Claim Me

by J. Kenner

  "Did he? Tell me everything he said, exactly how he said it."

  I comply, relating the conversation in as much detail as I can manage.

  "And he wouldn't tell you any more?"

  "No," I say. "Do you have any idea what he's talking about?"

  I hold my breath, wondering if Damien will cite the thing going on in Germany. Or the tennis center. Or even the Eric Padgett settlement. There are so many things that this could be about, and though I haven't got a clue, I am certain that Damien does.

  But when he speaks, he tells me nothing. "I think this is Carl's way of blowing smoke."

  "Why would he do that?" I ask.

  "You said he wants to rebuild burned bridges. What better way to do that than to warn me about some upcoming danger?"

  "Because there's always some sort of danger for a man like you," I say, picking up the direction of his thoughts.

  "An angry competitor. A fired employee. A stolen patent. And then Carl comes along and tells me to be on guard, and when I next notice some nefarious deed, I will think, oh, isn't it lucky that Carl warned me. I guess the little prick isn't so bad after all."

  I laugh, because Carl is a little prick and nothing is going to change that. But the laughter doesn't erase my worry. "So you're really not worried?"

  "I make it a point not to worry," Damien says. "There's no profit in it."

  "Damien--"

  "Stop," he says gently.

  "Stop what?"

  "Stop worrying about me. You're wasting precious energy."

  "What else am I going to do with it?" I ask airily. "It's not as if you're here beside me."

  He laughs. "Good girl," he says. "Where are you?"

  "The parking lot. I'm going to hit the grocery store and go home."

  "Good. Can you do me a favor and pick up some--"

  And that is when my phone decides to die. I curse it, but at least I got to talk to him about Carl.

  Even though Damien isn't troubled, I am, and it stays on my mind as I poke through Ralph's, grabbing coffee and ice cream and other staples of living. I'm sure I'm forgetting something, but as my list is on my dead phone, I'll just have to wing it.

  I end up with two plastic bags full of various essentials, and after I park my car at the condo, I leave the parking area and follow the sidewalk around to the front stairs. There's a crowd gathered there, and it takes me a second to realize that they are waiting for me.

  Shit.

  I may have been in the mood to confront them earlier, but that has passed. All I want now is to get inside, eat ice cream, and wait for Damien.

  I square my shoulders, make sure every trace of emotion is wiped off my face, and soldier on.

  Immediately, they swarm me.

  "Nikki! Nikki, look over here!"

  "Was the portrait completely nude?"

  "Does it have the usual Blaine elements like bondage?"

  I'm breathing hard, and my body feels suddenly cold and clammy. I don't understand where these questions are coming from, and I'm afraid--so very afraid--to think too hard about it.

  "Why did you do it, Nikki? Was it for the money or the thrill?"

  "Nikki! Can you confirm that you accepted a million dollars from Damien Stark to pose nude for an erotic painting?"

  I freeze, too horrified to take another step, as camera flashes burst around me. I feel sick, and I am certain that any moment now I'm going to throw up.

  "Have you ever posed nude before?"

  "Is the painting a reflection of your sex life with Damien Stark?"

  "Why did you agree to be tied up?"

  They're all around me, circling me, and I reach out for Damien's hand, but of course he's not there. My knees feel weak, and I have to force myself to stay upright. I will not fall, I will not react, I will not give them the satisfaction of knowing they've gotten to me.

  But they have. And as variations of the same questions are thrown at me--as I try to get to the stairs but can barely move even an inch--I know that I'm going to scream soon, just for the shock of it. Just so I can get away.

  A loud squeal cuts above the din, and for a moment I think that I have screamed, because suddenly the crowd is parting, and I look up and gasp.

  Damien. He's running toward me from the street, his black Ferrari left idling in the road. And if I have ever been uncertain about Damien's capacity for murder, I no longer am. I see it in his eyes. In the line of his jaw. In the tenseness that fills every muscle of his body. Right then, in that moment, he would kill to protect me.

  He reaches out and grabs my arm, and I'm so relieved he's here I almost cry. He pulls me roughly to him, and hooks his arm around my shoulder, holding me close as he shoves us through the crowd toward the car.

  He tosses the groceries onto the floorboard, then gets me settled in the passenger seat. As he straps me in I see something break inside him. "Baby," he says, and though the word is barely loud enough for my ears, I hear the apology and the bone-deep regret.

  "Please," I whisper. "Let's get out of here."

  He's in the car and accelerating toward Ventura Boulevard before my mind even catches up. His right hand is on the stick, but once we're on the freeway, he reaches for me. "I'm so sorry. The painting. The money. I never thought--"

  "No." The word comes out sharper than I intend. "Later. Right now, I want to pretend that it didn't happen."

  The look he gives me is heartbreakingly sad. For a moment, we are silent. But the stillness is broken by Damien's single hard smack of his hand against the steering wheel.

  "Who did this?" he asks. "Who the fuck leaked this?"

  I shake my head. It still feels like cotton. I realize from somewhere outside of myself that I am not coping well.

  I slide my right hand down so that it is between my body and the door, and then I clench it tight into a fist, letting my manicured nails dig deep as I squeeze and squeeze.

  I bite my tongue, drawing blood.

  And I wish--oh, how I wish--that I still had that tiny knife I used to keep on my keychain.

  "Look at me," Damien snaps.

  I comply. I even smile. I'm starting to get some control back.

  I take a deep breath, relieved that I'm functioning. But oh god, oh god, this isn't going to stop. It's out there, and they're going to keep coming, and it isn't going to stop.

  "Carl," I whisper. "This is what he was warning me about."

  "Maybe, but I don't think so."

  "Who then?"

  "Does Ollie know about the painting?"

  "No!" The word comes fast and hard, but then I immediately falter. Could he have found out somehow? "No," I say again. "And even if he did, he'd keep quiet. I'm not the one he wants to hurt."

  "Don't be so sure," Damien says darkly.

  I swallow, because Damien has to be wrong. Even if he's right about Ollie being in love with me, surely Ollie wouldn't do this just to get back at me for being with Damien. Would he?

  I close my eyes because I can't stand to think about it. "Who doesn't matter," I say, tightening my fist again. "It's out there."

  Damien doesn't answer, and we drive toward downtown in silence, Damien's anger so thick it fills the car.

  "How did you know?" I finally ask.

  "Jamie. She's home. Apparently she had to push through them, too, and they were asking her about the painting. She pretended not to have a clue, then called you."

  "My phone's dead," I say numbly.

  "I know. She called me when she couldn't reach you, and I tried you, too. When I couldn't get you on the phone to tell you to stay away--"

  "You came to rescue me yourself."

  "Fortunately I was in Beverly Hills and you made a stop before going home."

  "Thank you," I say.

  He turns just long enough to glance at me, and his smile is sad. "I will always protect you," he says. "But this--"

  He cuts himself off sharply and I see his knuckles turn white as he grips the steering wheel. I understand. He can't p
rotect me from this, and he hates that.

  Frankly, I'm not crazy about it, either.

  Damien stays quiet until we enter the apartment. But the moment we do, he lashes out. In one fluid motion he grabs and hurls the ornamental vase that holds the floral arrangement that is the focal point of the foyer.

  "Goddammit!" he shouts, the crescendo of his voice underscored by the tinkle of shattering glass hitting the floor and the splash as water flies everywhere.

  I do nothing but stand there. I know how he feels. I want to lash out and break something, too.

  No, that's not true. I don't want to lash out, but I desperately wish that I did. I wish that I could grab a glass trinket and throw it hard against the floor and take comfort in the fact that it is my hands and my power that have caused it to shatter.

  But that is not what will satisfy me. Those shards of glass would not be an end for me, but a means to an end. And I would not be comforted until the glass is cutting a line in my flesh, and I have latched on so tight to the pain that it erases all the other horrors around me. Those horrible camera flashes. The jeers from the reporters. The embarrassment, the humiliation, and the knowledge that no matter what, for the rest of my life, this is never going to go away.

  I shiver, feeling so very fragile, and I imagine the weight of a knife in my hand.

  No.

  With effort, I force myself not to cross the room and pick up a piece of the broken vase. Instead, I look at Damien, who stands with clenched fists and real anguish on his face. "It will be okay," I say, because that is the kind of platitude that people say, even if they don't really believe it.

  "Screw okay," he snaps. This is the temper that was so famous in his tennis days, and that has fueled his reputation for being dangerous. A sharp brittle breaking point that got him in too many fights and left too many scars, including the dark eye that is now looking at me with a bitter, resolute anger.

  "None of this should be happening," he says. "I should be able to protect you. I should be able to keep my bastard of a father out of my life and out of my car. I don't want him or his shit near me, and I sure as hell don't want it near you. And as for the rest of it all over the goddamn globe--"

  He cuts himself off, and for a moment I think that it is out of his system.

  It isn't. "I should be able to keep your secrets as well as my own. But then again," he adds with a mirthless laugh, "that's crashing down, too. Goddammit." He lashes out so fast and hard that he puts his fist through the drywall.

  I gape. "Well," I say. "That's going to need more than a broom and a dustpan."

  He stares at me for a moment, and then his shoulders begin to shake. It takes a moment for me to realize he's laughing. Not because it is funny, but because he is overwhelmed.

  I want to hold him; I want to help him. But I can't even help myself.

  I draw in a trembling breath, and realize that my hand is curled around the end of the pink scarf that still hangs around my neck.

  Slowly, I tug the end of the scarf until I have pulled it free. I wrap one end tightly around my wrist, then hand the other end to Damien. He takes it, though I see the question in his eyes.

  "Tie me up," I whisper. "Spank me. Tell me exactly what you want me to do. Do whatever you want. You want to lash out? Lash out against me."

  "Nikki--"

  "Please, Damien. You can't control the world? So what? Control me." I meet his eyes. "Please," I say, and I hear the tremor in my voice. "Please," I whisper. "I need it, too."

  "Oh, Nikki." He cocks his head, looking inside me to where all my secrets lie. "Need?" he clarifies. "Or want?"

  I lick my lips, as if that will make the words come easier. "You told me once that if I ever needed the pain that I should come to you. I've broken that promise twice." I point to my hair, and then the tip of my finger. "So yes, Damien. I need it. I need you if I'm going to get through this. And I think you need me, too."

  For a moment, he says nothing. Then he runs the scarf through his fingers. "I believe I told you on the phone that I had plans for this."

  "Yes," I say.

  He stands still, and looks me up and down. His gaze starts at my feet and travels oh so slowly up my body. He does not touch me, but still my body burns merely from the passing of his glance. I let myself go, surrendering to his power over me. Over my body. I want this. I want Damien and his strength. I want his touch.

  Mostly I want him to make the rest of the world go away.

  He continues his heated inspection, his face as dark and hungry as a wolf, and just as dangerous. He will consume me, and so help me, I want to be consumed. I want to disappear--I want to go somewhere that only Damien can find me.

  My legs are weak, my sex throbbing in anticipation. Tiny drops of sweat form between my breasts, and my nipples strain against my T-shirt.

  I keep my eyes on his, and my mouth goes dry, my pulse kicking up its tempo. He is no longer the Damien who jokes and teases, who holds and soothes me. This is not a man who will reveal his secrets to me or to anyone, and he is certainly not a man who will explode outward into a fiery rage.

  No, the man standing before me is grace and control personified. There is power in his touch, power in the slightest look. He is a hard man who commands a billion-dollar enterprise, and right now I am simply one more thing that he owns.

  I bite my lower lip. I am not disturbed by the thought. On the contrary, my body is tingling with awareness. To be owned by Damien Stark is heady stuff.

  "Take off your clothes."

  I comply, shedding my jacket, then pulling the T-shirt over my head. Because we're playing the game again, I am not wearing a bra, and when he sees that, the tiniest of smiles touches his mouth. I unzip the skirt next and let it fall around my feet. It is as if the hundreds of times he has seen me naked are forgotten. I feel shy and awkward. But when I see the way his eyes take me in, I feel beautiful.

  "Spread your legs," he says, and when I do, he goes down on his knees. He holds my hips, then presses a soft kiss just above my navel, and that simple touch sends shivers running through me. My body is on fire, alight with anticipation. I reach down to bury my fingers in his hair.

  "No," he murmurs. "Cup your breasts. There you go, baby," he says when I comply. "Stroke your nipples. Are they hard?"

  "Yes," I whisper.

  "Good," he says. "I want them harder. I want them so tight that just brushing a fingertip across your nipple shoots fire all the way down to your cunt. What do you say?"

  "Yes. Yes, sir."

  He smiles up at me, a smile of praise and promise, and then he turns back to my bare abdomen. His lips brush over me, lower and lower until he is tracing the neatly trimmed line of my pubic hair. And then lower still until his tongue laves my clitoris and I have no choice but to break Damien's rules and grab hard to his shoulder, because if I do not, I will certainly topple over.

  His tongue is merciless. Teasing me, fucking me, hard and demanding until I explode, my body a storm of sensation.

  He is kind enough to keep me from falling, urging me down to my knees in front of him. "You taste amazing," he says, then kisses me as if to prove the point. The kiss is deep, but all too short.

  "I'm going to fuck you, Nikki," he says. "Right here, right now. Hard and fast, until pleasure rips through you like a cyclone. And then we'll start again, slow and easy, letting it build and grow like a tiny seedling into a massive tree. Do you know how long that takes, Nikki? Can you imagine a pleasure that lasts for an eternity?"

  My mouth is dry, but I manage an answer. "With you, yes."

  He chuckles. "Good answer. Now unfasten my jeans."

  "Yes, sir."

  I'm so turned on that my fingers actually fumble with the button fly of his jeans, but I manage, then spread the denim and stroke my fingertips over his cock, still trapped behind the cotton of his briefs.

  I hear Damien suck in air, and I relish the knowledge that as much power as he has over me, I have the same over him.

&nbs
p; "Good girl," he says. "Now take it out and turn around. On your knees, Nikki."

  "Yes, sir," I say, but I have another plan. I slide my hand into his jeans and over the bulge of his briefs until I find his fly. He is thick and hard and as soon as I shift him, his cock bursts out as if desperate to play, too. I know I'm supposed to turn around--and I know that I'll undoubtedly be punished, but I can't resist the temptation.

  I lean forward and draw my tongue up the velvety length of his cock. He tastes salty and male and delicious, and when I hear him groan and say my name, my body seems to open up. I close my lips over the bulbous head, tease him with my tongue. Slowly, I take more of him into my mouth, then pull back, letting my teeth graze ever so lightly over him.

  I rest my hands on his hips, and I can feel his body start to shudder. I raise up higher on my knees for a better angle. I want to take more of him; I want to make him come.

  I am, however, thwarted in my plan, as his hands grasp me under the arms and he gently pulls me to my feet. "Minx," he teases.

  I smile innocently.

  "Oh, no," he says. "You are not getting off that easily." The scarf that I had wrapped around my wrist has come loose, and now he picks it up off the floor and knots it securely above my right hand. He gives it a tug and then leads me to the bedroom. The headboard on his bed is a solid piece of wood, and dead center is a large metal eyebolt. I'd noticed it before, but had never thought much about it. Now, he tells me to lie on my back on the bed with my hands above my head. I do, and he threads the scarf through the eye, then ties off the loose end on my other wrist. My arms now make a triangle above my head. I expect him to bind my feet as well, but he doesn't, and when he sees my curious look, he grabs my hips and flips me over onto my stomach. The maneuver both surprises me and explains why he wants my legs free.

  I realize with a jolt that I am surely not the first woman who has made the acquaintance of this eyebolt. The thought doesn't disturb me, though, because I know two things. I am the first woman Damien has brought to the Malibu house. And more than that, I believe with a bone-deep certainty that I am the last.

  "On your knees," Damien says. I comply, and he leaves me there, my ass in the air, my arms forward, and my head bent down and turned to the side so that I can see what he's doing.

  He's at the side of the bed, opening the door to the ornamental cabinet he uses as a bedside table. He pulls out a case that is similar to one I remember well from a delicious night at my apartment. This one, however, is bigger. He opens it, and I'm pleased that from this perspective, I can see the contents. Metal handcuffs. Candles. A cat-o'-nine-tails. A blindfold. A string of beads. And a few other things that I do not recognize.