by J. Kenner
He hasn't touched me yet, but I tremble, the anticipation almost as powerful as the touch that I expect.
And when his fingers do slip over my bare skin, I hear his groan of surprise and satisfaction. "No underwear," he says. "Naughty girl."
"Is that what you like? Bad girls?"
"That depends how bad. Look at me," he says, and I open my eyes. The depth of passion I see in his eyes makes me gasp, as does the finger he slides inside me. My body contracts around him, wanting this. Wanting a hell of a lot more than this, but right now, in this restaurant, this is all I'm going to get. But when he slides another finger in, then teases my clit with his thumb, I have to bite my lower lip so that I don't cry out. And I have to clutch tight to the edge of the table so that I don't grind myself hard against his hand.
"That's it, baby. I want you to come."
I want to protest that we are in a restaurant, but right at the moment, I really don't care. I'm not caring about much, actually, except the way that he is making me feel. That, and trying to be at least a little bit modest. Not screaming would be good, but Christ, the way that the sensations are rising inside me, I'm really not sure that it's possible.
I look away, focusing on the lobby so as to maybe slow this down, maybe make it last, or perhaps get some control so I can keep myself from losing it completely.
And that's when I see her.
Marcy.
Jay is right beside her, and they are heading toward the main doors with their hand luggage.
Marcy looks utterly defeated.
And every ounce of blood and sensation fizzle from my body, leaving me cold and lost and frustrated in all the wrong ways.
"Nikki?"
There is concern in his voice, and I realize that I'm frowning.
"What's wrong?"
"I--" I swallow. I want so badly to say nothing. To pretend like everything is fine and slide back into the fantasy of this night with the Damien who has seduced me.
But I can't. Dammit, I know that I can't. And if I want to help Marcy, I need the man I married.
I reach beneath the table and take his hand, tugging it away from my core even as I slide sideways so that I can look at him directly. And as I do, I feel the warmth of his wedding ring against my palm. And in that moment, I know that I have to tell him. Because no matter what games we may play, when you get right down to it, Damien is my husband, and he will always be there for me.
He will always love me.
I take his hand, and slowly stroke the titanium band. Then I look up into his eyes. "Damien," I say, "I really need your help."
Two minutes later, we are hurrying down the staff staircase to reach the service area behind the reception desk. "Why didn't you tell me this before?"
"I only just learned today. And if I'd told you, then I would have been pulling my husband into the mix. And that meant the fantasy would end. I liked the fantasy," I admit softly. "And I thought I could handle it myself. But I was wrong. I don't know why she came back after I sent her away, but she did. And now I think she's in trouble."
"All right," he says in the kind of confident tone that suggests that nothing can go wrong in his world. "I'll take care of it."
And right then, I am certain that no matter what else happens, Marcy will be okay.
Chapter 9
"What are you going to do now?" I ask as we reach the suite of offices behind the reception desk.
On the walk down, Damien had made two calls. The first to the valet stand, letting them know that if they valued their jobs, they would delay bringing up Mr. Jay Monroe's vehicle until Damien said otherwise.
Then he called Ryan, who'd been in the casino gambling with Jamie. "Everything you can find about this guy," he'd said. "I want it in the next fifteen minutes."
But I have absolutely no clue what he intends to do next.
"I'm willing to help this woman because you believe her," he says. "But, Nikki, I don't know her. I've never met her. And she came back to the hotel of her own free will."
I wince at that, because I cannot imagine why she returned, but I cannot deny the truth of what he says.
"So we're going to get her away from Jay. And we're going to hear her say on her own and without prompting that she wants your help. If she does that, then she has whatever she needs. Fair enough?"
I nod. Because I certainly can't ask more than that. "Except she already tried to leave once, and he must know it. He's never going to let her out of his sight."
"Oh, I think we can work something out. Come on."
The hotel has a private reception lounge just past the main entrance where VIP guests can check in and receive concierge services with an elevated amount of pomp, circumstance, and pampering. We go inside, and I pace while Damien issues a series of instructions. Then he takes my arm and we both step behind the counter where one of the clerks is checking in a new guest. Hidden from the guests' view are a series of monitors, including several showing the driveway and valet stand in front of the hotel. It's a customer-service feature that allows VIP guests to rest inside in comfort, confident that one of the clerks will inform them when the valet pulls up with their car or when their limo has arrived.
I have a feeling Damien has something else in mind.
I watch as Marcy stands by her luggage, her shoulders slumped.
A woman rushes by, bumping into her as she tries to roll an overnight case.
Marcy looks up, startled, as the woman grabs hold of her for balance. Then she pulls away and moves on down the drive.
"Wait," I say. "Can you rewind that?"
"No need," Damien says. "She slipped Marcy a note."
"What's it say?"
"When you get inside, use the ladies room."
I frown--and I understand why Marcy, who is surreptitiously scanning the note, also looks confused.
"Now this," Damien says, and we watch as one of the uniformed valet chiefs approaches Jay. "It turns out that Jay's car has a flat tire. Very unfortunate timing," he says, and I laugh. "So Jay and his companion will be invited to enjoy the hospitality in this VIP lounge while the tire is being changed."
We watch as Jay and the valet have a heated conversation--well, heated from Jay's side--and then the valet gestures toward the hotel. "That's our cue," Damien says. "Come on."
"Our cue?" I ask, but I follow him to the back of the room and into the ladies lounge.
I lean against the wall and raise my eyebrows. "Really?"
He shrugs. "Trust me."
I do. And less than two minutes later, Marcy steps through the door, her face flushed, obviously terrified that Jay is going to catch on.
"Nikki!" Her voice is a low, happy whisper, and she gives me a tight hug. "I'm so sorry. Everything you did for me, and I--"
"What happened?" I ask. "Why did you come back?"
She glances at Damien, then at me.
"Marcy, this is my husband, Damien Stark."
"Oh! Well, thank you, too."
"Nikki tells me she put you on the road to Texas. How did you end up back here?"
"He called," she says. "And he said that if I didn't get my fat ass back right that second--that's a direct quote--he'd kill Chester."
"Chester?" I ask.
"My dog," she says. "He's a rescued greyhound. Sweetest disposition, and such a hard life. And Jay just tossed that out there like--" She swallows and blinks back tears. "I had to come back."
"Of course you did," I say, though I'm secretly wishing that she would have called me. Damien could have easily sent someone to get the dog before Jay got home.
"I need to know if you want to leave again," Damien says. "I can have someone go get your dog. Make sure he's safe, and then get him to you in Texas."
"You'd do that?"
"If it's what you want."
"Yes." She nods, then takes a deep breath. "He--he hits me. I don't want to ever see him again."
Damien looks at her, his expression tender. Then he puts a hand on her shoulder. "D
one."
When we follow him back out to the lounge, I can see that Marcy is nervous. But Jay is nowhere to be found.
"Did the car get fixed?" I ask. "Did he leave?"
"He's in one of the offices," Damien says. "Having a chat with Ryan."
"Oh." I nod. "Good."
"Come on," he says to Marcy. "Let's try this again."
This time when her SUV disappears into the lights of the Strip, I don't expect to see her again.
I stand for a moment with Damien's arm around my waist, then I lean against his shoulder. "Thank you."
"My pleasure," he says.
He turns me, then kisses my forehead. "Go on back to your room," he says. "Ryan and I will wrap this up."
"What are you going to do?"
"I'm going to make sure he never bothers that girl again."
I think of Damien, who works out so vigorously, and can still send a tennis ball hurtling over the net at incredible speeds.
And Ryan, with his mixed martial arts background that's only been honed and refined during his years in private security.
I remember around Valentine's Day when someone was threatening Jamie with racy photos. Ryan and Damien had tracked him down and put the fear of god in him. And more than a few bruises on him.
Yeah, I think, they'll handle Jay just fine.
I nod. "Okay," I say.
He brushes my cheek, then leans over to kiss me, soft and sweet. "I'll see you tomorrow," he promises, and though I am looking forward to being home with him, I can't deny the weight of sadness that settles over me when I realize that I will not be seeing him tonight.
Chapter 10
I knock on Jamie's bedroom door because I don't want to be alone, but there is no answer. I wonder if she's with Ryan, and the thought makes me a little jealous. Because right now I am most definitely not with Damien.
I consider calling the front desk to learn what room my husband is in, but I have a feeling that they have been instructed not to tell me. More than that, since he actually said goodbye, I can't help but believe that our fantasy bubble has firmly shattered, and that he has returned to Los Angeles and our real life.
Which is fine. Great, actually. I love my life, and I want to go home.
I'd just been looking forward to tonight.
With a sigh, I decide to pack up my things. I'll text Jamie and tell her to enjoy the limo on her own. Then I'll take a taxi to the airport and grab the next flight back to LA. At least I'll be able to spend the night with Damien in our bed.
I take a quick shower, then slip on the fluffy hotel robe to wear as I pack.
I check one more time to make sure Jamie didn't come back while I was in the shower, but her room is still abandoned, the bed still made from housekeeping's last visit.
I'm actually typing out the text to Jamie when another one comes in.
It's time to finish what we started --D
I smile, a slow burn of pleasure spreading over my skin.
Yes. It is.
Within sixty seconds, there is a knock at the door to the suite.
Within thirty more, I'm right there answering it.
I start to tease him about not just letting himself in--after all, he owns the hotel--but he destroys my plans by grabbing the sash of my robe and pulling me toward him, then pushing me back against the wall even as he kicks the door closed behind him.
"Well," I say. "Hello."
"No," he says. "No more talking." He unties the sash, then spreads my robe open, exposing me. He steps back, then simply looks at me, and my breath shudders as I wait for his eyes to return to my face. "Beautiful," he says, then presses hard against me, the material from his suit rough against my skin, but his mouth even rougher against my lips.
The kiss is wild. Hard. And with such a dangerous edge that I taste blood and it makes me just a little crazy. I'm so wet, so hot, and the damn robe is too constricting. I need to feel the air against my skin before I burn up, and so I start to shrug it off.
Damien helps, pushing it off, his palms stroking my shoulders as he does and sending ripples of heat coursing through me. He catches the tie, pulling it free of the loops as the robe slides off me to pool on the floor.
He steps back, still saying nothing. Then he slowly raises my arms above my head and uses the sash to tie my wrists together. My breath catches, and I feel the tightening in my cunt, a hot, needy feeling, and I want to beg, but I am not allowed to talk. Yet I want him too badly, and since I cannot use my hands I hook my leg around his hips and urge him closer, then tilt my hips to rub against his.
He's hard, and I arch back, feeling the length of him beneath the smooth material of his slacks. He is still dressed for dinner in a suit and jacket, all perfectly pressed and perfectly presentable. And the fact that I am naked in his arms is making me just a little crazy.
Please.
It's a silent plea, but one he seems to understand, and I am weak with relief when I hear the sound of his zipper. He holds my bound wrists above my head with one hand while he teases my cunt with his other. I keep my leg tight against his hip as he thrusts his fingers hard inside me before finally entering me, hard and fast, his cock filling me. He pounds hard into me, still dressed, still silent, and it is wild and crazy and wonderfully exciting. And when he explodes inside me--when his body shudders and he trembles against me--I feel soft and feminine and deliciously used.
He is breathing hard--so am I. And I curl against him, my bound wrists around his neck, when he scoops me up and takes me into the bedroom. He lays me gently on the spread, then he strips, and I watch as the corporate uniform falls away, revealing a man who was surely sculpted by the gods.
This time, he makes love to me slowly. His mouth teasing me, his cock filling me, his hands stroking me until every bit of me is on fire. I am electrically charged, and when I explode, it is as if I am lightning, shooting across the night sky to crackle and burn, bright and wild and hot.
When the tremors of the orgasm fade, I go limp in his arms, then stretch once he unties me, enjoying every sore muscle, every bruise, every ache. And when I curl back up against him and he hooks his arm around my waist, I not only feel well-fucked, I also feel well-loved.
"What are you thinking?" I ask, when I realize that neither one of us has drifted off. I'm breaking the rules, maybe, but I don't care. I want to hear his voice.
"That it's a shame this is a weekend fling," he says. "That if you were mine I would hold you close every day. I would tell you that you are my breath, my life. That you are the thing that gives my life meaning. That makes me whole."
He brushes a kiss over the curve of my ear. "I'd tell you that I love you, and that I feel you in every beat of my heart and in every breath I take. I bless every sunrise because it marks a new day by your side. And that," he says, "is what I would say if you were mine."
My heart skitters with his words, and I roll over to face him. "I don't know how you do it," I say, "but I love you more each day."
His smile is slow and very sexy, and I sigh when he kisses me softly. Then he looks at the clock. "It's midnight."
"Do you turn into a pumpkin?"
"Best not to find out," he says. "Sleep tight, Ms. Fairchild. You are truly a fantasy made real."
Damien slides out of bed. He pulls on his slacks and shirt, then walks back over and kisses my cheek. "Thank you for a lovely weekend."
And then, before I can even process this new twist, he strides to the door, tugs it open, and disappears.
I roll over to his side of the bed, wanting the warmth from his body and the scent of his skin.
Alone.
Except I'm not. And tomorrow I'll be going home.
Tomorrow, everything I've had in play will be mine for real again.
With a sigh, I pull the sheet up higher and snuggle against Damien's lingering warmth. And as I drift off, I can't help but think that I am a very lucky woman.
--
The next morning, Jamie is back in her bedroom in th
e suite. Ryan left on an early morning flight to LA, a fact that Jamie shares with me over a huge room service breakfast of omelets and bacon, waffles and hash browns.
As soon as we've devoured enough food to fuel an entire NFL team, we retreat to our bedrooms to pack, a task we both manage in record time. We each have reason to want to get back home as soon as possible. Jamie back to Ryan. And me back to the man who is both my husband and my friend. My fantasy and my reality.
We don't bother calling a bellman since neither Jamie nor I brought more than a rolling bag. But we do have to call the front desk to let them know that we are ready to leave so that someone can bring a limo around.
Edward is no longer in Vegas, having made the drive back to Los Angeles after dropping us off. But there is no shortage of Starfire limos, and one will soon be whisking us home.
"Unless you'd rather go by helicopter," I say to Jamie, who looks at me like I've lost my mind.
"Um, no. Flying freakish death trap. And loud. Besides. We must drink. And recap." She frowns. "Or just recap. I'm not sure my head can stand more alcohol."
I laugh. "A limo it is."
Ten minutes later, we're wheeling our bags through the lobby and then to the valet stand under the portico. I raise my hand to catch the attention of the valet, but he has already seen me and is signaling our limo to pull up. As soon as it does, he opens the back passenger door for Jamie, who climbs in.
I am about to follow suit when I glance over and see Damien approaching. I smile broadly in greeting.
"Checking out, Ms. Fairchild?"
"I am. Time to go back to the real world."
"I hope your weekend was memorable."
My lips twitch. "Oh, it was. Very much so."
"I wanted to give you this before you left." He hands me a business card. Damien Stark. That's all it says. And beneath it is the number from which he has been calling me.
I look up, curious, and see the playfulness behind his eyes.
"If you ever feel the need to call. For any reason, any time of the day or night, Ms. Fairchild. Don't hesitate."
"I won't," I promise. "It's been a very interesting weekend, Mr. Stark," I add with a smile. "I'm very glad you bought me that drink."
He takes my hand, then kisses my palm. "Safe journey," he says, then helps me into the limo.
I slide inside and get settled. And as soon as he closes the door, I sigh.