first floor. Considering the care that Damien took in decorating the library, I assume that these furnishings are for tonight only, probably leased from a company that stages real estate for sale.

  Scattered among the tables, chairs, and small sofas are easels displaying Blaine’s work. Unlike my portrait, those canvases are actually on sale tonight. The artist himself fidgets with one easel, adjusting the angle of a small canvas featuring a nude on an Oriental rug. Evelyn lifts her hand in a wave, but Blaine doesn’t see her.

  “Come on,” she says, taking my friend’s arm. “I’ll introduce you to the man of the hour. Nikki, if you’re looking for Damien, he said he was going to go change. By the way, looks like great minds think alike. Turns out he did help Giselle get the paintings back from Palm Springs. Edward was bringing some in from the limo yesterday when I was finishing up.”

  “Oh.” Her words surprise me, because Damien hadn’t mentioned that he’d seen Giselle, and I feel a little finger of irritation start to claw at me. I force myself to shake it off. I’m just sensitive because Giselle is suddenly, inexplicably in my orbit, what with Palm Springs and Tanner’s strange comment. And now past jealousies are poking up their little heads. But I don’t want to be that girl, and I smack down their green-eyed little faces.

  As Evelyn leads Jamie to Blaine, I head into the kitchen, planning to drop off my camera bag and continue to the closet.

  I don’t get that far, however, because as I’m hooking the Leica strap over my arm and putting the bag in one of the cabinets, I see Damien coming down the hallway from the bedroom area. I stop what I’m doing, and stand frozen, simply staring at him. He’s wearing pressed black pants and a collarless black jacket over one of the starched white shirts I love so well. It’s unbuttoned, and the open shirt paired with the jacket gives him the quality of a powerful rebel. He looks so breathtakingly sexy that I have a hard time believing that he is real, much less that he’s mine. On the contrary, he must be a fantasy that I have conjured. A dream in which I’m now living. A perfect dream from which I do not wish to wake.