by J. Kenner
"Humor me."
"It grounds me," I say, as a tear rolls down my cheek. "It centers me. It gives me strength."
"I see." He brushes his thumb across my cheek, wiping away my tear.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"I'm not." There's a flicker of a smile at the corner of his mouth, and I find that my fear is fading. That I am, in fact, softly hopeful.
"You humble me, Nikki. Don't you see that?" It must be clear from my expression that I do not, because he goes on. "If I do all those things for you--soothe you, center you, give you strength--then that is worth more to me than every penny I have earned building Stark International."
"I--" I start to speak, but words don't come. I haven't thought of it that way before.
"But, baby," he continues, "it's not true. The strength is in you. The pain is just your way of mining it. And as for me? I like to think that I am a mirror for you. That when you look at me, you see the reflection of everything you really are."
I am crying openly now, and he moves to a nearby coffee table and brings me a box of tissues. I wipe my nose and sniffle, feeling overwhelmed and foolish, but blissfully happy.
"You talk as though you love me," I say.
He doesn't answer, but his slow smile lights his eyes. He steps closer, one hand cupping the back of my head as his lips close over mine in a kiss that starts out sweet and gentle, but ends up so deep and demanding that it curls through me all the way down to my toes.
"Say yes, baby," he says, breaking the kiss. "Say that you are mine."
"How long?" I ask, breathlessly. But he doesn't answer. He doesn't need to. I see the answer in his eyes--for as long as it takes. For as long as we want. For as long as I consent to be his.
He says nothing, merely stands in front of me. So much rides on my answer, and yet his eyes are calm, his stance casual. Damien is a man who shows nothing he doesn't want to show. And yet there is so much he wants to show to me, and so much that I want to share with him.
I hesitate only a moment longer, and only because I want to look at him. I want to drink in this man who has more strength than any human I have ever met, and yet is willing to humble himself before me.
How can I have thought that he has shared too little with me? Not specific events, maybe. But Damien has shown me his heart.
"Yes," I say, holding out my hand. "We have a deal, Mr. Stark."
The smile that spreads across his face is slow and wicked, and I laugh out loud.
"Oh, dear," I say.
"Sweetheart, you have no idea." He gives my hand a tug. "Come on."
Considering we'd both been MIA from a party that he is hosting in his own home in part to celebrate a portrait of me that now hangs on his wall, I assume that the reason we ascend back up the service elevator is to slide seamlessly back into that party.
The first person we see when we step into the small hallway that leads to the kitchen is Gregory, Damien's distinguished, gray-templed valet. "Ms. Fairchild and I are going out." I blink in surprise. Gregory shows no reaction at all.
"Of course, Mr. Stark. I'll take care of supervising the cleanup and closing out the house."
"We're leaving?" I whisper once Gregory has moved away and Damien is propelling me into the main area.
"We are," he says.
I consider arguing. Emily Post and Miss Manners flow in my blood, not to mention the even stricter social rules of Elizabeth Fairchild. One does not leave one's own party. There are rules. Proprieties that must be observed and social niceties that must be respected. Whatever Damien has in mind can wait, and I should say as much. I should put my foot down and insist that we stay here, mingling and making polite conversation.
Instead I mentally bitch-slap my mother's rule book and stay blissfully silent.
We make three additional stops. First at Giselle, who seems baffled, but doesn't argue. I wear my practiced plastic smile as she and Damien talk. I'm not as put off by her as I was earlier, but neither do I intend to enlist her as my new best friend. Next, we track down Evelyn and Blaine to say both congratulations and goodbye. I'm in the middle of a very proper handshake with Blaine when we both look at each other and laugh. "Come here," he says, and pulls me into a hug.
The hug I receive from Evelyn is even bolder, and as she holds me close I hear her whisper. "Glad I'm not the only one getting a little tonight."
"Only a little?" I reply, then smile as she laughs wickedly.
"And there it is, Texas," she says, releasing me. "That's why I like you." She aims a finger at me. "This week," she says. "Photos and wine and talking trash, and not necessarily in that order."
"It's a date," I say. Then realize my camera's downstairs in the library.
"Leave it," Damien says, when I say as much. "I promise you won't need it."
"I don't know," I counter. "I can't think of a more beautiful sight than you standing naked in front of a window."
"Are you under the impression there will be nakedness involved tonight?"
"I'm hopeful, Mr. Stark. I'm very, very hopeful."
Jamie is the last person we seek out, and we find her at a table on the balcony deep in conversation with a tousle-haired guy in a Hawaiian print shirt.
Oh, no, Jamie, I think. Not another one. Not after going on and on about Raine.
"Hey, you two," she says, looking up at us. "Louis, this is my roommate, Nikki. I'm guessing you already know Mr. Stark."
As Damien and Louis do the meet-and-greet, Jamie's eyes dart to me. Everything okay?
I nod. Everything's fine. I glance at Louis. Are you--?
She wrinkles her nose and gives the slightest shake of her head. "Louis is a director," she says breezily. "We were talking television. Great house," she adds, turning her attention to Damien. "Greater party."
"Glad you think so. Nikki and I just came by to say our goodbyes."
"Oh." She gives me a knowing look. I paste on my most innocent smile.
"Edward will take you home whenever you're ready," Damien tells Jamie. "Enjoy yourself."
"Cool. Thanks." She gives me a goodbye hug and Damien and I sneak back through the kitchen to the service area so that we aren't waylaid by anyone catching us leaving by the stairs.
"So where are we going, Mr. Stark?" I ask as we step out into the cool night air. "Do you fancy a walk?"
"Actually, I fancy a drive."
Usually Damien parks in front of his house. Tonight, however, the driveway has been taken over by a valet parking team called in to handle the party traffic.
I follow him around the house, frowning as we pass the attached garage. "Where are we going?"
"Someplace you haven't seen yet."
"Uh-huh." I'm intrigued, and as I take his hand I glance around the property. We're in an area north of the house, away from the lights of the party. It's dark here, with the exception of soft landscaping lights cleverly hidden among the plants and stonework.
He's right; despite the amount of time I've spent on the third floor, I've done very little exploring of the rest of the house or the grounds. Of course, the landscaping near the structure has only recently been completed, and beyond that perimeter of flower beds and walking paths and picnic areas, the plants still grow wild, though I see that Damien has hired someone to cut away some of the brush and install soft lighting to mark footpaths through the undergrowth.
"It's so pretty out here," I say as we follow a flagstone path that twines away from the house.
"It is," he agrees, but his eyes are on me.
"Watch the path, Mr. Stark," I say.
"I'd rather watch you."
I grin as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me into a bone-melting kiss. The fire he set inside me only moments ago has not been fully extinguished, and now those embers burst back into flame. "Here?" I whisper, pressing my sex hard against his thigh, then moaning softly at the sweet torment of the returning pressure. "Outside? On these hard, cold stones?" My words may sound reluctant, but I know that my tone does not
. Right then I think I want nothing more than the press of stone against my back and the feel of Damien, hot and hard, inside me.
His voice is low and sultry with just a hint of a tease. "What exactly do you want me to do to you, Ms. Fairchild?" His fingers brush my shoulder, sliding the spaghetti strap down my arm so that it hangs loose. "This?" he asks, as he bends to brush his lips over the swell of my breast.
I gasp, my chest heaving, the chiffon that still clings to my now erect nipple rubbing provocatively.
"Or maybe this?" He traces his fingers up my leg, higher and higher until he grazes the soft skin between my thigh and my sex.
"Maybe," I whisper.
"It would be sweet, wouldn't it?" he asks as his hand moves up again, tracing the trimmed line of hair on my pubic bone, then dipping down to tease the same soft spot on my other leg. "Here, under the stars. My hands on you and only the night around us. My tongue on your breast, the cool air grazing your erect nipple. A whisper of cool wind brushing over your hot cunt."
My legs grow weak, and I close my arms around his neck to keep from melting beneath his words and his touch.
"Is that what you want?"
"Yes," I say.
His smile is slow, and I draw in a ragged breath as he leans close. His lips graze the corner of my mouth, then my temple. Then my ear. I feel his warm breath, and then the softest whisper of a word. "No."
I am not aware, but I must make some sort of noise in protest, because he chuckles.
"No," he repeats. "I have something else in mind."
And then he gently frees my hand from his neck and straightens my dress and tugs me forward onto the path. I follow, irritated, turned on, and very, very eager.
A few moments later, he points out a flat area tucked in between two brush-covered slopes. "I'm thinking of putting in a tennis court there."
I glance sharply at his face, but it is carefully blank. "Really?"
I say, working hard to keep my voice casual. I know how long it has been since he's played tennis. More, I know why he walked away from the game.
"Maybe. I haven't decided. It's been so long, and I'm afraid--"
He cuts off his words, his forehead creasing into a scowl.
"--that it won't be fun?" I suggest, trying to finish his thought.
He doesn't answer, but I see the affirmation in his eyes.
"Well, if you do install a court, you can teach me how to play." I speak lightly. "That will ensure that you have fun. I promise. Playing with me will be quite amusing."
"Amusing?" he repeats, and I'm happy to hear the teasing note in his voice. "I'm imagining you in a tennis dress. Amusing isn't the word that comes to mind."
"And will our rules apply then, Mr. Stark? I'm not sure how much tennis will get played if I'm wearing one of those outfits and no underwear."
"I'm intrigued, Ms. Fairchild. I think you may have made up my mind for me. I'll start interviewing construction companies in the morning."
"Very funny," I say.
"You laugh now," he says. "But wait until I take you by the ball cage."
"Now you're just talking dirty to me."
He laughs and grabs my hand, and I hurry to keep step beside him. My mood is light, and I'm glad we escaped the party. Whatever drama had been clinging to me has dissipated. It is just me and Damien and the wide night sky.
"What?" he asks.
I shake my head. "I didn't say anything."
"You're smiling."
"Maybe I'm happy."
"Are you?" he asks, his eyes roaming over my face. "So am I."
"Damien." I move closer, craving a kiss, but it's his finger that my lips find. "Ah-ah," he says. "Start that up and we'll never get where we're going."
"So we are going somewhere? I was beginning to think we were simply taking a hike to Ventura County."
"Actually," he says, "we're here." We've stopped in front of a vine-covered hill.
"Lovely," I say. "But if you're planning to ravage me in the flowers, I should say that I would have been just as happy on the stone path."
"I'll make a note for future reference," he says. "But this isn't our final destination."
"Oh?"
He doesn't answer my question. At least, not with words. Instead, he pulls out a key fob, presses a small red button, and a set of wooden doors--camouflaged with vines--begins to rise. Light from the interior emerges, spreading wider and wider as the door lifts higher. I feel as though there should be a soundtrack--"Ode to Joy," perhaps--as this secret room is revealed.
At first I can see nothing because my eyes haven't adjusted to the abrupt change in lighting. But as Damien leads me toward the now open door, I see that this is a garage. A huge garage, to be precise, and as I stand in the doorway and look up and down the long, narrow structure, I count no less than fifteen classic cars all lined up and polished.
The walls are white, as is the concrete flooring. The lights overhead are glaring white as well. For a moment, I feel like I've died and gone to car heaven. I turn and gape at Damien. "You have got to be kidding me. You've barely finished the actual house, and yet you have a fully tricked out, fifteen-car garage hidden in the hillside?"
"I didn't want a detached garage to mar the landscape," he says. "Although to be fair the garage has been on the property long before the house. I built this three years ago while my architect was working out the plans for the residence. And just to clarify, it's a twenty-car garage."
I shoot him a bored look. "All this space in the hills and only twenty? And detached from the house? Seriously, Mr. Stark, what happens if it's raining?"
"I use the tunnel access," he says nodding toward the far side and a metal door over which is neatly printed the word "Residence" in red block letters.
"You really are a walking cliche," I say, but I'm laughing.
"Not at all," he says. "I'm a driving one." He looks giddy, like a boy playing with his favorite toys on Christmas morning, and the mood is infectious.
"What kind of car is this?" I ask, pausing by the one closest to the door. It is old-fashioned and open, and I can imagine women in flapper gowns riding with the top down, waving at boys and feeling smug in their daring.
"A Gardner touring car," he says. "But come here, this is my real prize." We walk down two stalls to an ancient model, so polished and shined that it seems to glow as bright as the room itself. "A Baker Electric car," he says. "Thomas Edison actually owned this very automobile."
"Seriously?" I am duly impressed. "That should be in a museum."
"I offer it on loan quite often," he says. "But not permanently. I don't see the point of owning extraordinary toys if I can't have them around to enjoy. Just as I don't see the point of having money and not using it to acquire interesting things, if not for myself, then for the people I care about."
I think about the Monet and the camera and the clothes and all the other gifts he's showered upon me. "Fortunately for those of us who are the recipients of your magnanimity, you have excellent taste."
"Indeed I do, Ms. Fairchild." He holds out his hand. "Come on. I'll show you our ride for the night."
We move down the row of cars and stop in front of a low-slung forest-green two-seater with a hood that seems longer than the car itself.
"All right," I say, unable to stop smiling. "Tell me all about it."
It's as if I've given him permission to sing. "Jaguar E-Type Roadster," he begins, then starts to itemize all of the intricate details of this fine automobile that, he assures me, will transport us to our destination in luxury and style.
"I hope there won't be a pop quiz," I admit. "Because I didn't catch anything but the name and the fact that I'm very impressed."
"That'll do," he says.
"Did you rebuild it?"
"What makes you think that?"
"Edward told me about the Bentley. I can't quite imagine you all covered in grease and oil."
"That's funny," he says with undeniable heat in his voice. "I have no troub
le at all imagining you naked and slick with oil, spread out on a bed just waiting to be fucked."
"Oh," I say. "Oh."
He chuckles, then opens the door for me. The car is so low that it is almost impossible to enter and exit modestly in so short a skirt. A fact that Damien clearly picks up on, as his hand slides up the back of my thigh, then slides between my legs. My body trembles from his touch, and I moan as he slowly thrusts two fingers inside me. I grip the side of the door, my balance awkward, my entire body quaking with desire. I want to close my thighs, but I can't. One foot is on the floorboard, the other on the concrete. Shift my position and I will fall.
But then again, I don't really want to shift my position.
"Yes," he says. "This is how I want you. Hot and wet and on fire for me. I want you fuckable, Nikki. Anytime, anyplace, I want you ready."
"I'm always ready for you," I whisper, both because he wants to hear it, and because it is true.
"I should fuck you now," he says, moving his fingers slowly in and out of me. My sex clenches, drawing him in, wanting more and more. Wanting all of him. "I should bend you over the hood of this car and lift your skirt and spank your ass until it's red and throbbing. Then I should thrust my cock into your sweet, wet cunt. Is that what you want, Nikki? You can tell me. Tell me all the things you want me to do to you, Nikki. Tell me how you want me to fuck you."
My eyes are closed, my breasts are heavy. I am so wet and I feel so full. He has three, no, four fingers inside me now, and my hips are gyrating, wanting him harder, faster, deeper.
"Tell me," he repeats.
"I want you to fuck me," I say. "I want your hands on my tits and your cock deep inside me. I want you, Damien. Please, please, I want you so badly."
His fingers slide out of me, and he traces slow circles over my clit while his palm rubs lightly at my sex. I can smell my arousal, and I am shameless, shifting this way and that so that the feeling grows. I'm close, so close, and I want to come in his arms. I don't care that we're in his garage, that I'm bent half in and half out of his car. All I want is Damien. All I want is for him to take me where I want to go.
"Thank you," he whispers as he pulls his hand away.
"Damien," I moan. "Dammit, Damien, please."
"Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?"
"You know I am."
"Good." The satisfaction in his voice makes me smile despite my state of abject frustration. "Now, into the car."