by Anthology
"Do you want to go over?"
"Yes. No. I don't know."
He laughs. "Sounds like you want everything."
"Yes," I murmur as my body turns to molten lava. "Yes, please."
"Trail your fingers down, and tease your clit, baby. I want to hear you breathing. I want to feel you getting close. Tell me you're wet," he says when I gasp from that first initial stroke of my fingers over my slick flesh.
"I'm wet. I'm so very wet."
I let the vibrator fall, and it buzzes uselessly on the mattress beside me. I no longer care. Everything in my world is between my legs at this moment. My fingers. Damien's voice. And this wild, incredible, rising passion that is threatening to consume me.
"That's me touching you, baby. My fingers stroking you, my breath teasing you. You taste so good. Can you feel my tongue sliding over you?"
I try to say yes, but the sound comes out garbled.
"Come on," he says. "I can hear your breath. I can hear your excitement. Tell me you want to come."
"I do," I say. "Oh, yes, please."
"Just a little more. Find that one spot, baby, and tease it. You're almost there."
It is intoxicating, this marriage of fantasy and reality, of being with the man who knows my body so well, while hearing the words of a new lover whispered in my ear. It's making me rise. Taking me higher. Leading me right to the edge.
And then, when Damien whispers, "Come for me now," I burst wide open and everything inside me spills out into the night until I am hollow and exhausted, ripped to shreds, and utterly and completely satisfied.
I float--just float for a while. And then, finally, I drift back down to earth.
"Oh, god, Damien," I say when I can find words again. Honestly, those are the only three words I can find.
"Goodnight, Ms. Fairchild." His voice is soft, and although that is all that he says, what I hear is, "I love you."
CHAPTER SIX
Because spring has come early and it is unseasonably warm for March, I decide to spend the morning eating breakfast and reading the paper by the pool. I bypass the cabana that is reserved for the use of my suite--I'm not interested in being tucked away behind drapes--and pick one of the lounge chairs near the waterfall.
The area around the pool is beautifully landscaped with native plants and tropical flowers transplanted to make the area look lush. There are only a few of us out here this early, and I smile as I pass an elderly man in a golfing shirt reading a Harlan Coben novel and drinking a Bloody Mary.
I'm about to sit down when I see a flash of dark hair rounding the corner near one of the changing rooms. A woman. And though I do not recognize her, I am once again struck by the feeling of having seen someone familiar.
I consider getting up and following her, but I didn't see enough to be sure and, truly, if it's someone I know then I'll leave it to them to come say hi.
Once I'm settled, I peel off my T-shirt to reveal the bikini top I'd worn in the hope that the weather would feel just this nice.
I keep my linen skirt on, though. Not only is it not quite warm enough to strip all the way down to a bathing suit, but I don't do bikini bottoms in public. With Damien, I am no longer self-conscious about the scars that mar my hips and inner thighs. But that doesn't mean I want to invite the entire world to take a peek.
I pull today's Los Angeles Times out of my tote bag and set it on the table next to me. Then I wave my hand to signal a nearby waiter, who hurries over.
He looks to be a few years younger than me, and I guess that he's working his way through college. I order a bagel and cream cheese, coffee, and orange juice, then put my sunglasses on and tilt my head back, enjoying the feel of the still-rising sun against my skin.
I don't intend to doze, but I didn't get much sleep last night, and my eyelids are heavy, especially under the weight of the sun. I let myself drift, and suddenly it's not just the sun that is heating my skin. It's the memory of Damien's words in my ear last night.
For a brief moment, I regret not simply dining on the balcony that opens off my bedroom, because the temptation to slide my hands between my legs is very, very strong. I don't, however, want to give my nearby golfer a hard-on. Or, god forbid, a heart attack.
I hear the waiter's return and ask if he could bring me a glass of ice water.
"A little warm, Ms. Fairchild? From looking at you, I would have thought you were slightly chilled."
I open my eyes to find Damien smiling down at me. At my breasts, actually, and my rock hard nipples that are very evident under my bikini top.
"You're staring."
"I'm enjoying the view." He takes a seat on the lounge chair beside me. "Thinking about last night?"
"Every delicious minute," I admit, and then swallow a smile of satisfaction when I see his eyes heat with my unexpected answer.
"And you?" I ask. "What are you doing this morning? Besides staring, I mean?"
"Staring, Ms. Fairchild?" His eyes flick up to my face, and then he draws his gaze down my body, moving so slowly and with such purpose that my skin tingles in the wake of his inspection, as if he is trailing a finger tip down the entire length of my body and then back again.
"Staring?" he repeats. "No, I'm studying. And planning."
"Planning?" I repeat. "Now I'm very intrigued. Do tell."
"Oh, just analyzing various strategies. How I'm going to touch you. What I'll do to take you to the absolute heights of exquisite pleasure. To get you close but not let you go over, so that you are reduced to whimpering in my arms and begging me for release." He looks at me blandly. "Things like that."
My mouth has gone dry, and all my blood has pooled between my thighs. But even so, I manage to latch onto one key point. "In your arms, Mr. Stark?"
"Noticed that, did you?"
"I'm a very good listener."
"I hoped that you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner."
I tilt my head, considering. Tonight is our last night. If I want to take this flirtation to the next level, it really is now or never. And, yeah, I want to see what he has planned next.
"Are you going to behave?"
"That's highly doubtful."
I laugh, because that is absolutely the perfect answer. "In that case, Mr. Stark, I'd love to have dinner with you."
***
"How did it go?" I ask Jamie as we walk through the casino toward the hotel's main shopping area.
"I think it went great. Gloria said she'd call me about more interviews, so..."
She trails off and I pull her into a hug. "Jamie, that's awesome."
"Potentially awesome," she corrects, but she's grinning happily.
All around us, men and women are seated at blackjack and roulette tables or standing around the craps table. Dozens of them are playing slot machines, and the din is brutal. For that matter, so is the smoke that fills the air.
It's not even lunchtime, and yet this area is buzzing as if it were late at night. I suppose that's the idea of Vegas, but my idea of decadent runs in a more private direction, and I smile to myself as I look forward to dinner tonight with Damien and every wicked thing that will come after.
We walk a bit more before I pause and glance around. We've reached an intersection, and I'm trying to figure out which way to go. As far as I can tell, the basic design of any and all casinos is to not provide an easy exit. That way, once someone is in, they have no choice but to stay and gamble.
"Starfire Promenade?" Jamie asks, pointing toward a sign that directs us to the left.
"That's it," I say. "Let's go."
We reach freedom in another five minutes, and emerge from the casino's relative dark to the well-lit, sparkle of this high-end shopping promenade. It takes up three levels and as far as I can tell every designer imaginable has a storefront here, along with a variety of high end boutiques, restaurants and even small galleries.
"What are you shopping for?" I ask.
She glances sideways at me. "You're not shopping?"
I think of my closet back home, which is about the size of my college apartment and completely stuffed with the clothes and jewelry that Damien is always buying me. As far as I can tell, he won't be satisfied until I own one of everything.
"I might look for a present for Damien," I say. "Then again, in this weekend's reality, I don't have a Damien in my life."
"You're still playing?"
"Sure," I say. "It's fun. I take it you and Ryan aren't?"
Jamie lifts a shoulder. "Playing, sure. Pretending we picked each other up at a bar? Not anymore. Pretending other things..." Her voice trails off with a hint of a naughty lilt. "Well, a girl never kisses and tells. Or fucks and tells. Or blindfold and tells. Or --"
"Jamie!" I slap my hands over my ears, laughing. "Stop. Please, stop."
She shrugs good-naturedly. "Hey, you asked."
I'm pretty sure I didn't, but I don't press the point.
"There," she says, pointing to a display of embroidered jeans in the window of one of the fancy boutiques on the other side of this wide walkway. "Let's check it out."
"Sure," I say and start following her. As we're about to go in, a dark haired woman rushes past us as she hurries to catch up with friends. Seeing her reminds me, and I turn back to Jamie. "I had that feeling again," I say. "When I was by the pool this morning."
"What? Someone you know?"
"I have no idea, but yeah. It's a little disconcerting."
"It's probably nothing," Jamie says. "Or if you really are seeing someone, they're probably just snapping pictures of you for Twitter. The price you pay for being married to a god of the universe."
I scowl, but have to concede she has a point. Since marrying Damien, I'm regularly all over social media.
"Listen, go on in," I say, pointing toward the store. "I want to look next door." The jewelry store window has a display of emerald and diamond jewelry, and I would love to find earrings to match the stunning anklet that Damien gave me when we first got together.
"I buy denim, you buy diamonds," she trills. "That pretty much sums up the differences in our lives these days."
I just laugh. "Oh, those aren't the only differences." I start to count out on my fingers. "Beach house. Limo. Private jet. And don't forget the chocolate company in Switzerland."
"Well, now you're just being mean." She hip butts me. "Catch you in a few."
I grin, watching her go, then head into the store. It's larger than it looks from the outside and is surprisingly crowded. A uniformed security guard stands at the door looking bored.
Glass shelving lines the walls, full of less expensive items, though still pricey. Handblown glass vases, statuary, jewelry that costs less than five figures.
The center of the space is made up of glass display cases shaped in a U, and the customers in the shop walk around the U to scope out both the items on the shelves and those in the cabinets. Some are filled with brand new pieces, others display estate jewelry. I find an antique set of emerald and diamond drop earrings set in platinum and a matching bracelet that are almost exactly what I have in mind.
"They're stunning quality," the man behind the counter says. His nametag identifies him as Frederick Pyle. "I'm looking for something to match this," I say, bending to remove my anklet. As I do, I see her again. My dark-haired shadow. And this time I am absolutely, one-hundred percent sure that I know her. She has wavy hair that reaches her shoulders and a round face with prominent cheekbones. She's petite, and looks even smaller because she keeps herself hunched over, as if she is trying to hide from the world.
She's browsing the glass shelves, and I turn back to Mr. Pyle, both because he has brought out the pieces for me to look at, and also because I don't want to catch her eye while I'm still trying to remember her name.
Where do I know her from?
I try not to think too hard, because that is a surefire way to ensure that I don't remember. Instead, I put the anklet next to the bracelet. They are not a perfect match, but the settings complement each other beautifully. And, most important, I like them. "I'll take them," I say. And because I'm Mrs. Damien Stark and I never, ever do this, despite Damien telling me to buy whatever I want, whenever I want, I don't even ask the price. Instead, I just tell him to charge it to my account. Then I tell him my name, show him my ID, and fight not to smile when his already polite and deferential attitude ratchets up about a thousand-fold.
"Of course, Mrs. Stark. Would you like to wait? Or shall I deliver the pieces to your room after we've cleaned and packaged them?"
"I'd love to wear them," I admit. "How long?"
"Ten minutes. If you'd like to have a seat?" He points to a silk upholstered divan at the back of the store. "Some wine?"
"I'll just browse," I say. "Thanks."
I stroll around the store, peeking into the glass cases, checking out all of the lovely, sparkly items. But my attention is only half there. Mostly I am wracking my brain trying to remember that woman's name. I'm trying very hard not to stare, too, which is good, as she keeps turning side to side, her eyes darting all over the place as if she is nervous.
Soon enough, I realize why.
She takes one of the hand blown glass vases, and slides it surreptitiously into her purse.
Then she straightens her shoulders, browses the shelves for a few more minutes, and heads for the entrance. She's almost through, when the security guard steps in front of her.
"Excuse me, miss," he says. "I'm going to have to ask you to open your purse."
"Pardon?" Her voice rises, and even from across the store I can hear her panic. "Oh, golly," she adds, and in that moment, I know exactly who she is. Marcy Kendall from Dallas, Texas. One of the few girls in high school that Jamie and I genuinely liked. One of the few who was nice to me and didn't think I was stuck-up and bitchy just because I entered pageants. Somehow, she saw through all the bullshit and realized that my introspection wasn't bitchiness, and that the pageants were torture.
We'd never been close, but I'd liked her. And she'd been like a mirror on the world. A reminder that there were people who would see the real you, even when you tried to hide it away.
I have no idea why Marcy Kendall is shoplifting a glass vase, but I'm determined to find out. First, though, I'm determined to help her.
"Marcy!" I call, and then watch as she jumps almost a foot. She turns in my direction, and her eyes go wide.
"What--"
But I interrupt before she can say something stupid. "Where'd you put the glass vase? Did you give it to Mr. Pyle? Because I haven't paid for it yet."
For a second, her face is so awash in confusion that I am absolutely certain the guard is going to swoop down and arrest us both. But then it clears and the confusion shifts to such a profound gratitude that any doubts I may have had about helping her are firmly swept away.
"Oh," she says. "I thought you already did. I'm sorry." She laughs. "I told you that having mimosas at breakfast was a bad idea. I'm such a dope when I've been drinking." She smiles up at the guard, then pulls the vase out of her bag. "Sorry. Guess it looked like I was stealing it."
She starts to walk back toward me, and I think that all is well. But then the guard says, "Just one minute, Miss," and he plucks the vase right out of her hand. He points to me. "And I'd like to speak to you, too, ma'am."
"Me? But I--"
I cut myself off. What the hell should I say?
Fortunately, Mr. Pyle chooses that moment to return. "Here you go, Mrs. Stark," and though I know he is using his outdoor voice so that he can share with the world--or at least these customers--that the fabulously rich Damien Stark's wife actually shopped in his store, right then all I can think is that his well-projected voice has reached the security guard. And that is a good thing.
The guard's mouth closes, and he hands the vase back to Marcy. "Sorry for the misunderstanding."
"Of course. My fault. Truly."
I look at Mr. Pyle. "Could you add that vase to my bill?" I smile sweetly. "She
doesn't need it wrapped."
I take my package and hurry outside, hoping that Marcy hasn't run off in the time it took me to get outside.
She hasn't.
I find her waiting for me on a bench across from the entrance to the store with Jamie's jeans.
She looks up as I approach, her smile tremulous. "Thanks," she says. "You really saved me."
I take a seat beside her. "What's going on, Marcy? Why were you stealing a vase?"
She lifts her chin. "Oh, I wasn't," she says, but I barely hear her words. She's done a decent job covering them, but in this lighting, I can see the bruises beneath her makeup. And now that I know what to look for, I see them not just on her cheek and neck, but also on her upper arm and wrist.
I keep my face impassive. I don't want her to know that I understand. Because I don't want her to bolt.
"I meant what I said about drinking in the morning," she is saying lightly. "I just grabbed it up and walked out. Stupid. I would totally have paid."
I don't believe her, of course.
But I am determined to help her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
I'm sitting with Marcy on a bench when Jamie bops out of the clothing store swinging a shopping bag.
She sees us, and her jaw drops open. "Marcy? Marcy Kendall?"
Marcy's smile is thin, but sincere. "Hey, Jamie. It's good to see you again."
Jamie looks between the two of us. "What's going on?"
"I bumped into Marcy in the jewelry store," I say. "She's my gremlin."
Marcy's brow furrows. "What?"
"I've seen you twice," I say. "Out of the corner of my eye. Yesterday in the lobby. This morning at the pool. It's been driving me crazy because I couldn't place you."
"Oh. And here I thought I was doing a good job just blending into the background."
I study her. Hunched over, hands clasped. Cuticles picked to ruins. Yeah, she looks like she wants to fade away.