by J. Kenner
Heaven.
I'm heading back to my room with my frozen chocolate bar sticking out of my mouth when I see the Monet still on the floor by the kitchen table. Jamie had promised she'd help me hang it--after making repeated lame jokes about needing to buy a stud finder so that it could get nailed--but so far we'd made no progress in that direction. I want it in my room, though, so I take it with me back to my bedroom. I clear a spot on my dresser, then prop it up in front of the mirror. Now, when I look at myself, I see me standing over an Impressionist sunset. Not a bad way to live, when you think about it.
In the mirror behind me, I see the reflection of the white box that Edward gave me. For this evening, he'd said. I turn to look at it, lift it, shake it a little.
I use a pair of nail scissors to clip the twine, then pull the top off the box. Inside, there is a piece of cloth and a strand of pearls. I peer at it for a second, confused, then hook a finger under the pearls. They rise, bringing the lace with them.
Panties.
A thong, to be specific. And the pearls are, well, in the thong part.
I leave them on my pillow and snatch up my phone. He's probably buying the universe or something, but I text him anyway: Got ur present. V pretty. I wonder abt the comfort factor, tho.
His reply comes almost immediately: This from the woman who can't walk in her shoes?
I scowl and type fast with my thumbs: U raise a good point. But shldn't a man who can buy continents & small planets hve better sense?
I imagine his grin as his reply comes: Trust me. You'll find my gift very satisfying. Did you read the card?
What? My reply is simple: ???
Under the thong. Read it. Follow it. Don't break the rules.
And then, just moments later: Must go buy a large planet. Until tonight.
I laugh, grinning like an idiot as I toss my phone back on the bed and pull the box toward me. Sure enough, I find a card tucked into the tissue. I read it, and then I pick up the panties again. I run the strand of pearls between my fingers, breathing just a little bit harder than before as tiny beads of sweat gather between my breasts and my body warms all over.
I close my eyes, and I picture the words Damien wrote:
Wear this tonight. I'll pick you up at 7.
Cocktail attire.
You'll want to touch yourself. Don't.
That's my privilege.
D.S.
23
I will never doubt Damien again.
I'm dressed by six-thirty. By seven, I'm so desperately turned on that I wonder how these panties can be legal. They're most definitely not practical. I grab a sparkling water and sit on the couch trying to read, but mostly I just press the water to the back of my neck because every time I move, the pearls make me hot, and if I'm not careful I'm going to melt before Damien picks me up.
Or I'll break a rule.
Except, dammit, simply breathing is making me crazy. I imagine Damien's voice in my ear, telling me how hot I'm getting, how tormented he knows I am, how wet I'm going to be for him, and how I absolutely, positively cannot do anything to release this pressure growing inside of me.
Oh, to hell with it.
I'm wearing a black garter and black stockings, and as I lean my head back against the couch, I trail my fingers up my thighs. It's only cheating a little if I pretend it's Damien's hand, right? And after all, it's not like he needs to know....
My fingers slide over the pearls, but I don't touch myself. I only touch the strand. It moves, just like it does when I walk, and the sensation is amazing, like tiny rockets shooting through my body, raising me up. I'm so wet I can hardly stand it, and I imagine Damien's hands on my thighs, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses up my leg, his tongue flicking gently over me.
I moan softly--then jump guiltily from the sharp knock at the front door.
"Coming!" I call, and the irony really isn't lost on me.
I straighten my skirt, take a deep breath to hopefully smooth my face and hide my secret, then hurry to the door.
I open it to find Damien standing there, looking so sexy in a tux that I think I might just come without the benefit of pearls or fingers or anything except the sight of this man in front of me.
"You look amazing," he says, then moves his finger in a twirling motion. I comply, spinning with enough force so that the skirt of my deep purple cocktail dress flares out. It's a vintage dress that I've loved for years, with a fitted waist and a plunging neckline. Sexy, and yet at the same time it has a Grace Kelly kind of class. It makes me feel stunning, so it's easy to smile and accept the compliment.
"You're not so bad yourself," I say as he bends down to brush a soft kiss over my lips--a kiss he punctuates with a not-so-soft squeeze to my ass.
"Careful," I say. "Much more of that and we won't be leaving this apartment."
"Oh really? Why is that?" he asks innocently.
I smile sweetly, then grab my purse. I press a hand to his shoulder and lift myself up on my tiptoes so that my lips are right by his ear. "Because your little present is making me so hot that all I can think about is you inside me fucking me hard."
I ease back, keeping the breezy smile pasted on. His expression no longer looks so innocent. With smug satisfaction I glide past him out the door. "Coming?" I ask from the threshold.
"Apparently not yet," he growls, then follows me.
He's brought the limo, and I swallow when I see the familiar backseat. My attempts to be cool may be harder than I imagined.
I nod to Edward, who is holding the door open for us, then slide in, the pearls moving with me. I can't control the little gasp of pleasure that escapes me, but I settle into my seat and try to look nonchalant.
Damien eases in next to me and rests his hand on my knee. "Did you say something, Ms. Fairchild?"
"No. Nothing." I clear my throat. It feels very, very warm in here. "So, where are we going?"
"It's a charity function," he says.
"Mmm." I am so not interested. I'm also so, so aroused. Playing coy might be fun, but the fun is starting to turn into self-torture. "What charity?" I ask. "Any chance you could just write them a very big check and we can go to the house? Or your apartment? Or right here? Here is good, actually."
What started as a grin on Damien's perfect lips has turned into a full-blown chuckle. He reaches for the console and pushes the button to raise the privacy screen. "As a matter of fact, here is very good."
Oh, thank God ...
"I think you have something to tell me, Ms. Fairchild." His eyes are dark and hungry.
I shift away from him, which considering the pearls isn't the best idea. He sees my reaction and the corner of his mouth twitches. He's enjoying my torment, the rotten bastard.
"Well?"
"I--I don't know what you're talking about."
He slides closer to me and takes my hand. He guides it to my thigh, then eases my skirt up just enough to reveal the band of my stocking. "You glow when you're aroused," he says. "I've told you that before. It's an incredible turn-on."
"Oh." The word slips out of me like a wisp of cloud.
"Did you do this, baby?" he asks, guiding my hand higher. Tracing over my scars, finding that soft, tender spot where my thigh meets my sex. "Did you touch yourself before I came over?" He slides my hand over my sex. I'm slick with desire. He guides me to the pearls, then curves my fingers so that I'm caressing them as he moves my hand up and down, up and down. "Did you play with your clit? Did you think of me?"
"Yes," I whisper, as his hand continues to control my finger.
"Did you read my note?"
"Yes." I squirm as our joined hands continue to tease me. I am desperately, achingly hot for him.
"Yes, what?"
I fight not to smile and end up gasping. "Yes, sir."
"What did it say?"
"Not to touch myself." I tilt my head so that I'm looking straight into his eyes. My skin is burning, my dress clinging to me from the sheen of sweat our heat has gener
ated. "You said that was your privilege."
"And why is it my privilege?"
I'm so desperate for him I can barely speak. "Because I'm yours."
"That's right." Slowly, he thrusts two fingers inside of me. I bite my lip so as not to cry out, silently begging him to just fuck me right then.
He doesn't. Instead he pulls out, then gently takes both our hands away, sliding out from under my skirt. I actually whimper. "You broke the rules, Ms. Fairchild. What happens to girls who break the rules?"
I shift my hips, letting the pearls continue the work that our hands were doing. "They're punished."
He casts his eyes down toward my crotch. "I think you better sit still, Ms. Fairchild."
"Damien," I beg.
He bends over and slides his hands down into the bodice of my dress. His fingers find my very erect, very sensitive nipples, and twists them. Not hard enough to hurt--but just barely. I gasp as a fresh wave of pleasure breaks through me.
"Do you like that?"
"Oh, yes."
He keeps one hand on my breast. With the other, he pulls out the lacquered chopstick I'd used to hold up my hair. It falls in loose curls to my shoulders. He runs the strands through his hands and breathes in the scent of my shampoo.
"I'm crazy about your hair," he says, then takes a handful and tugs my head back so that I'm looking up at him. His mouth brushes over mine. My lips are parted, ready for his kiss, but he's only teasing me. Torturing me.
"You're so cruel," I say.
"Oh, but I'm not," he says, his lips brushing over my cheek, my temple as he speaks. "Tell me, Ms. Fairchild. What should your punishment be? What should I do to a naughty girl who touches herself when she's not supposed to?"
I think about what he whispered to me the last time I was in this limo. About how he might have to punish me. About how if he was there, maybe he'd have to spank me. He'd been teasing--playing--but I'd heard real desire in his voice--and that had made me even wetter.
I lick my lips and turn my head so that I'm looking right at his face. "Maybe you ought to spank me."
His eyes grow so dark I think I could get lost in them. "Jesus, Nikki."
I wriggle off the seat and lay myself over his legs, my hips on his thighs. Slowly--deliberately--I raise my skirt. The pearls of the thong are tight between my ass cheeks, and the lace of the garters is pulled down tight to my stockings. But my ass is otherwise bare.
"Go ahead," I whisper. "Punish me."
I'm even wetter now, my cunt pulsing in anticipation. I can't believe I'm doing this.
His palm strokes my rear, and I close my eyes. His touch feels amazing.
"Nikki," he says. "Is this what you need?"
I open my eyes and see the slightest hint of worry beneath the desire. I think of my scars. Of my promise to him that I no longer need the pain.
"No," I say. "But it is what I want."
I watch as the worry fades to pure, erotic heat. "You've been a bad girl, Ms. Fairchild," he says, his voice sending shockwaves through me.
"Yes, sir, Mr. Stark."
His palm strokes my ass, then I feel a quick flash of cool air before his hand stings my rear. I cry out, more from surprise than from pain. He rubs me again, his fingers sliding down between my cheeks to find where I'm slick and wet for him. I hear his groan as my vagina clenches around him when he roughly thrusts two fingers inside me. "Oh, baby," he says, then withdraws his hand and lands another smack on my ass.
This time, I don't jump, but I do gasp, sucking in air while I keep my eyes closed, imagining the white of my rear turning slightly pink from the punishment he's delivering.
"Do you like that?"
"Yes," I confess.
"Hardly a punishment if you like it." Smack. "But I like it, too." Smack, smack.
I am in serious distress now, not from pain, but from such intense arousal that if Damien doesn't fuck me right then and there, I'm probably going to lose my mind.
One more smack and I cry out for him to stop. He hesitates, probably not certain if I meant to call out our safeword, but I use the break to shift my position until I'm straddling him and my fingers are on the fly of his tux. "Fuck me," I demand. "Fuck me now or don't ever think of fucking me again."
He laughs, then pulls me close and kisses me hard. I have his cock out and the pearls shoved to one side and I don't wait for him because I am truly, totally, completely shameless at this point. I lower myself on him, taking him in, pressing my palms to the roof of the limo so that I can take him harder and deeper. He holds my waist and I ride him, everything disappearing around me except the sensation of pleasure and the feel of Damien's cock filling me and my sore ass rubbing against the fine material of his tux.
"Oh, God, Nikki, those pearls," he says, and even through the haze of passion, I have to laugh. He's getting an interesting stroking, too. And I smile as I explode, my muscles clenching, milking him, making him come, too, until I collapse forward, my arms around his shoulders, and we breathe together, spent and sated.
"Serves you right," I whisper, and Damien, now soft inside me, laughs.
Damien pushes the button for the intercom and tells Edward to circle the block until he says otherwise. Apparently we'd arrived at the party.
Funny how I hadn't noticed.
Once he and I have adjusted our clothes and otherwise tried to make it look like we haven't been having sex in the back of a limo, Damien gives the order to return.
"Your lipstick is smeared," he says, sounding amused.
"Gee. I wonder why?" I have a compact and a lipstick in my purse, and I use some of the bar napkins to do a quick removal before I reapply. I'm about to twist my hair back up when Damien takes my wrist.
"Leave it," he says. "The way it falls on your shoulders is incredibly sexy."
I toss the chopstick aside and fluff my hair. I peer out the window at the tony Beverly Hills hotel that is hosting the event. "So no skipping out, huh?"
"I'm afraid not."
A valet opens the doors, but Damien helps me out. He presses his hand lightly to the small of my back and guides me inside.
The hotel is amazing. It's nestled in the hills and so exclusive that I've never even heard of it. The reception desk is in its own building, and we walk across the Saltillo tiles to a set of French doors open in the back. There's a tricked-up golf cart waiting for us. We get in and are whisked toward the event building. I spend the ride gaping in wonder at the grounds. Private bungalows are nestled away from the public areas but still close enough that guests can walk to the pool, the hiking trails, or any of the five-star restaurants that dot the premises.
The stucco event center sits beside a tennis court. It's surrounded by birds of paradise and palm trees and suggests California in the twenties. The inside is less California traditional and more Beverly Hills money. The walls are light wood, the floor a polished stone. An inviting bar dominates one entire wall, and two others are lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that open out onto a stone patio with a massive fire pit. Gambling stations fill the space. From where we stand near the entrance, I can see roulette, craps, and blackjack.
Waiters mingle with trays of finger foods and drinks. Every corner is filled with clusters of people laughing, talking, gambling, and generally having a good time. A banner over the entrance reads: S.E.F.--FIVE YEARS, FIVE MILLION CHILDREN. AND GROWING.
"What is S.E.F.?" I ask Damien, but we're moving again and he doesn't hear me.
"Do you want to play?" he asks, stopping a woman in a Vegas-style outfit with a money changer.
"Sure. How does it work?"
"We buy the tokens and play for prizes. All the cash goes to the educational foundation."
I glance up at him--I'm pretty sure I just figured out what the "S" stands for. "Stark Educational Foundation?"
"You're a very bright woman, Ms. Fairchild." He hands the girl two hundred dollar bills and she trades them out for tokens.
"I have a twenty in my purse."
&
nbsp; "And I won't object if you spend it. It's a very good cause. But we can start with these." He hands me half the tokens. "Where to?"
Since I am terrible at blackjack and never learned how to play craps, I head to the roulette table.
"The lady feels lucky," Damien says to the operator, a petite redheaded woman who looks to be barely sixteen.
"On your arm, Mr. Stark? I guess she is."
As it turns out, it's Damien who's lucky. After half an hour, he's quadrupled our money, despite the fact that I keep losing it. "I give up," I say, taking a drink from a passing waitress. "Do you want to mingle?"
"Of course." He takes my arm and we move away from the table and into the crowd.
"I think our dealer--is she called a dealer?"
"In the States, yes," Damien says. "If we were in Paris, you could call her a croupier. What about her?"
"I think she has a bit of a crush on you."
He pauses to look at me. "Does she? And why do you think that?"
"She kept looking at you. But don't get any ideas. She's far too young for you."
"Actually, she's older than she looks."
I look up at him, surprised. "You really do know her?"
"Hell yes. She's one of our most successful foundation recipients," he says. "She grew up in a shithole of a town in Nevada with a mom who used the child-support check to buy meth. Now Debbie's a freshman at UCLA majoring in chemistry."
"That's wonderful. What exactly does the foundation do?"
"We identify kids with an aptitude for science who, for whatever reason, aren't able to access the opportunities. Most come from families like Debbie's, but we have a few who are bound by their own circumstances. One young man is a quadriplegic. He thought his dream of college was over after the accident that left him paralyzed. He's working on his Ph.D. from MIT now."
I feel tears prick my eyes, and I lean over to kiss his cheek. "Excuse me," I say, then slip away from him to one of the girls in the Vegas outfits and change my twenty dollars. It's not much, but right then it's everything.
Damien is smiling when I return. He says nothing, but he does take my hand and squeeze it.