by J. Kenner
He lowers his mouth, then teases my areola with his tongue. The sensation is incredible, and I bite my lip to keep from whimpering. Damien, however, is determined to drive me crazy, and while his mouth wreaks havoc above my waist, his fingers trail down, easing inside my pants to cup my sex.
I'm incredibly wet, and he strokes me in slow, gentle movements, never entering me, never teasing my clit. Just building me up. Making me crave. Making me want.
Making me so damn crazy that I arch my back more and gyrate my hips--silently demanding that he do more than just tease my breast and my cunt. I want his teeth on my nipple, his finger on my clit. Mostly, I want his cock inside me.
"Please," I beg when I can't stand it anymore. My entire body is on fire, and if he doesn't fuck me soon I'm going to be reduced to nothing more than cinders.
"Please," I beg again, only this time I reach down and fumble at the button on his jeans. I manage to get it unfastened, then slip my hand inside the denim. He's wearing boxers, and I stroke him through the soft cotton, gratified at the low, growling sound in his throat, and the corresponding way that his fingers slip inside me, just enough to tease. To make me want even more.
I ease my hand inside his boxers to find him hard and hot in my hand. He shifts his hips, the movement helping my effort to free him from both boxers and jeans. And as I slowly stroke his cock, he closes his mouth over my breast and sucks, tugging so hard that I feel a corresponding ache in my cunt, and my muscles clench with longing.
"Say it, baby," he murmurs. "Tell me you want me to fuck you."
"Yes," I say. "Please, Damien. Please fuck me. Hard," I beg. "Fast," I plead.
He doesn't make me wait. With one wild motion, he flips me over so fast it leaves me gasping. "On your knees," he orders as he yanks my yoga pants down, leaving my ass bare and exposed.
My head is down, my tank still bundled above my breasts, now pressed against the cotton sheet. My rear is in the air, and he strokes my ass cheeks. I spread my legs, limited by the fact that the pants are still midway down my thighs. I'm so wet, and when he thrusts two fingers inside of me, I press my face to the mattress and moan.
"Is that what you want?" he asks, bending over so that I feel his weight on my back, and his erection teases me as he whispers in my ear.
"Yes." My voice is strained, my thoughts little more than need and want. "Please," I beg. "Please, Damien."
His tongue teases my ear, and I whimper as he whispers. "Yes, baby. God, yes."
He's still wearing the jeans when he enters me, first with shallow teasing thrusts designed to drive me crazy, then more and more until he's slamming hard inside me, the denim brushing erotically against me as he takes me hard, filling me completely so that I'm gasping, my hands fisted in the sheets, lost in this sensation of being so completely connected with him.
Again and again he thrusts, and my sensitive nipples rub against the sheet, adding to the sensation that my entire body is on fire, lost in an inferno of Damien's making.
His breathing changes and I can tell he's close when one of his hands leaves my hips to reach around and tease my clit. "Now, baby," he says, as an electric current skitters over my entire body, racing to culminate at my core.
I let myself go, surrendering to him, knowing I'd trust him to take me anywhere, and as I let go, the crescendo builds and builds until he repeats, "now," and everything shatters into an explosion of light and color, and I tremble from the force of it before collapsing into Damien's embrace, his arms around me holding me tight and guiding my way back to earth.
"I love you," he murmurs, then kisses my temple as I curl up next to him, our clothes still askew and our breathing hard.
We stay that way for what feels like forever, and my eyes are beginning to droop when his phone rings beside us.
"Just ignore it," I say, snuggling closer.
My cheek is pressed against the T-shirt he still wears, and I can feel the tension as he starts to reach for the bedside table. "Sorry," he says, then sighs. "I'm juggling a few crises, or else I'd silence the damn thing. Better yet, I'd pitch it in the trash."
I manage a lazy laugh, but it shifts to concern when he gently slides out from under me and stands up beside the bed. He buttons his jeans, then says, "Okay, Charles. Tell me what you've learned."
He turns to me and smiles, but the expression feels half-hearted, and when he heads out of the room, I sit up with a frown as I think about the previous call from Charles. A call that seems a lifetime ago, but was really only hours.
I slide out of bed, then slip into my robe and follow Damien into the living area. He's standing at the breakfast bar, his back to me. His elbow is on the counter, his head is resting on his hand, the phone right beside him. Even from behind, he looks fragile, and my heart constricts. Fragile is not a word that's usually in the Damien Stark lexicon.
"What's going on?" I say gently.
He turns, his face revealing nothing.
"Just putting out fires at work," he says.
I move to him, then hold out my hand as if in greeting. His brow furrows, but he takes it automatically. I shake it. "I'm Nikki Stark," I say as if in introduction. "We've met before. I'm the woman who knows you well enough to know when you're not telling me something."
"Nikki--"
"No." I drop his hand and step back, my arms crossed over my chest. "Whatever's going on, it's personal. And you're trying to protect me. First because of my mom. Now, maybe, because of the baby. But don't you get it, Damien? There will always be something. And that's not your call to make. You're my husband, dammit, and I want to be there for you. Hell, I need to be there."
He's watching my face, and his expression is such a mix of frustration and pain and love it would be amusing if it weren't so real.
"Damien," I press. "Please."
Finally, he nods. "It's Sofia," he says, and it's as if he's taken a fist and punched me in the chest. I take a physical step back, my hand rising to cover my heart, like that would be sufficient protection from her.
"What about her?" My words come out in a normal voice, and I'm so proud of myself. Sofia Richter is Damien's oldest friend--and she completely reviles me. All things considered, I'm not crazy about her, either. And that, of course, is a complete understatement. Just hearing her name now makes me wrap my arms around myself in a tight hug.
"I've gotten news about her most recent evaluation," he says. He's pronouncing his words carefully, watching my reaction, but I'm determined to be nothing but supportive.
"Oh." Not long before Damien and I got married, Sofia completely lost her mind. Her crazy had a catalyst--me--but it also had a cause. She and Damien had both been abused by his tennis coach, a man named Merle Richter, who also happened to be her father. Damien was strong enough to cope, but Sofia spiraled down, the mental illness that had always been there inside her, tugging her deeper and deeper into an abyss.
Damien's taken care of her ever since Richter died when they were both teenagers. And right now, she's in an institution outside of London receiving the best mental care his money can buy.
I clear my throat. "So how's she doing?"
"She's doing well," he says. "Exceptionally well, actually."
"Oh. Well, that's good. But what does Charles have to do with all of that? That's why he called earlier, too, right?"
He nods, but the gesture is slow, and I can tell this whole conversation is difficult. I don't back off, though; I want too badly to know.
"So?" I press.
"I wanted more information than the institution was giving us. More than just the official evaluations. So Charles coordinated an investigation for me. Used his resources to talk to the staff and people who have interacted with her around town on her free days. They even spoke with the other patients."
"And?"
"And everything backs up the reports. She's doing fantastic."
There's a heaviness to his words that surprises me. "And that's bothering you?" I ask.
He sh
akes his head. "No. No, of course not. I just--"
He cuts himself off, his eyes on my face before he turns away, his fingers going to massage his temples as if he's fighting a whopper of a headache.
"She's like a sister to you," I say gently. "But she tried to hurt me. So you're happy for her, but confused."
Saying that Sofia tried to hurt me is a bit like saying the Pacific is a big lake. Because it was so much more than that. She befriended me, pretending to be someone else entirely. She got close, and then she threw down the gauntlet, all with the aim of trying to get me to cut--or worse.
She wanted Damien--and as far as she was concerned, I was in the way.
The whole thing had been a nightmare, and though Damien had continued to pay for her care after she was committed, he'd cut off all contact with her. But I know he never stopped caring about her.
Now, his lips curve into an ironic smile. "Yeah," he says. "That about covers it."
"It's okay," I assure him. "I know you love her. Of course you're going to be happy she's getting better."
He closes his eyes and nods, his body a tight wire of tension.
I move closer and wrap my arms around him, and he pulls me close, holding me so tightly I almost can't breathe. After a moment, he releases me. "Thank you," he says simply.
I step back, studying his face, but whatever vulnerability had been there is gone. All I see now is the corporate executive. A man used to hiding his emotions. To not giving anything away.
I frown. "Is there anything else? It feels like there's something you're not telling me."
"No. No, baby, of course not."
I nod, but my stomach twists. Because the truth is, I don't believe him. And that bothers me. More than that, it scares me.
Because now there's a gulf between us. A small one, maybe, but it's there. And I don't know how to cross it. But I need to.
I can do this, I think, my hand resting on my belly. I know that I can.
But only with Damien beside me.
7
I'm awake before the sun--but not before Damien. I'm not sure that I've ever been awake before Damien on a work day, and as I slide out of bed, I wonder if that will change once the baby is in our lives. When I'm up at four with diapers and feedings, and my schedule is all switched around.
I sit on the edge of the bed and press my hand lightly against my belly, feeling a bit unsettled. I'm still nervous about the baby, but the fear has vanished, leaving behind the kind of uncertainty and anticipation that is normal for facing the unknown. Even that fear is tempered by my knowledge that wherever this path leads, I'm traveling it with Damien.
So it's not the baby that weighs on me--it's the lingering secret. Or, rather, it's my fear that there is a secret. Maybe Damien really did tell me everything about Charles and the calls and Sofia. Maybe. But it feels like he's holding something back. And I can only hope that he will tell me soon. That he is only trying to keep my head clear while we are in Dallas.
I stand, then reach for my robe, telling myself that has to be it--he knows how stressed simply coming here has made me. How nervous I am about the interview today. And now, with the news of the baby and the mystery of my vanishing mother, of course, he is trying to protect me. That's all. Of course, that's all.
And as Damien steps into the room with a cup of coffee in his hand and tenderness in his eyes, I have to believe that I'm right.
"Good morning, beautiful," he says, then hands me the coffee, followed by a kiss.
"The kiss I like, but I'm not so sure about this." I look mournfully at the cup.
"Decaf," Damien says. "All the taste, none of the buzz."
I pretend to pout. "I like the buzz." I raise the cup, smell the brew, and put it down on the side table in disgust. "Yeah, no. Who would have thought that I'd ever reach the point of not wanting coffee?"
Damien pulls me close and cups my ass with one hand. "We'll just have to make sure you're stimulated in other ways until the baby's born," he murmurs, then nips my earlobe, making me jump.
"Careful," I say on a laugh. "You'll make me late, and then I'll blame you if I don't get the contract."
"Can't have that." He kisses my nose as he backs off. "How are you feeling? Any morning sickness?"
"None at all." I frown, because yesterday, I'd been so overwhelmed by hormones and nausea that I'd passed out. So what's changed? "You don't think that's a bad sign, do you? I did some reading online last night, and all the articles say that morning sickness is healthy, and--"
"You're fine," he says. "And if it makes you feel better, I'm sure it will be back. Morning sickness comes and goes, doesn't it? And it's not always in the morning, either. So consider today a gift, since you have your interview."
I take a deep breath. He's right, of course. I need to not freak out about every little pain--or the absence thereof.
"Speaking of, your car will be here in about an hour. Why don't you go get dressed, and I'll order breakfast."
"Pancakes," I say firmly.
"No eggs?"
I usually indulge in fried eggs and bacon when we're in a hotel, but now I shake my head and smile happily. "I thought about it, but the idea alone makes me nauseous."
Damien laughs. "See? Now go get dressed."
I start to, then pause at the door and turn back to face him. "Why don't you come with me? You could wait in the lobby. We could get an ice cream later. Celebrate my achievement."
"Not a bad idea, but I have a few calls scheduled and working from here will be easier. Plus, I'd rather celebrate with something more interesting than ice cream."
"Oh," I say, and my already riled-up hormones start to flutter even more. "In that case, wish me luck today. Because I really can't wait to celebrate with you." I pause, then cock my head. "Although, if you're thinking pickles and ice cream, just be aware that I haven't crossed that line yet, and I'll be very, very disappointed if that's your idea of 'more interesting'."
"Noted," he says, obviously fighting a smile. "But when you do cross that line, just know that I'll cater to your every whim."
His words, so passionate and sincere, warm me. "You already do," I whisper. "You always have."
I'm still smiling an hour later when I'm dressed and fed and reviewing my notes in the back of the car Damien hired to schlep me around for the day. I have my laptop open on the seat beside me, a yellow pad in my lap, and I'm going over the original solicitation for bids from the company to make sure that I have talking points to cover each one.
I know that my pitch is spot-on; I spent well over a week proofing the thing, and several more weeks before that doing the actual work of putting the proposal on paper and making sure I didn't promise more than I could deliver, both in terms of technological prowess and manpower to make it happen.
Right now, Fairchild Development employs exactly one person--me. And if I get this contract, I'm confident that I can handle the work. But Greystone-Branch is a multinational consulting firm, and with their business locked in, I'd not only make enough off the contract to hire at least two developers, but my little company would also be settled more firmly on the map. Which would mean more customers. Which means more employees. And more income. And on and on and on.
Planning for the possibility of rapid growth makes me nervous, so all my projections on paper are conservative. But I've reviewed every nickel and dime and decision with Damien, and when a man like Damien Stark says that my overall plan for growing the company looks dead-on doable, then I'd be a fool not to at least be cautiously optimistic about my little company's chances.
I'm scribbling some bullet points on possible tweaks to the user interface I've designed when my phone starts to blare out The Dixie Cups' classic Chapel of Love at full volume.
"You are a such a brat," I tell my best friend Jamie after I've dug my phone out from under my backseat pile of papers. "I told you to take that ringtone off."
"Why would I do that? It works, doesn't it? You totally knew it was me."
<
br /> I roll my eyes. She'd been completely wasted when she grabbed my phone and fiddled with my ringtones not too long before she and Ryan got married. "What's up?" I ask, making a mental note to change the ringtone myself.
"Not a thing." Her voice is bright. A little too bright.
I slump back against the leather upholstery and cross my arms over my chest. "Give it up, James," I order, using the familiar nickname. "I know you too well."
She exhales. "It's just that you're in Dallas." Her words are almost tentative. "I wanted to make sure you're okay."
"I'm okay. Thanks."
"Oh, please," she says. "That's what best friends are for." But there's still something odd about her voice.
"Jamie?"
She sighs. "Sorry. I'm just having one of those days. But you're really okay? It's not weird being home? You've been so obsessed about your mom lately."
"I haven't been obsessed," I correct.
Jamie's been with me at least once when I saw my mother in Los Angeles. Except it had to be my imagination. Because there is no reason for my mom to be in Los Angeles without wanting something from me. Even when she'd arrived unannounced to supposedly help with my wedding, she'd really been angling for a chunk of Damien's money. So I knew damn well that she wouldn't come to LA to simply watch me from a distance.
I'd told Damien after the first sighting. At the time, I'd been working on the Greystone-Branch proposal, and he'd suggested that I was worried about coming to Dallas if I landed the contract. A reasonable theory, and one that I considered accurate when weeks went by without seeing her again.
The next time, though, the proposal hadn't even been on my mind. "Well, duh," Jamie had said when I'd met her for coffee and consolation. "I know exactly why you're seeing her."
I'd almost choked on my latte. "You do? Why?"
"Because you have mommy issues."
"Don't be absurd."
"Oh, come on. You and Damien have been together longer than Sylvia and Jackson. They have two kids, you and Damien have a cat. You adore Ronnie, that's obvious. But when you hold little Jeffery, you light up so much it's blinding. Damien's the same way. It's like you guys are primed to procreate."
"He's our nephew, and he's adorable," I'd said defensively because kids weren't in the cards for us. Not then. Not yet.