Stark After Dark

by J. Kenner

  “Kiss me,” he demands, and I lean forward, our bodies moving together as my mouth closes over his and my breasts brush against his chest, teasing my already sensitive nipples.

  His hand slides between our bodies, and now his fingers do touch me, stroke me. He teases my clit as my body tightens around him, the muscles of my sex clenching to draw him in, hotter and deeper, and I can feel the tension building inside both of us until I can’t stand it anymore, and I pull myself back up, then arch back so that I’m facing the sky as the force of my orgasm rocks through me and I grind against him, my muscles tightening around his cock and bringing Damien the rest of the way with me so that he calls out my name and I close my eyes as it echoes through the night.

  When my body stops spasming, I fall down upon him again, then sigh as his fingers stroke my hair.

  “It’s midnight,” he whispers, and I lift my head to meet his eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Stark.”

  Chapter 11

  Damien wakes me before dawn, though that is not an easy feat. It’s his fault that I got so little sleep, and I feel no guilt about sliding down the bed even as I pull the covers higher.

  I know we are on a schedule. But I also know that the plane won’t take off without Damien. What’s the benefit of being an ultra-rich lord of the universe who owns a fleet of planes if you can’t adjust departure times in order to let your wife grab a few extra minutes of sleep?

  I want to explain that, but all I manage is a murmured, “Fifteen minutes. Sleepy.”

  I hear the soft pad of his footsteps as he moves away from the bed, and I slide back into sleep, secure in the belief that I’ve succeeded in begging more time.

  Soon enough, I realize I’m wrong. He’s back, and he’s gently tugging the covers down. I peel open my eyes, and this time I pay more attention to my surroundings. My husband is already dressed in jeans and a crisp button-down. Behind him, I see his running shorts and a T-shirt on the floor near a half-packed suitcase. I put the clues together easily enough—despite not actually going to sleep until almost three in the morning, Damien is not only awake, but has both gone for a run and started packing our things.

  Clearly the man is superhuman, but since I am a mere mortal, I still feel no guilt about closing my eyes again and trying to claim another minute.

  He, however, is having none of it. He pulls the covers down, then scoops me into his arms. I protest for form, but it’s warm and comfortable in his embrace, and so I simply snuggle closer. All too soon, though, he sets me on my feet, and then helps me into a robe. “Trust me,” he says, then kisses me softly before leading me outside to our private beach.

  “Damien.” His name is little more than a breath. “It’s wonderful.”

  I’m looking at a table draped with white linen, atop which sits a number of covered trays and a very large pot that I assume is filled with coffee. Tiki-style torches have been placed at each of the four corners of the mat upon which the table sits, providing a relatively sand-free surface. The sun has barely started to peek above the horizon, and the torches cast a golden glow over the tableau, making it seem all the more magical.

  “Happy Valentine’s Day,” Damien says. “Since we’re spending most of the day traveling, I thought we should start off with something special.”

  I smile up at him, feeling sappy and loved. “Every moment with you is special, Damien. Don’t you know that?”

  He doesn’t say anything, but the tenderness I see on his face answers for him.

  I take his hand and let him lead me to the table. And as we enjoy a breakfast of eggs and coffee and flaky croissants, we watch the sun rise on our first Valentine’s Day together.

  —

  Because of our early departure and the time difference, we arrive home not long after noon. Damien has been checking social media since the sun rose in California, and so far he has seen no evidence that the photos or tape have been leaked.

  We are cautiously optimistic.

  Unlike the plane ride to the Bahamas, during which I’d managed to sneak in some work on my Valentine’s Day present to Damien, I had no secret project on the return trip. So I spent the flight reading, napping, and trying to do a little bit of coding.

  “Try” is the operative word, though, because Katie kept the mimosas flowing, and since it’s Valentine’s Day, I didn’t hesitate to take them as fast as she wanted to bring them.

  Which meant that the napping part of the plane ride soon overtook all other activities. And now, as we walk through the doors of the Malibu house, I am very well rested.

  Damien takes my hand as we head up to the third floor, and as soon as we are high enough on the stairs to see the room, I gasp.

  The entire space is filled with flowers. Not only that, but our bed—the lovely iron bed that was a prop for the portrait of me and that now lives in our bedroom—is back in this open area where Damien and I spent so many delicious hours together.

  I turn to him, my smile so wide it hurts. “How did you do this?”

  “Gregory. Sylvia. I have my ways.”

  “It’s a wonderful Valentine’s Day surprise.”

  His mention of Sylvia makes me wonder if with this minor redecoration she still did what I asked and left the package for Damien on the bed. From here, I don’t see it, and I wonder if she put his present on the dresser in the bedroom.

  But as we get closer, I see that the box is there, so flat and white that it blends in with the bedclothes, the only splash of color being a thin red ribbon.

  Damien sees it, too, and glances at me curiously. He moves to the bed and lifts the package, then checks the tag. I know what it says, of course. Sylvia may have arranged to have the present wrapped, but I’d written the tag.

  For my husband. For my love.

  “Looks like I wasn’t the only one who had the help of Valentine’s Day elves.”

  I shrug innocently.

  “Can I open it?”

  “Of course.”

  He sits on the edge of the bed, and I climb on beside him. To be honest, I’m curious myself to see how it turned out. I’d managed to sneak time on the flight to Nassau to go over all the images that Sylvia took for me. I’d found my favorite, manipulated it in Photoshop to heighten the contrast so that my silhouette is even darker against the backdrop of the city, and to clean up the lingering glare from the glass.

  Finally, I’d added text, a caption in lovely script on the left-hand side of the space so that it balanced my image on the right:

  Anything you want. Anything you need.

  I’d emailed the file to Sylvia with specific directions as to how to print it and frame it.

  Now I can only hope that the end product is as lovely in real life as it is in my head.

  Damien slowly unties the bow and sets the ribbon on the bed. Then he removes the wrapping paper to reveal the box. By now, I’m as anxious as if I were opening one of my own presents on Christmas morning, and I am biting my lower lip hard by the time he opens the box to reveal the framed photograph inside.

  “Nikki.” He manages to fill my name with awe. “My god, Nikki, it’s stunning.”

  “You like it?”

  He’s been staring at it, but now he takes it out of the box, then turns to me, and I can see in his eyes that he likes it very much indeed. “It couldn’t be more perfect.”

  “You’re a hard man to shop for, Mr. Stark,” I say. “I wanted to get you something special. Something us.”

  He cups my cheek with his palm and kisses me softly. “You did. It’s beautiful. It’s you.”

  He pulls me close and holds me tight. I hug him back, warmed by the fact that my single photograph—so small compared to a scavenger hunt and a spa retreat—has affected him so much.

  “Thank you for my presents, too,” I say. “If I haven’t already said, I loved the treasure hunt, not to mention the retreat time with my husband.”

  “As did I,” he said. “But that was more like an appetizer than the main course.�
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  I lean back and frown at him, not understanding what he is saying.

  “How could I give you your Valentine’s Day present before Valentine’s Day?”

  “But—” I close my mouth as I regroup. “Um, okay. So…”

  He chuckles. “The third floor pantry,” Damien says. “Gregory assures me he put it in the pantry right before we arrived.”

  The pantry?

  Damien’s expression is both amused and smug. “Go on,” he says, and since I need no more encouragement, I bolt toward the kitchen, desperately curious as to what he could possibly have gotten me. A personal chef, maybe?

  I tug open the door, and then clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream of delight.

  There, curled up and purring on a cushion inside a wicker basket is the tiniest, orangest, most adorable kitten I have ever seen.

  “Damien,” I whisper as the kitten opens its eyes, yawns, and stumbles out of the basket toward me. “Oh my god, Damien.”

  I glance back at him, and as I do, I notice the pile of cat food that I need to return to Jamie. Damien knew how much I missed having a cat around, and he got me a kitten.

  I am overwhelmed. I’m in awe.

  I’m in love.

  “She doesn’t have a name yet,” Damien says, moving behind me and putting his hand on my shoulder. I scoop the kitten up, and am delighted when she immediately starts purring in my arms.

  “She does,” I say, snuggling close to my husband. “Her name is Sunshine.”

  We take Sunshine to the bed and the three of us pile on. I lean against Damien and laugh as we watch the kitten go through all her kitten-y antics. Attacking fingers and toes. Pouncing on imaginary prey. And generally being a bundle of cuteness until she wears herself out, turns in three circles, then settles down in the middle of the bed to purr herself to sleep.

  “She’s wonderful,” I whisper as Damien leads me to the balcony. “She’s perfect.”

  He stands behind me, his arms around my waist as I lean back against him. “She is,” he says, but what I hear is We are.

  I breathe deeply, relishing the feel of him. It is a soft moment, nice and gentle, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Soon Damien’s hands slide beneath my shirt, and I draw in a breath as my skin tightens with longing and my heartbeat quickens.

  He moves slowly, letting the anticipation grow, until his palms cover my breasts and he is stroking my nipples with his thumbs. The motion is almost casual, but my reaction is not. On the contrary, a wild heat is growing inside me, and if the press of his erection against my back is any indication, it is growing in Damien as well.

  I murmur his name, and am rewarded by his soft “Shhh. Just relax.” Easier said than done, but I close my eyes and let the sensation of Damien’s expert touch take over, taking me all the way to the edge until, finally, he pushes me over and I explode in his arms as the sun sets on our first Valentine’s Day.

  —

  I’m curled up in bed, wearing nothing but Damien’s Wimbledon T-shirt, one leg tossed negligently across his thigh as I lick a chocolate ice cream–covered spoon.

  Beside me, Damien has his laptop open and is scouring the internet as the kitten attacks our toes with military-like determination. “Still nothing,” Damien says, squirming a bit under Sunshine’s assault.

  “Then it worked. You didn’t pay, and they didn’t release the photos or the tape.”

  “Looks that way,” Damien says, though he doesn’t look as happy about it as I feel.

  “You still want to know who’s behind it.”

  “Very much,” he says.

  “You’ll find them. Ryan’s on it, right?”

  “He is. And eventually we’ll find them.”

  “Damn right, you will,” I say. “So worry about it tomorrow. I don’t want those stupid threats touching any more of our day than they already have.”

  “Touché, Mrs. Stark.” He sets the laptop aside, and grabs the red ribbon. He holds on to one end and tosses the ribbon toward the cat, who is immediately fascinated. She stares at the wiggling end of the ribbon, her eyes wide and her orange fur spiked out in attack mode. Damien and I both hold our breaths, swallowing laughter as her little butt wiggles, her tail spiky. Finally—after much observation—she pounces, attacking the end of the ribbon with all the panache of a jaguar going after its prey.

  I laugh, delighted, and she abandons the ribbon just long enough to flop onto her back and wiggle.

  Damien reaches down and scratches her belly and is rewarded by the kitten grabbing hold and gnawing his hand. He grins at me, and my heart melts a little.

  “I could have sworn you told me you didn’t want us to turn domestic,” I tease.

  “Is that what this is?” he asks, taking the ribbon and wiggling it again. “Domesticity?”

  I offer him a spoonful of ice cream. “Yeah. I think it is.”

  He licks the spoon, then takes my finger and dips it into the ice cream. Then he offers my finger to the kitten, who runs her rough little tongue over it, making me laugh again. “In that case,” Damien says, “I’ve changed my mind. I like domesticity very much.”

  “I like it, too,” I say, snuggling closer. “And I love you.”

  He brushes a soft kiss across my lips and we lay together as the kitten climbs over us to find a spot on the pillow. And as the little ball of fluff settles in and starts to purr, I sigh with satisfaction.

  This is us.

  This is our life.

  And it is exceptional.

  seduce me

  Chapter 1

  I scowl at my calendar for today and wonder how I am possibly going to be able to cram everything into one workday. I have three meetings, half a dozen phone calls to return, a lunch appointment, and plans to meet my best friend, Jamie, for drinks at seven. And somewhere in there I have to schedule time to actually get work done.

  Frankly, I’m not sure if it’s possible without the aid of time travel devices or, at the very least, a part-time assistant.

  I’m tapping the end of my pencil against the overfull sheet—because despite owning my own web- and mobile-app development company, I print my schedule every morning—when Damien approaches.

  I know that he is there even though he has yet to say a word. Perhaps I heard his bare feet on the wooden floor. Perhaps the air shifted as he passed. Or perhaps he is simply Damien Stark, and I could no more fail to notice his presence than I could miss a tidal wave.

  But more likely, I think it is because he has so thoroughly claimed me that there is never a moment when I am not blissfully and totally aware of him.

  I am in the library on the mezzanine of the exceptional Malibu house that was still under construction when I first started dating Damien. Now it is our home, and every space within these walls is precious to me. I’m at the desk near the section where Damien has shelved his sci-fi/fantasy collection, tattered paperbacks tucked in alongside pristine, signed first editions. A few feet away, in one of the comfy leather chairs, the newest addition to our household is curled up into a tiny ball of orange fluff.

  This is Damien’s favorite place to work, and that’s part of why I come here almost every morning—I like to feel close to him.

  Right now, I feel very close indeed.

  “You’re amazing, you know.” I speak without turning around, then smile when I hear his soft chuckle behind me.

  “Because I can sneak up on you?” This time I do hear his footsteps as he moves even closer.

  “I knew you were there. By definition, that isn’t sneaking. Or, at least, it’s not successful sneaking.”

  “You make a good point, Mrs. Stark.” His hands press gently on my shoulders, and I close my eyes, just soaking up the feel of him. It’s more potent than coffee, and if I could bottle this sensation, I’d be richer than my husband.

  I haven’t yet turned to look at him, but I don’t need to. I long ago memorized every delicious inch of him. His lush, raven-black hair, so familiar to my fingers
. His perfectly sculpted face, softened by the slightest shadow of beard stubble. His lean, well-muscled athlete’s body that looks equally exceptional in jeans or a tux. And, of course, his dual-colored eyes that can look right to my core and see all my secrets.

  It is not yet seven on a Friday morning and though I’m still in my typical morning uniform of a T-shirt and baggy shorts, I know that he is already dressed. I inhale, confirming that assumption. I smell the soap from his shower. The hint of musk from the cologne I bought him in Paris on our honeymoon, just a few months ago.

  “So tell me, why am I amazing?”

  “To properly answer that, I’d need PowerPoint, a projector, and at least two days.” I tilt my head back so that I can grin at him, and my heart skitters when I see his face, even more perfect than the picture I keep tucked away in my mind. “But in this particular instance, I was referring to your time management skills.” Damien accomplishes more in a day than most people do in a year. Frankly, I think it’s highly likely that superpowers are involved.

  “Busy day?”

  “By human standards. For you, it’s probably a cakewalk. But I’m going to have to do some juggling.”

  I stand as I push the chair away from the desk, then turn and lean back so that I’m half-sitting on it, my rear pressed against the edge. Damien’s attention is entirely on my face, and there is such a look of hunger in his eyes that I have to smile. “Careful, or you’ll be late for work.”

  “I find that’s one of the perks of running my own company. There’s no one to slap my hand when I break the rules.”

  I hear the thread of playfulness in his voice and match it. “Do you break the rules often, Mr. Stark?”

  He lifts his hand, then brushes my hair away from my neck, so that his fingertips stroke my tender skin, tracing down along my collarbone. “As often as possible,” he says.

  I try very hard to continue breathing normally as his fingers drift lower, over the swell of my breast to linger on my nipple, now pebble-hard beneath the threadbare cotton of my favorite University of Texas T-shirt. He flicks it lightly, causing me to gasp. Causing a hell of a lot more than that, actually, as every nerve ending in my body suddenly seems to be connected to my breast by some sensual network that his touch has illuminated.