by J. Kenner
"Will you tell me why?"
I want to tip my head down, but I force myself to look straight at him. With Damien, I do not feel weak or broken, but I am ashamed, because he asked me to come to him if I ever needed the pain again. And this is twice now that I have broken that promise. My finger, at least, survived my assault with more aplomb than my hair.
"I've told you most of it already," I say. "It's just been a hell of a day."
"All right. Now tell me the rest." His voice is easy, conversational, and it soothes me.
"This party," I admit. "Seeing Giselle as the hostess. Looking around at unfamiliar furniture." Now that I am articulating these things, I realize how much they've been bothering me. "I didn't even recognize the third floor. That room, this house--for so long, they've been ours. But tonight they weren't." And I wasn't yours.
I think the last part, but I don't say it out loud. Instead, I shrug, a little embarrassed, because I have just spilled so many things. I feel vulnerable and fragile, and I do not like feeling that way. And so I wait for him to say something to calm me.
It takes a moment for those words to come, and when they do, they surprise me. "Come with me," he says with an enigmatic smile. He holds out his hand, then leads me to a reading area tucked away against the east wall. It's the most private area of the mezzanine, and there is no line of sight to the third floor. It is dark here, the only illumination coming from the twinkling lights upon the railing.
"What are you doing?" I ask as he pulls me to the wall, then flips a switch. Immediately, soft light fills the long, glass-topped display case in front of us. There are only two things inside, as if this case is meant for treasures, and only two have been located.
They are battered copies of Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles, both by Ray Bradbury. I'm confused, but I trust that Damien has a purpose.
"Bradbury's one of my favorite writers," he begins.
"I know." He's told me about his love of science fiction as a child. In a way, it was his weapon against his father, his coach, and his life. I understand; how can I not when I'd relied on weapons of my own?
"He lived in Los Angeles, and one day I heard that he was going to be signing books at a store in the Valley. I begged my father to take me, but he'd scheduled an additional practice with my coach, and neither one of them was willing to cut me a break."
"What did you do?"
His grin is slow and wide. "I went to the signing anyway."
"How old were you?"
"Eleven," he says.
"But how did you get there? Didn't you live in Inglewood?"
"I told my dad I was going to the courts, hopped on my bike, and headed for Studio City."
"At eleven? In Los Angeles? It's a miracle you survived."
"Trust me," he says dryly. "The trip was much less dangerous than my father when he learned what I'd been up to."
"But that's an insane distance. You rode all that way?"
"It's only about sixteen miles. But with the hills and the traffic,it took me longer than I thought it would. So when I realized that I'd be late, I hitched a ride."
My chest is tight, my mother's warning to avoid strangers and never, ever, ever pick up hitchhikers ringing in my ears. I am terrified for the boy he was, taking horrible chances because the father that he was supporting was too much of a shit to grant him the one small request that could make him so happy.
"It was close," he says. "But I made it on time."
Obviously I already know that he survived the journey, but even so, my shoulders sag with relief. "And you got the books," I say, with a nod to the case.
"Unfortunately, no. I got there during the scheduled time for the signing, but they were all out of books. I decided to ask Bradbury to sign a bookmark instead, so I told him my story and he told me he could do better than a bookmark. Next thing I know, his driver is putting my bike in the trunk of his car and we're off to his house. I spent three hours chatting with the man in his living room, then he let me pick two books off his shelf, signed them, and had his driver take me home."
I feel ridiculously weepy at this story and blink back the threatening tears. "And your dad?"
"Never told him. He was pissed as hell, but all I confessed to was taking my bike and riding along the beach. I paid for it," he adds darkly, "but I had the books. I still have the books," he adds, nodding toward the case.
"You do," I say. "Bradbury sounds like a really nice man."
"He was."
"This is a wonderful story," I say, and I mean it. These are the kinds of tidbits from his life that I want inside me. Bits of Damien, to fill me up. "But I'm not sure why you're telling it to me now."
"Because the things in this house mean something to me. Not the props I had brought in for the party, but the real things. There's not much yet, but it's all precious to me. The art. Each knickknack. Even the furniture." He looks at me, and I see passion in his eyes. Not sexual, though. This is deeper. "You are no exception, Nikki. I brought you to this house because I want you here, just as I wanted your portrait."
I lick my lips. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I don't think you could have made me happier than to say you felt jealous watching Giselle act as hostess of the party. But let's be clear. She's not the hostess in this house, and she never could be. Do you understand?"
I nod awkwardly. I am breathless. I am overwhelmed. And I want desperately to be in the circle of his arms.
The air between us crackles as Damien moves forward. He is close, so close, and yet he is not touching me. Not yet. It is as if he is punishing both of us. As if he is reminding us of why we should never be apart--because the coming together is just too damned explosive.
"Damien," I say. That is all that I can manage.
Slowly, he strokes his fingertips down my arm. I bite my lower lip and close my eyes. "No," he says. "Look at me."
I do, my eyes meeting his as his fingers slide farther down, lower and lower until his hand is over mine, both resting lightly on my thigh over the hem of my dress. His palm is flat, his hand completely covers mine. Slowly, he slides our joined hands up so that I am lifting my skirt until it is at the juncture of my thighs and my ass. "You belong here," he says. "Wherever I am, you belong. You're mine. Say it."
"I am. I am yours." My breath is coming harder as his hand eases off mine, then begins to creep even higher, slowly, slowly, so goddamned slowly.
"I need you." His raw voice sends ripples of desire through me. My sex clenches, and it takes all my self control not to grab my own damned hem and yank my skirt up around my waist. "I need you now."
"God, yes," I manage, forcing out the words. "Damien, oh, please."
Roughly, he pushes me backward until I am wedged into the corner. The glass case is beside me, and I reach out, clutching the polished wood for support as his mouth closes over mine. Our kiss is wild, fevered. I am starved for him and I take greedily everything he has to give.
His fingers continue their upward climb as I hungrily take his mouth with mine, my tongue thrusting against his, my teeth grazing his lip. And then, suddenly, his fingers stroke my sex and I cry out, my sound of pleasure muffled only by the renewed assault of his lips against my own.
"No panties," he says, sliding a finger deep inside me. "You said--"
"I lied," I admit, though I am not certain how I am able to form words. "Shut up and kiss me."
"Kiss you? Ms. Fairchild, I'm going to do more than that."
"The party?"
"Fuck the party," he growls.
"If someone comes down--"
"They won't."
"But if--"
"Nikki?"
"Yes?"
"Hush."
It's an order that I can't disobey, because he closes his mouth over mine, his tongue filling me, and I open to him, wanting to taste him, to lose myself to him.
Roughly he lifts my thigh. I bend my knee and hook it around his leg. My skirt slides up again and he pus
hes it up even farther until I am fully exposed. He breaks our kiss long enough to look down at my naked sex, and his groan is low and almost painful. I cannot touch him--I need my hands to steady myself between the wall and the case--and I am tormented by the desire to feel his cock beneath my hand. To stroke him and feel how much he wants me, and to know that his own desire matches mine.
His hand cups me, his fingers sliding over me, making me tremble. I am desperately wet and the feel of his hand upon me is making me crazy.
"Damien, please--"
"Please what?"
"Please, please fuck me."
"Whatever the lady wants," he says, and as he slowly, teasingly slips a finger inside me, I close my eyes and tilt my head back, smiling at the musical sound of his other hand tugging down the zipper of his trousers.
I feel his erection, hard against my leg. Then the head stroking me, teasing me. His hands edge down, one cupping my rear and lifting me just slightly, then releasing me so that I sink down as he thrusts into me. Once, twice--deeper and deeper until we are in a frenzy and he is slamming his body against mine and I want more, so much more, and the sound of my body thrumming against the wall must surely be shaking the house, and how can the guests at the party not hear, when the sound of our passion is ringing so loudly in my ears?
I gasp, clutching the case as a flurry of electric sparks seem to concentrate inside me, tighter and tighter, until they threaten to explode. And then I'm close, so very close and--
I start to cry out, then feel his hand close tight over my mouth. I tilt my head back and swallow the scream of pleasure, my muscles throbbing around him, pulling him in tighter and harder as he thrusts into me again and again.
I open my eyes, and see that he is looking at me, his eyes searching my face with an expression of such unabashed passion that I think I will come again merely from the look in his eyes.
"Damien," I whisper, and it is as if his name is a trigger. I see the rapture cut through his body, I feel him tighten against me, his body going tenser and then the warm release as he comes inside me.
He exhales, then sags against me.
"Nikki," he says.
"I know," I whisper.
His lips brush softly over mine, a tender kiss that contrasts the wildness of our coupling, and is just as perfect.
He is soft now and slips out of me. My thighs are sticky, and though I know I have to, I don't want to wipe away the feel of him on my skin.
"Here," he says. He has a handkerchief in his hand, and he gently cleans me up, then adjusts my dress. "Good as new," he says.
"Better," I say.
He strokes my hair, then traces the line of my ear, then brushes his thumb over my lip. It is as if he is trying to prove to himself that I am real. "I didn't like the way I felt today," he finally says. "Seeing you like that. Knowing you were angry with me."
"I didn't like it, either," I admit.
"I suppose there's something to be said for makeup sex."
"Definitely."
He takes my hand. "I meant what I said, Nikki. I don't want this to end. I don't want us to be over."
I look at his face, at the chiseled expression and the firm, demanding eyes, and I am confused. "I know," I say. "I don't, either."
He strokes my cheek, then curls a strand of hair around my finger. "No," he says. "I need to be clear. I don't want our arrangement to end. You're mine, and there are rules. And I want our game to continue."
15
Our game.
The force of these unexpected words crashes over me, and I take a step backward. He reaches out, and though I take his hand without hesitation, I find that I am shaking my head. Not necessarily in protest, but in confusion.
"I--I don't understand."
"I think you do. And I think you want it, too. Tell me, Nikki, did you leave your panties at home because you like the way it feels, or because you like knowing that you're open to me? That I can touch you--that I can fuck you--whenever and wherever I want?"
I swallow, because he is right. More than that, I understand now the melancholy I saw in his eyes Thursday night, followed by the possessiveness when he claimed me after midnight.
He is right--I am his. How can it be otherwise when he is inside my heart now?
But this?
He is watching me closely, examining me with the same implacable analysis that he uses to vet a business transaction or a financial report. But I am a woman, and my emotions don't follow the line of a ticker tape. He knows that, too, of course, and beneath the hard, logical intellect, I see the soul-deep vulnerability.
He wants this. Maybe he even needs it. And he has handed all of the power of this moment to me.
My heart twists, because the truth of it is that I want it, too. Isn't that why I've felt lost all night? I discovered a new side to myself when we played our game, and despite being "his," I felt more liberated than I ever had. More in control of myself and my emotions. More centered, I think, as I brush my thumb over the finger that I had so tightly bound only moments before.
I am still holding tight to the side of the glass case. As I glance down and see the two Bradbury books, I cannot help but shiver as I think of the story Damien told me. I picture him, young and strong, riding his bike to escape his father. Riding to meet his hero, a man who crafted worlds out of ink and imagination. Insubstantial, but real enough to a boy who needed to escape.
Is that what he's doing now? Crafting a false reality out of smoke and mirrors and tempting me into the fantasy with him? But it's not fantasy that I want with Damien. I want the reality. The moments, like the Bradbury story, when Damien lets me in enough to see a bit of his past and a piece of his heart.
My chest tightens as I shift my gaze from the glass case to Damien's equally transparent eyes. He is awaiting my answer, and I want to melt against him and whisper yes, yes, of course, yes. But I stand still, frozen by the fear that if I do, I will be letting myself get pulled into something that isn't and never can be real.
"Why?" I ask. "Before, you said that you wanted me. But you have me now, with or without the game." I lift my leg and point toward the emerald ankle bracelet. "I'm still wearing it, Damien. You know I'll always wear it. So why? What difference does it make?"
He tilts his head toward the glass case. "You say you want me to open up more," he says, and I marvel at the way he always knows what I am thinking. "I want that, too. I don't want secrets between us, Nikki."
"You told me about the tennis center," I say.
"Not everything," he replies.
I stay perfectly still, because I know that is true.
"I need parameters, Nikki. Especially now. I need to know--" He cuts himself off and looks away, his jaw clenching as he wrestles with the words. "I need to know that you will be here, with me, no matter what."
He looks so vulnerable, and I am humbled that I have so much power over a man with strength such as Damien.
"Don't you already know that? I do."
There is something dark in the eyes that look back at me. "How can you, when there are still so many things you don't know?"
He is not saying anything I haven't thought of, but for a moment, I am afraid. What dark secrets does Damien have that still remain buried?
The thing is, I understand better than anyone why he wants the facade of the game in place if he's going to try to open up to me. I cut myself in order to cope with the horrors of my childhood, but what did Damien do? Nothing except conquer the world and learn to bury his secrets deep.
I glance down at the books in the glass case, and can't help the smile that touches my lips. Even the little things are a big step for Damien. But the shit in his past--the things like Sara Padgett and the guilt he felt over that poor girl's suicide--those are the kinds of things that Damien needs to say with a net.
The truth rips through me. The game is his net.
And once that net is in place, doesn't it make sense that the physical between us can strengthen the emotiona
l?
Maybe I'm manufacturing a justification, but there's no denying that I want what he's offering. That desire, however, doesn't quell the lingering fear that still bubbles inside me.
Damien must see my hesitation, because he reaches for my hand. Only then do I realize that I have been unconsciously twisting my once-abused left finger between the thumb and forefinger of my right hand.
"Can you tell me?" he asks gently.
I swallow and try to will the words to come. "I'm scared," I confess.
"Of what?"
"Of you," I say, then immediately regret the words when I see confusion and hurt flash in his eyes. "No, no, not like that." I move closer and press my palms against his cheeks. "You are the best thing that has ever happened to me."
"That does sound terrifying."
I grin, grateful to him for putting me more at ease. "Sometimes I'm afraid that I'm using you." I pause, waiting for him to make a joke about how he would be very happy for me to use him any way that I like. But he remains silent, watchful, and I realize that he understands how hard this is for me. "Like a crutch, I mean." I think of the scars that mar my thighs. Of the string wrapped tight around my finger. Of the weight of a knife in my hand and the ecstasy of that first fiery sting when the blade slices through skin.
Most of all, I think of how much I've needed all of those things, and of the scars I now bear as testament to my weakness.
I swallow, then look down, not wanting to meet the eyes of this man who already sees so much inside me. "I'm afraid that you're a replacement for the pain."
"I see," he says, but there is no emotion in the words. Not anger or hurt. Nothing.
And then there is silence.
I draw a breath, but I don't look up. I'm too afraid of what I will see on his face.
Only seconds pass, but they are heavy, full of the weight of unsaid things. Then he tucks his fingertip under my chin and tilts my head so that I must either close my eyes or look at him.
I look and immediately have to blink back tears. Because it isn't anger or hurt or pity that I see. It is adoration, and possibly even a little bit of respect.
"Damien?"
"Oh, baby." He takes a step toward me, and I see the force of will that pulls him to a stop, staying just far enough from me to give me space, but close enough to give me strength. "Tell me--tell me what the pain does for you."
"You know," I say. I've told him all this before.