by J. Kenner
I tilt my head to look at him, pleased but not entirely sure I’m seeing the bigger picture.
From the twinkle in Damien’s eye, I think he understands my confusion. He reaches over and turns the page, revealing a map of North and Central America. South America is on the next page, then Asia, then Africa, then Australia.
“I only gave you Europe, when I’d wanted to give you the world.”
“You gave me that a long time ago,” I say, feeling sappy and romantic and warm and loved. I flip back to the page with Central America and put my finger on the dot covering Mexico. “It was a beautiful wedding,” I say. “And an exceptional wedding night.”
His arm goes around my shoulders and I lean against him. “Are there more stickers?”
“In the back,” he says, and I flip to the end and find a little pocket with a sheet of colorful dots. I peel one off, then find the page for Europe again. The continent is as colorful as a rainbow, and the only real gap is directly over Paris, the one major destination we didn’t spend any time in during our Grand Tour. I’d expected we would—after all, Damien had taken me there to meet the man who designed my wedding dress—but we’d gone straight from the airport to Favreau’s studio, then spent a night in a nearby hotel before I returned to the studio the next day to try on the basted-together dress that Favreau had worked on through the night. Once both Favreau and I were satisfied, Damien had whisked me back to the jet.
When I’d asked why we were rushing off to Italy, Damien had been surprisingly vague. I had considered telling him that I wanted to stay—that I wanted to see the sights and soak in the atmosphere of that famous, vibrant city. But I had seen something in Damien’s eyes, and so I had remained silent, confident that wherever Damien took me, simply being with him would be enough.
Now I carefully put the dot over Paris.
I tilt my head so that I am looking at him again and grin. “I can’t wait,” I confess. “I’ve always wanted to explore Paris.”
His smile seems hesitant, and for just the flicker of an instant, I think I see shadows in his eyes again. I take his hand. “If you’d rather go someplace else, that’s okay. We didn’t do Japan, and you sounded pretty keen on that.”
His brow furrows in what I recognize as genuine confusion.
“I just mean—it’s our honeymoon. I want us to go somewhere that we both like….” I trail off, now as confused as Damien looks.
His expression fades quickly enough, though, and he laughs out loud, all trace of the earlier shadows erased. “Sweetheart, I love Paris.”
“Oh.”
“I would say I’m sorry that we didn’t spend time there on our last trip, but I’m not,” he adds, making me even more confused. He knows it, too. And he’s enjoying himself, the bastard.
I narrow my eyes and cross my arms over my chest, trying to look stern but probably not managing too well. “You love it? Then why on earth didn’t we sightsee or go to restaurants or take a stroll along the Seine when we were there? I mean, we traipsed all over Europe. We couldn’t squeeze in an extra day or two after my dress fitting?”
“One, I don’t traipse,” he says, making me laugh out loud. “And two, I wanted to save it.”
“For what?”
“For you.”
I am truly baffled now. Smiling, Damien lifts my hand and kisses each of my fingertips. “Paris is light and love and romance,” he whispers. “And so are you. I knew from the first time I touched you that I would explore Paris with you. But only as my wife.”
His words squeeze tight around me, constricting my chest with the force of our shared emotion. I open my mouth to say his name, but my throat is too thick, and even that one simple word cannot escape.
Slowly, a tear trickles down my cheek. I think of everything that fills his world, from high-level, high-stress business deals to the employees who rely on him for their livelihood, and yet there is never a time when he doesn’t put me first. When he doesn’t make me feel treasured and special.
He gently brushes the tears from my face. “That’s not the reaction I was hoping for,” he says, his smile as soft as his voice.
“You fill my heart, Damien.” The words come in a whisper, but on their heels a laugh bubbles out of me. “Don’t mind the tears,” I say. “I’m just overflowing.”
He takes me in his arms and I hug him tight, my face pressed against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart like a coded message, promising me that nothing can ever, ever come between us.
I’m not sure how long we stay like that—possibly a few minutes, possibly an eternity—but we move only in response to a sharp knock at the door and Katie’s crisp voice saying from the hall, “I’m so sorry to interrupt, but there’s a satellite call from Ms. Brooks,” she says, referring to Damien’s assistant, Sylvia.
Damien sighs as he stands and runs his hands through his hair. “I thought I was clear, Katie. Unless there’s an emergency, I’m not to be disturbed.”
“I know, Mr. Stark. But the call isn’t for you. It’s for Nikki—I mean, for Mrs. Stark. And Ms. Brooks is convinced that it’s urgent.”
Chapter 7
“A lawsuit,” I say numbly for what has to be the billionth time. I turn to Damien, not certain if I’m angry or scared or just plain gobsmacked. “How the hell can this be happening?”
“We’ll get to the bottom of it,” he says, and his voice is so precise that I know he is even angrier than I am. “It’s either a mistake, or someone is fucking with you.”
We’re back in the main cabin where I had gone to take the satellite call, and now I shift even more on the leather love seat so that I am facing him directly. “Fucking with me?” I manage a mirthless laugh. “I’d say that sums it up nicely.”
When Sylvia had first told me that a company named WiseApps Development was threatening litigation, my mind couldn’t process it. I spend months and months developing all my smart phone apps, and the idea that I had blatantly stolen the coding for my most popular app was not only absurd but insulting.
It had to be a joke. My best friend, Jamie, being a goof. Or Ollie stretching his lawyer wings to give me grief on my honeymoon.
Except that is bullshit because neither of my friends would pull such a mean joke. This is real. And it’s serious. And the thought of getting embroiled in litigation—of being accused of doing something so incredibly heinous—is more than I can process. I’m lost in the mist of unreality, and if it weren’t for Damien’s hand in mine, I fear I would never find my way back to reality.
“Nikki.” His voice is gentle but firm. I take a deep breath, certain that my eyes are glassy, my skin pale. “It will be okay.”
I want to believe him, but I can’t wrap my head around it, and so I just stare at him, hating the attorney who has been calling Sylvia, terrified of the foundation of lies that must exist in order for WiseApps to have convinced an attorney to get involved.
“Nikki,” Damien repeats, and this time his voice is sharp. He releases my left hand, then reaches across my body to take my right.
I glance down. I’m wearing nothing but a robe, and it has fallen open, leaving both of my thighs exposed along with the angry scars that mar them, souvenirs from another life, when it was pain and a blade that kept me centered.
Now, I’m surprised to see that I’ve been digging my nails into my thigh, so viciously that I’ve come close to drawing blood. I try to relax my hand so that Damien can pull it away, but I can’t seem to manage it. I’m untethered, and I need the pain to anchor me.
“No,” Damien says, and though I know that he is referring to the way I am hurting myself, I hear the word as if in contradiction to my thoughts. No, I do not need the pain. And he is right, I think. It’s not the pain that is my anchor. Not anymore.
It’s Damien.
I turn to him suddenly. Urgently. “Tell me it will be all right.”
My hand is tight in his, and I see the flash of relief on his face. The recognition that I have returned to him fro
m a dark and lonely place. “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he says. “Of course it will be okay.”
“It makes me feel dirty,” I say. “And no matter what happens, if it gets out, that’s what people will remember. That there was a scandal, and that I was involved.”
“I know.” I appreciate that he doesn’t offer platitudes or tell me that it is ridiculous to feel that way. He gets it, in part because he has been there himself, but also because he understands me. How I think. How I feel.
I straighten my shoulders. The truth is, I’ve survived scandal before, and a pretty damn juicy scandal at that. I can weather this, too. With Damien beside me, I can survive anything.
I draw a calming breath. No matter how horrible this is, at least I am not alone.
“What do you mean that someone might be fucking with me?” I ask after I’ve drawn enough breaths to feel capable of carrying on a reasonably coherent conversation.
“Just that it’s interesting timing, isn’t it? You’ve just gotten married. You want to enjoy your honeymoon. And you have access to more than enough money to easily pay off a nuisance lawsuit.”
“Access,” I say with a mirthless laugh. “If by access you mean that I can cozy up to my mega-bazillionaire husband and ask him to pay the son of a bitch off, then yeah. I guess I have access.”
Damien knows damn well that I have no intention of using his money to take care of my business. But that doesn’t change the fact that his expression is entirely serious when he nods and says, “If you ask, you know I’ll give you whatever you need. But I hope you don’t ask.”
I’m not surprised. Damien isn’t any more inclined than I am to kowtow to blackmail.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as exhaustion starts to settle on me. The travel, the stress. It is all beginning to wear me down. “Maybe it’s just a misunderstanding,” I say.
“I sure as hell hope so. Because if it turns out that someone is fucking with you—” His voice is as sharp as a blade.
“Damien.” My voice rises with warning. I know what he is capable of—the lengths he has gone to in the past to protect me from those who would hurt me. And while I don’t give a rat’s ass what happens to somebody who is trying to use my company and my reputation to scam a settlement from me, I don’t want to see Damien thrust back into the mire.
I start to say that to him, but he shakes his head and tightens his grip on my hand. He meets my eyes. His are fierce. “I will slay your dragons, Nikki. I will keep you safe.”
“I know,” I say. What I don’t add is that that is what scares me.
I raise our joined hands to my lips and press a soft kiss to his knuckles. I am thinking of my dream—of the world trying to pull Damien and me apart—and I shiver.
“What?”
But I only shake my head and conjure a wan smile. “Just the whole thing,” I say. “I’ve never been sued. I don’t much like it.” True words, and yet not a true answer.
He doesn’t comment on my obfuscation, and yet I think he knows. How could he not? This is the man who can see into my heart.
He watches me for a moment, then nods. I tuck my feet under me and rest my head on his shoulder, exhaustion suddenly overtaking me as the adrenaline rush fades. I know that I would be more comfortable in the stateroom, but my body is limp and heavy and I doubt I can move. Damien brushes his lips gently over my temple. “We still haven’t had dinner.”
“Feed me in France,” I mumble, so tired I’m barely able to form words.
“It’s a date.” He tucks an arm around me and pulls me closer. “Sleep now,” he says.
And I do.
Chapter 8
Skin against skin.
A brush. A stroke. The butterfly touch of lips against my ear.
And a voice, soft but firm.
“Nikki. Sweetheart, we’re landing in less than an hour. Time to wake up.”
“Mmm. Sleep,” I protest.
“Food,” he says, trailing his fingers lightly over my lips. “And clothes. Parisians are pretty open-minded, but I think registration at the hotel might go more smoothly if you’re wearing more than a bathrobe.”
His words seem to float over me. I know he’s right, and yet I want to stay here in this soft place between sleep and dreams. There are heavy things out there—scary things—and right now I know only vaguely that they exist, and that for this brief time I have escaped them. I am safe here in sleep, with only Damien’s voice to blanket me and the gentle caress of his fingers to soothe me.
“Five more minutes.” My words are a soft mumble, and I shift a bit closer to him.
He says nothing, and once again the thrum of the jet’s engines starts to draw me down into the sweetness of sleep, safe beside this man whom I love.
My descent is halted, however, by the soft stroke of his hand. His fingers ease down my neck in a gentle caress that makes me shiver. He tugs the shoulder of my robe down, exposing my skin. He kisses me there, gentle touches designed to sweetly tease me. Then he slides his hand down, moving slowly over my breast, making me gasp in delight and then sigh in regret when his hand continues on, having merely teased my nipple into tight, sweet arousal.
“Damien.” I’m not sure if the word is a protest or an exultation. All I know is that he has loosened the tie of the robe and now spreads it open. “Damien,” I say again, but this time the word is little more than breath, because his hand has slipped farther down and he is stroking me, playing me. I close my eyes and sigh as I let the power of my husband’s touch send sparks scattering through my body.
I’m aware of every part of me, as if every cell is crying out for more contact, and in answer to my own desires I raise my hands to my breasts, teasing my nipples, then tugging harder as the pressure of Damien’s touch increases, as the storm gathers, coming closer to releasing all of its fury inside me.
“Tell me you like this,” he demands.
“Yes,” I say as I raise my hips, urging him not to stop. To touch me harder, faster, deeper. To take and take until I am turned completely inside out. “God, yes.”
“You’re close, sweetheart,” he says, and I make some sort of noise in response. “Close,” he repeats, gently removing his hand and making me gasp at this sudden withdrawal of pleasure. “But not ready.”
I moan in protest and frustration. “Clearly you’re not familiar with the definition of ready.”
“Then educate me,” he says. “What are you ready for?”
“You.”
His smile is wide and satisfied and wonderfully sexy. “I like that answer. Stand up.”
I hesitate only a moment, because now I understand. “Yes, sir.” I stand, then move to the middle of the cabin so that I am right in front of where he sits on the love seat, his back to the side of the plane and a row of windows open to the night. I hope we don’t hit turbulence, but I am not overly worried. There are worse things than stumbling into Damien’s arms.
“Take off the robe.” He is wearing loose khaki shorts and an ancient Wimbledon T-shirt. His arms are spread out along the back of the couch, giving him a casual air. His legs are slightly spread, and I can see the tight muscles of his thighs. He’s been working out more and his always exceptional body is even more toned.
But even though his posture is casual, his expression is anything but. He is watching me with something that can only be described as hunger. And I am all too happy to be devoured.
“The robe,” he says, making me jump. I haven’t yet complied. I’ve been too caught up with watching my husband. Now I hesitate for different reasons, my attention turning toward the front of the plane and the now-closed door to the galley. It’s one thing to be naked under a robe that I can yank closed. It’s another to be naked altogether.
“Is there a problem, Mrs. Stark? I believe I told you to ditch the robe.”
I start to speak, but force the words back. I think about Katie. About the privacy of the stateroom. And about this wide-open cabin, separated from the crew’s area by just
one thin door.
But this is Damien. He’ll push my boundaries—I know that. But he won’t cross them.
I let the robe fall to the floor, my eyes never leaving his. “Yes, sir,” I say, and see the heat of fire in his eyes, then feel it burn my skin as he slowly lifts his gaze from my feet to my head, examining every inch of me, and making me even wetter in the process.
“Good girl.” His voice is rough, and I can hear the need. I glance down, and feel a wave of satisfaction upon seeing the unmistakable bulge of his erection straining against his shorts. “Now tell me what you want.”
I almost sag with relief, because what I want is what I always want. Where Damien is concerned I am insatiable.
I want him inside me. I want it hard and wild and just a little bit crazy. I want there to be room for nothing inside me except Damien. Not my dream, not the lawsuit, not any of the realities of the world that have started to seep back into my mind now that wakefulness has caught me.
Damien, I think. All I want is Damien.
I start to say as much, but then stop myself. Because as much as I want him—and oh, dear god, do I want him—that isn’t all I want.
No, I want him just as crazed as me. I want to make him desperate. I want to hear him beg. I know that he needs me—I stopped doubting that long ago—but I want to see that need in his eyes, and I want to see the satisfaction of his desires when he explodes inside me.
I take a step toward him.
“Tell me,” he repeats. “Tell me what you want.”
“I’d rather show you.” I walk toward him as I talk, my eyes never leaving his. One step, then another. I see his expression shift, wariness edging toward pleasure.
And then, as I kneel in front of him, there is understanding. Mostly, there is desire.
He starts to speak, and though I don’t know if he intends to protest, I don’t wait to find out. I press my finger to his mouth and gently shake my head. “No. My turn. Not a word.”