by J. Kenner
I follow his instructions and turn my back to three of the jets, then lift my arms to hold tight to the topmost pipe.
“Very nice,” he says, dousing a bath sponge in shower gel and slowly sudsing me up so that I sigh and melt a little under his ministrations.
His touch is gentle, almost sweet, and I let my head fall as I sigh with pleasure. A moment later, he pulls the sponge away, then steps back. I open my eyes, confused, but he only smiles as he takes the handheld shower head, sets it to a light spray, and slowly rinses me off.
He starts with my shoulders then works his way down, the water sluicing over me in a familiar fashion that, under the circumstances, seems entirely erotic. He spends extra time on my breasts, and I feel my nipples tighten, a hot wire of desire running from my breast to my sex, and as his right hand continues to move the nozzle lower and lower, his other hand fingers my breast, teasing my nipple with increasing intensity as a wild heat curls inside me.
“Damien,” I murmur as he nudges my legs apart, then aims the handheld spray at my center. I wriggle my hips, wanting the spray to hit me just so, but he puts a firm hand on my waist, keeping me still.
“I want to touch you,” I whisper. “Please, can I take my hands down?”
“No,” he whispers, then looks up to meet my eyes. “Not yet.”
I make a noise in protest, then swallow it as he adjusts the nozzle, increasing the spray so that it now pulsates against my clit. I arch back, trying to move, the pleasure almost too intense to bear. But Damien holds me in place, and my whole body shakes as the precursor of a massive orgasm rocks me.
“Damien,” I say. “Please.” But damned if I know what I’m asking for. I’ve gone to that place of sensation and longing, and it’s Damien who’s led me there. And Damien who will lead me back again.
Still, he doesn’t relent. But he does bend forward long enough to press his lips to my ear and whisper. “Not yet, baby. I want more.”
“Then let me touch you.”
He shakes his head. “More of you, Nikki. I want to see the way your skin changes as you get aroused. The way your lips part when you want me. I want to run my tongue over your nipples, so tight with need. And most of all, I want to feel your cunt tighten around me when I take you all the way over the edge.”
I whimper, but say nothing.
“This isn’t about me, baby. So relax. All you have to do is come for me. Can you do that?”
I nod.
“Good,” he says as he slides his hand down and cups me. “Christ, you’re slippery. I may have to fuck you sooner than I intended.”
“Okay,” I say, and he laughs, obviously surprised by my quick and heartfelt response.
“We’ll see,” he says, then drops to his knees. His hands are still on my hips, and his kisses start at my inner thighs. He works his way up, his tongue flicking over my clit just long enough to ramp me up again. Then he continues upward, his mouth tasting and kissing until he reaches my breasts. He nips at my nipples in turn, his oral ministrations alternating with fingers pinching until I’m half-convinced I’ll come that way alone.
Then he’s standing fully upright, his fingers twined in my hair as he tugs my head back to the angle he wants before closing his mouth over mine and claiming me in a wild, deep, violent kiss.
“Now,” he says when he pulls away. “Hold on, baby,” he says, then grabs my ass and lifts me so that, for a moment, I’m supporting most of my weight with my arms on the jet. Then he thrusts inside me, and I cry out in both pleasure and surprise as I close my legs tight around him, both to relieve the pressure on my arms and so that I can draw him even further inside.
“Let go,” he orders, and I do, moving my hands to his shoulders as he turns us in one quick move and slams my back up against the glass shower wall.
“Ease up, baby,” he says as he grips me at my upper thighs. I’m trapped, held in place by the glass and by the force of his thrusts as he moves deep inside me, over and over. I grip his shoulders hard, and look deep into his eyes as he fills me, hard and deep, taking me closer and closer to the edge.
“Come on, baby. Come with me.”
His words are a demand that my body obeys, shattering suddenly as if I’d gone supernova. But never once do I close my eyes or break the connection. And as my soul spins out of control, it’s the intensity in Damien’s eyes that brings me back again. Back to the arms of the man I love.
Chapter 4
It’s a gorgeous December morning, the sun shining down on the stunning homes that dot the hills of the Pacific Palisades. The ocean glitters behind us, and as we go over hills and around turns, we catch small glimpses of those deep blue waters.
I glance into the Range Rover’s back. Lara is absorbed with reading her current favorite book, Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus, while Anne draws furiously with crayons in her new Christmas-themed coloring book. Neither is car sick or whining or complaining about her sibling.
Truly, the holiday season is a miraculous time.
I resettle myself in the passenger seat as Damien turns onto Jackson and Sylvia’s street. When we’d first met Jackson Steele, he was living on a houseboat he keeps docked in Marina del Rey. After he and Syl got married and Jackson built this house, he’d kept the boat as an office for a while. Now, the entire operation has moved its base from New York to Los Angeles, and it’s far too big a company for a boat. Instead, Steele Development is in its own building at The Domino, a retail and office complex in Santa Monica that was designed by Jackson and co-developed with Stark Real Estate.
As for the houseboat, he currently rents that to my lifelong friend, Ollie McKee. A former lawyer, Ollie recently transitioned to the FBI. More important to me, he’s once again living permanently in Los Angeles, and I’ll see him in just a few hours at The Domino’s Winter Wonderland event.
We round a bend, and the stunning contemporary that Jackson built for Sylvia rises in front of us. Elegantly minimal, the house seems to be part of the landscape, not something plunked down onto it. The lines flow, some to the sea, some to the heavens, and the front door of glass and steel offers the only view to the driveway and the street beyond. All the other windows face the ocean.
It’s unique and lovely, and I’m pretty sure it’s been featured in every major architectural magazine, as have most of Jackson’s designs.
Damien maneuvers into the drive and parks behind the sleek black two-seater Ferrari that he gave to Jamie years ago. I frown, wondering if that means that Ryan’s sister, Moira, cancelled. I hope not. I know she’s busy finishing up her Masters in marketing, but it would be a shame if she missed out on the holidays. Not to mention the fact that the girls adore her, and always beg for Moira to babysit when Gregory can’t watch them.
Since Damien and I have kid-transport down to a science, it doesn’t take long to get the girls unstrapped and out of the car. Immediately, they scamper to the open door and race inside to find their cousins.
Damien and I move more slowly, enjoying what has become increasingly rare alone time. “I was thinking this morning that it’s a shame I didn’t know Jackson when I designed the house. Ours is good. His is better.”
“Ours is amazing,” I counter, stating what I consider an empirical truth. “And it’s not as though you two hit it off right away. There was that whole period where he thought you were as much of a devil as your father.”
“Mmm,” Damien says, and I’m thankful he doesn’t expand on the topic. The last thing I meant to do was pull Jeremiah Stark into any holiday-related conversation. Or any conversation for that matter.
“Besides, it’s not like you two haven’t made up for lost time. So many projects, and The Domino is topping them all.” The complex is not only at full capacity, it’s won almost every major award for design that exists.
Stark International’s Resort at Cortez—an island development—is another that added a feather to Jackson Steele’s already full cap. But while Damien was personally involved in The Domino, Sy
l was the Stark representative who took point and worked with Jackson on that.
I bite back a smile.
“What?” Damien asks.
“Just thinking that Syl and Jackson got together working on The Resort at Cortex. What kind of bromance did you two have working on The Domino?”
He chuckles. “The best kind,” he assures me. “The kind where our wives are like sisters, our children are cousins, and where Jackson and I made up for some of those lost years when I didn’t have a clue he existed.”
“You did that before,” I say.
“True. But we lost a lot of years. And we have a lot of time to make up for.”
As if he knew we were talking about him, Jackson steps over the threshold and stands beneath the porte-cochere as we continue down the etched concrete drive toward the stunning contemporary-style home. He’s younger than Damien, but like my husband, Jackson stands with a confident posture that suggests that he owns the world. His hair, as dark as Damien’s, is thick and tousled, and his strong jawline is rough with beard stubble.
But it’s his eyes that are his most striking feature. A vivid blue that can be either as warm as a summer sky or as cold as an arctic sea. Now, they are warm and inviting.
“I was beginning to think you dropped the kids and ran off on your own.”
“Tempting,” Damien says, as Jackson kisses my cheek, then hooks an arm around each of us and guides us into the waiting chaos.
And chaos it is.
While the view of the Steele home from the front may be worthy of Architectural Digest, the interior is a screaming, writhing pit of insanity otherwise known as The Gathering of the Cousins.
“It’s too early for whisky,” Sylvia says, approaching with a flute full of orange liquid. “But a mimosa should take the edge off.”
I take it eagerly, then follow her through the house to the back patio. The kids are ahead of us, and Lara and Ronnie, their oldest at seven, are already clamoring for the swings while three-year-old Jeffery and Anne have plunked themselves down in the sandbox.
“Should we go down?” I’m imagining little eyes stung with sand.
“Moira’s there.” Sylvia points, and I see the pretty dark-haired girl come out from behind the shed with a bouncy ball.
“I was afraid she skipped out on today when I only saw the one car.”
Sylvia rolls her eyes. “She actually sat in the back of that thing. I have no idea how she fit. She’s what, five-ten?”
“Maybe she’s foldable,” I say, and we both laugh.
Syl, I think, would have no trouble curling up in the back of the Ferrari. She’s shorter than me, not petite, but not tall. These days, she’s wearing her hair short again, and the pixie cut suits her. I originally met her when she was Damien’s executive assistant. Now, Damien’s right; she’s like a sister, both by marriage and by friendship.
“I’m sorry Evelyn’s not coming,” I say, thoughts of sisters pushing my thoughts to my own mother, and then veering me quickly away. Elizabeth Fairchild may be tied to me biologically, but Evelyn Dodge is the woman who feels like my mother. And, in fact, she gave me away at my wedding. As Damien’s former agent, she’s been in his life since his tennis career, and I know she loves him as much as I do. More than that, she loves me, too.
“She had something she couldn’t get out of. She’s hoping to get free in time to see us at The Domino.”
“Fingers crossed,” I say, happy to be able to see her even if I won’t see my father, Frank. He was supposed to play the role of Santa at the Winter Wonderland, but he’s a travel photographer, and got a plum assignment that conflicted with the Santa gig.
I’m disappointed, of course, but apparently the company that booked him is paying all expenses, plus he was able to tag his own trip on at the end, allowing him to take another assignment to shoot advertising photos for a Mexican coffee plantation.
That’s where he is now, somewhere in Chiapas, and I’m hoping that means I’ll get coffee for Christmas.
“He’ll be back for Christmas Eve, won’t he?” Syl asks after I tell her all that. “The kids will be so disappointed if he’s not at the gala.”
The fairy wings that caused such drama this morning are part of a fundraising gala for the Stark Children’s Foundation, an organization that provides assistance to abused and neglected kids. At five p.m. on Christmas Eve, a gaggle of kids from three dance schools that provide sponsorships to the SCF will put on this year’s show, a much shortened version of The Nutcracker. Lara and Ronnie are both Sugarplum Fairies, and Ronnie has told Frank over and over that he needs to take “oodles and oodles” of pictures.
“He’ll be there.” I’m certain of it because he promised Lara, he promised Ronnie, and he promised me. We’ve had our rough patches, but Frank and I are doing well now, and I know he loves my family. More than that, I’m positive he’d move heaven and earth so as not to disappoint his grandchildren.
“There you are!”
I look up to see my best friend, Jamie, bounding toward me. I stand up just in time to get caught in a huge hug. An entertainment reporter, she’s been in New York for the last two weeks doing celebrity interviews, and it feels great to see her in person, even though we talk almost every day by phone.
“Why are you out here? The food and alcohol’s in the kitchen.” She’s holding a margarita, and it’s a testament to Jamie’s skill with a cocktail that she didn’t spill it down my back.
“Watching the kids,” I say truthfully. Then add, in the interest of full disclosure, “and enjoying the fact that Moira is on deck and not us.”
“And you wonder why Ryan and I don’t have kids yet.” Jamie grins at both of us, then pulls over another chair. She plunks herself down in it, settles back, and takes a long sip through the straw before sighing with pleasure.
Syl and I look at each other, amused. It’s barely ten, but margaritas for breakfast is so very, very Jamie.
“You might as well,” Jamie says, clearly reading our minds. “It’s not like we’re driving.”
She has a point. Edward, Damien’s favorite driver, is coming by with the fleet’s longest limo in an hour. It’s big enough to fit all of us with room to spare, and the kids will have a blast.
“Well, you’ve convinced me,” Syl says, and I shrug. Why not?
What’s better is that we don’t even have to get up, because as soon as we’ve made our decision, Jackson appears with a tray topped with frozen decadence.
“Where are Damien and Ryan?” I ask, taking one, then waving at Lara who’s shouting for me to see how high she can swing with Moira pushing her.
“Ryan’s making his famous frittata, and Damien’s cheering him on.”
I glance at Jamie. “Sounds yummy. Is that one of Ryan’s skillsets?”
She makes a zipping motion over her mouth. “Let’s just say that he is highly adept at all sorts of interesting things. I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”
I roll my eyes and turn back to Jackson, who’s put the tray on the table. He trades places with Sylvia, then pulls her down onto his lap.
“Is Damien just keeping him company, or are they sneaking in work time?” I ask.
Today was supposed to be a work-free zone, but I know my husband. More specifically, I know the width and breadth of the massive empire he controls, and even during the holidays, work will inevitably sneak in.
I also know that he’s good about keeping his word, and when he promises me a no-work day, he’ll only break that rule if there’s a true crisis.
“Something going on with a security system? Or with hiring a new agent?” I figure both guesses are good. After all, Ryan’s been Stark International’s Security Chief for years. More recently, he’s taken on the role of the head of Stark Security, a newly formed division that is still recruiting agents.
“From what I can gather, yes,” Jackson says. “Something about a system breach in an East Asian manufacturing plant. But there’s also real cooking going
on, so I think you two can cut both your men some slack.”
Jamie holds up her hands in self-defense. “Wasn’t saying a word.”
“Me, neither. Maybe Damien will pick up a cooking tip.”
I glance at Syl, who widens her eyes. “Don’t look at me. My man doesn’t need any slack.” She leans back, snuggling against the man in question. “There aren’t too many unexpected crises in the world of architecture. If Jackson says he’s taking a day off, he usually takes a day off. And I reap the benefit.” As if in illustration, she leans forward, snags a margarita, and sighs.
“Show off,” Jamie and I say simultaneously, then laugh.
We’re still giggly when Damien comes out, his hands in his pockets, his expression tight.
I stand immediately. “Damien? What’s wrong?”
“Is it Ryan?” Jamie asks, and he shakes his head, distracted, his eyes locked firmly on me.
“Frank called,” he says. “He’s not going to make it here by Christmas Eve.”
Chapter 5
I know I shouldn’t let it, but the news that Frank isn’t going to make it home erases some of the sunshine from the day. I work hard to keep a happy face for the kids, but I can’t hide the truth from Damien. And though he says nothing more about it during the brunch, whenever I need him, he’s right there, ready to catch me if I fall.
“I’m okay,” I whisper before we follow the girls into the limo. “Just disappointed.”
“I know,” he says, and from the intensity with which he looks at me, I’m certain that he really does know all of it. I’m disappointed, yes. But it’s a disappointment laced with lost years and missed opportunities. Of holidays with my cold, harsh mother, who made the season about dressing up and looking festive rather than actually enjoying each other.
Yes, I have wonderful memories of me and my sister managing to sneak in holiday movies and cartoons. But those memories are bittersweet. Ashley’s gone now, but my father has magically returned. And in a strange way he has filled a bit of the hole in my heart left by my sister’s suicide. And that makes it all the more important that he’s here to share his first Christmas with his family.
