by J. Kenner
“You’re really not going to tell me?” I ask. I am still sweetly on edge. The car is low to the ground and powerful, and I can feel the thrum of the engine against my ass, and the vibration is more than a little enticing. My breasts feel heavy and swollen and though chiffon is soft, my nipples are so stimulated that they are painfully erect.
Damien stays quiet, but he eyes me sideways, and I see the amused smile playing at his mouth.
“Are we going into LA? It’s almost eleven.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to keep you up past your bedtime, Ms. Fairchild.”
I could protest, but it would be for show only. So I settle back in the soft leather and watch the ocean go by on my right. I feel Damien’s eyes on me, though, and I turn to him, my expression stern. “Eyes on the road, Mr. Stark.”
“I’d rather watch you,” he says, but he turns back to focus on the road ahead. He reaches up and adjusts the rearview mirror. “That’s better,” he says, and his mouth tugs into a lazy grin.
“Like the view?” I ask. My legs are apart as he’d instructed, the hem of my dress hitting about mid-thigh.
“I’ll like it even better in a minute.”
I glance sideways at him, suddenly suspicious. “Oh?”
“I saw the way you were admiring Blaine’s work,” he says conversationally.
“He’s very talented.”
“The way he can portray arousal, shame, sexual longing. There are some at the gallery that show a woman in the throes of an orgasm. Spectacular, really.”
“I haven’t seen those,” I say.
“Which one was your favorite this evening?”
“I liked them all,” I say.
“Did you? I thought I saw a note of particular interest on your face when you looked at the woman on the chaise. Do you know the one I mean?”
“Yes,” I say. My pulse has picked up its tempo. I’m remembering the painting … and I’m anticipating where Damien is going.
“What was she doing?” he asks.
“Touching herself,” I whisper.
“Her lover off to one side. Her legs bound open.”
“Yes.” I have to force the word out.
“Take your shoes off,” he says, and I bend down to tackle the small buckles. “Lift your skirt up around your waist. I want you bare against the leather. Oh, God, Nikki, yes,” he says as I comply. The leather is smooth and cool against my red-hot skin. The vibrations beneath me seem even more erotic and I feel wanton and wild.
“Spread your legs, baby. Just like the woman in the painting.”
His words—along with all they portend—are as erotic as his touch, and my already hyperaware body kicks into overdrive. I’m aware of every movement, every brush of air against my skin, every beat of my heart, every tiny drop of perspiration that beads between my breasts. I work to control my breathing as I lift one leg and wedge it between the door and the dashboard. Then I take the other and hook my ankle over the gearshift box. I’m spread as wide as possible, and when I reach down to recline the seat, the motion shifts my hips up a bit. I make a small, strangled sound. My entire body tingles, but I am most aware of the heavy throbbing between my legs.
“She lies there, silently begging for her lover. Her cunt is slick, her breasts tender, her nipples begging to be sucked.”
“Damien, please …”
“He doesn’t touch her, though,” Damien continues, and I bite back a frustrated moan. “He leaves her like that, a breeze blowing on her aching cunt.”
He leans over and adjusts the air conditioner so that a stream of cool air blows right between my legs. It’s soft and decadent and it makes me ache.
“If he were kind, he’d let her touch herself, but if you look closely at the painting, you see that her hand is in the air, wanting, but not reaching. Did you notice that, Nikki?”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m certain she was touching herself.”
“Are you? Well, that’s the thing about art. It’s different for everybody. Shall I tell you what I see?”
I swallow and nod.
“I see the man who is not in the portrait. The woman means everything to him. And nothing can please him more than to bring her pleasure. And not just a quick fuck and a fast orgasm, Nikki. No, he wants to create their own nirvana. To build pleasure upon pleasure until the lines cross and neither is sure if it’s torment or delight.”
I lick my lips, my mouth dry. I’m hyperaware of my body. Of the motion of the car. Of my breasts, so tender now beneath the thin material.
“He wants his lover to trust him. To surrender herself to him completely. To let him orchestrate the pleasures of her body. But he leaves the ultimate choice up to her. He lets her have one hand free, and that is the moment Blaine captured on the canvas.”
He turns and looks briefly at me before returning his attention to the road. “And so the question is, does she touch herself or does she trust him?” His voice is as warm and soft and intimate as the caress I crave. “You tell me, Nikki. What does the woman do?”
“She trusts him,” I whisper.
And then I close my eyes and lose myself to the motion of the car and Damien’s promise of what is to come.
16
“We’re here,” Damien says, after a journey that must have been a thousand miles.
“Here?” I repeat. I glance out the window and see that we’re pulling into the driveway of the Century Plaza hotel.
“Tug your skirt down, baby,” he says. “Unless you want to give the valet a treat.”
I shift in the seat and cover myself, then bend even farther and put my shoes on. My body is achy and needy, and I am having trouble switching over to this new reality. “We’re checking into a hotel?” The prospect is undeniably enticing.
“You are,” he says, as he pulls up to the valet stand.
A young man in a red uniform hurries to Damien’s side of the car. “I’m just dropping off the lady,” he says.
Now I’m completely confused. “What are we—”
“Go register,” he says. “Don’t worry, you already have a reservation. And I suggest a drink. Take a seat at the bar. It’s a beautiful venue and the bartender makes an excellent martini.”
I am still in the car, and the valet is holding my door open. I wait for Damien to say more, but he has pulled out his phone and is scrolling through his text messages. I’m still not certain what the game is, but at least I’ve figured out that it is a game.
“Yes, sir.” I slip out of the car, then remember my purse. “Wait a minute,” I say, then I lean back in, making sure that the dress gapes enough in the front to give Damien an enticing view of what I wear underneath this dress. Which is absolutely nothing.
“Tip the young man, darling,” I say, once I’m standing upright again. Then I turn and head into the hotel, making sure to swing my hips so that the skirt swishes as I walk.
I’ve not been in this hotel, and it’s stunning. It takes me a moment to get my bearings, but I find both the registration desk and the lobby bar. I go to register first, smiling at the clean-cut man who greets me. “I’m checking in. Nikki Fairchild.”
He taps at the computer screen, then looks up at me with an even wider smile. “I see that you’re in our penthouse suite. Can I have someone take up your luggage?”
“Thank you, but no.” I don’t bother mentioning that I have no luggage.
“One key or two?”
“Just one,” I say. I am, after all, a woman alone.
I consider going up to the room and lying naked on the bed, but Damien has told me to have a drink, and I am intrigued by both his plan for the evening and the thought of an excellent martini.
Mostly, though, I don’t want to give Damien any cause for punishing me. Because I am certain that my punishment would be abstinence, and that is not something that is on my radar tonight.
It’s late, but the bar is full. There are very few women, and the men are mostly in suits. Considering the business attire,
I’m guessing that there is a conference going on, because almost every table is full. I take a seat at one of the bar stools as Damien said and order a dirty martini. As I wait for the bartender to fix it, I glance out across the lobby, but so far, there is no sign of Damien.
I’m not sure what to expect, and I have to fight the urge to pull out my phone and call him. Instead, I tell myself that patience is a virtue. Not necessarily one of my virtues, but a virtue nonetheless.
“You look distracted. Anything I can help you with?”
The voice belongs to a nice-looking man who sits one seat over from me at the bar. I finally see Damien, and am about to tell the man that no, I’m fine, when Damien meets my eyes, then very deliberately takes a seat at a nearby table with three other men.
“No, thanks. I’m fine.”
The bartender puts the martini in front of me. I take a sip, confused, and wonder what happens next.
The man moves to the stool next to me, then leans even closer into my personal space. I consider sliding one stool over myself, but decide to remain put, my posture rigid, my body language very, very clear.
Apparently, though, the guy is illiterate in the body language department.
“Here for the conference?” he asks, and I can smell the liquor on his breath.
“No,” I say. “I’m looking for some time alone.”
“Lucky you,” says the man who cannot take a hint. “Insurance regulations. Hours and hours of continuing education.”
“Hmm,” I say. I have my Coldly Polite face on, but he’s apparently blind as well.
He leans in closer still, and now he’s at such an angle that he has to grip the bar itself or risk sliding to the floor. I give in to temptation and lean in the opposite direction. “I can think of better ways to spend a late night,” he says, his voice low and his intent unmistakable. “And we are in a hotel. You do the math.”
“I was never particularly good at math,” I lie. I consider moving to a table, but Damien specifically told me to stay at the bar. And no matter what else, I am following his rules tonight.
“You look like you’d be good at a lot of things,” the man says, staring at my tits.
I turn back to the bar to find the bartender sliding a new martini in front of me. “From the gentleman,” he says, nodding toward Damien.
“How nice,” I say, then smile at Damien, which seems to irritate my companion.
Damien rises, says something to the men at his table, and strides to the bar. He stands right beside me, and as is always the case when Damien is near, I am suddenly hyperaware—of him, of my own body, of the rotation of the earth beneath us.
I smile at him. “Thank you for the drink. Sir.”
I see the muscle in his cheek tighten when I say the last word, and I have to smile. He wasn’t expecting that. “I hope you like dirty martinis.”
“The dirtier the better,” I say.
“Hey. You want to get lost? I was chatting with the lady.”
Damien turns to him. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so. I want her.”
The guy’s eyes go wide, but he recovers fast. “The lady wants to be alone.” Apparently, he’s now all about chivalry.
“Does she?” He looks at me, then speaks very slowly and very clearly. “Did you come here to be alone? Or to be fucked?”
“I—” I have no idea how I’m supposed to answer. Beside us, the guy is apparently shocked into silence. “I guess that depends on who’s doing the fucking,” I finally say.
“I like your answer,” Damien says. “What’s your name?”
“Louise,” I say, my middle name coming unbidden to my lips.
Damien grins. “Nice to meet you, Louise. I want you to come with me now.”
I gasp, embarrassed, but also incredibly, undeniably turned on. “I—”
“Now.” He holds out his hand and I hesitate only a moment before taking it.
Beside us, my companion stares with his mouth gaping open.
Damien helps me off the stool and aims a friendly nod at the insurance dude. “Maybe next time,” he says, as the guy looks at Damien as if he’s pulled off some kind of magic act. At least we’re leaving him impressed and not pissed.
I am giddy as I follow Damien. I want to laugh. I want to take his hand and twirl in the lobby. I want to slam him hard against the lobby wall and claim his mouth with my own. I want his hands on me. I want him inside me.
I want him to fuck me, just like he said. And I want it now.
Apparently, so does Damien. As soon as the doors close on the elevator, Damien backs me against the wall. His mouth is hard against mine, his hand under my skirt, two fingers inside me. I grind my hips against him, wanting him, craving more of him than I can get in an elevator.
“God, Louise,” he says, and we both laugh.
“I thought someone might recognize us. It’s my middle name.”
“I know,” he says. “And I think they were all too tipsy to care. And too out of town.”
“Could have been some paparazzi around.”
“Fuck the paparazzi,” Damien says, his words as harsh as sandpaper.
I ease my body against his. “I’d rather fuck you.”
He kisses me again. Hard.
“That man was very disappointed,” I say, when he breaks the kiss.
“Just claiming what’s mine. And adding in the public service of giving that man a fantasy to keep him occupied this evening.” He easily thrusts a third finger inside me, and I bite down on my lower lip to stifle a scream of pleasure. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it.”
“I liked it,” I say as the elevator doors begin to slide open. “I liked it very much.”
He withdraws his fingers, then directs me out of the elevator, punctuating the movement with a light pat to my ass. Our room is at the end of the hall, and I am in awe when we step inside. The suite has a living area and a dining area and a separate bedroom.
The door closes with a thump behind us.
“For a woman who likes to be mine, you were certainly doing an excellent job of flirting with that man.”
I am still gawking at the room, but at these words, I turn, ready to defend myself, because I absolutely, positively did not flirt with Mr. Pushy.
My words die on my lips, however, when I see the humor in Damien’s eyes. But there’s something else, too, and I know where this is going.
I give a careless little toss of my head. “What was I supposed to do? You were ignoring me. I was just making conversation.”
“He wanted more than conversation.” He takes my hand and pulls me into the dining area so that we are standing by the large, round table. He turns me around so that he is behind me, then slides his hand up my leg under my skirt.
“You need to understand how completely you belong to me. Mine to pleasure,” he says as his featherlight touch on my clit sparks a flurry of shudders within me. “Or mine to torment.” He lands a hard spank on my rear, and I cry out, the sound wrenched from my throat on a wave of pleasure. “You like that?” he murmurs.
Dear God, yes. I lift my rear, giving him better access.
“Spread your legs.”
I comply eagerly, anticipating the feel of Damien inside me. I hear the metallic sound of his zipper, then the soft brush of material against skin as he takes off his slacks. He keeps his shirt on, and the starched cotton hem brushes against my skin when he leans over again in a way that is probably unintentional, but comes close to driving me crazy.
His hand returns between my legs, the other one going to cup my breast. I start to rise, but hear his sharp censure telling me to stay as I am, bent over and ready for him. “You want to be fucked, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I moan. It’s good that my hands are on the table. I don’t think my legs alone could hold me up. I am little more than sensation. I am need and longing and sexual energy, and if he doesn’t let me come soon, I fear that I will collapse from the pleasure of it all.
He slides tw
o fingers in me, and I groan as my body tightens around him. I’m close—so very close—and I bite my lower lip in expectation of a soul-rocking explosion.
It doesn’t come.
For that matter, neither do I, and I whimper in protest as he withdraws his fingers, his hands going to a relatively chaste position on my hips.
“Turn around, baby,” he says. “I want to see your face.”
I turn, and his eyes say more than words ever could. I melt under the desire I see there. The need and the hunger. It rips through me until the only thing that I know in the world is Damien. “Kiss me,” I whisper.
He does, and it is a violent, hungry kiss that bruises my lips until I taste blood. He pushes me back onto the sturdy table, then grabs the dress at the bodice and rips it down, baring my breasts. I cry out, arching up to meet him, my hands going to his head to pull him down as his mouth closes over my nipple, his teeth biting just enough that I suck in air, cresting on a wave of intense pleasure that borders on pain.
“Now,” he says, and what remains of the dress is up around my waist. The table is hard against my back, but I don’t care, and I spread my legs wide for him then cry out as he thrusts deep inside me. I arch up, meeting his thrusts, feeling frenzied and wild and wicked and his.
Damien’s.
He explodes inside me, my name on his lips. And then, spent and soft, he slides his hand down to where I am slick with his semen. I gasp as he strokes me in small circles, faster and faster until I again cry out and my body bucks from the orgasm that rips through it, then finally calms as exhaustion and bliss take over.
“Wow,” I say, and curl up next to him.
“Indeed,” he says.
We stay like that for a moment, still in each other’s arms.
“This table is really uncomfortable,” I finally say.
Beside me, Damien laughs.
“I think we need to clean it up, too. I’m not sure the maids will understand.”
“I’m sure they’ve seen it all before,” he says.
I turn and meet his eyes, my brows raised.
“Right,” he says. “We’ll take care of it. But now, I’m taking you to bed.”
