by J. Kenner
Slowly, he looks me up and down. “I’m tempted to commission another painting, Ms. Fairchild. I think I’d like to have you like this all the time.”
I smirk. “Are we negotiating, Mr. Stark? I don’t come cheap, but for someone of your discriminating taste, I’m quite certain that we could come to terms.”
He laughs, and I have to bite my lip not to join in. “There is very little that I’d like more than to negotiate with you. But I’m afraid we’re running out of time.”
“Time?”
“Places to go,” he says. “People to see.”
Oh. Suddenly his comment that I will be fighting to keep control makes a lot more sense.
I glance down at my very bare, very bound body. “I don’t think I’m dressed for company.”
“It’s just as well that the traditional morals of our society don’t allow me to take you out like this. I’m a very selfish man, and I have no interest in sharing you with the world.”
“Believe me,” I say, with a wry twist to my mouth, “I have no interest in being shared.” My mind turns to the portrait, in which I am bound so similarly to how I am now. A larger-than-life painting that will hang in a room meant for entertaining. In that way, I suppose Damien has already shared me, and I have agreed to be shared. But I am anonymous in the painting. That had been a key term of our deal.
“I’m exceptionally glad to hear that, Ms. Fairchild. Especially since, as you reminded me, you are my exclusive property until midnight. Completely mine to do with as I wish. Isn’t that so?”
“Yes.”
“To touch, to tease, to tempt.”
My body tightens at his words, but I manage to nod.
“To punish and to praise.”
“Damien—” My voice is raw, and he silences me with a gentle finger to my lips. Then slowly circles me.
“To clothe, to feed. Mine, Nikki,” he says, his breath stroking the back of my neck as intimately as a hand upon my sex. “Mine to protect, mine to cherish.” He has finished the circle and is facing me now. “Mine to rule. Tell me, Nikki. Tell me what I want to hear.”
“I’m yours,” I whisper. I am craving his touch, my body so hyperaware that I feel drugged, done in by the sweet narcotic that is Damien.
“Good girl.” His words are low, barely audible. Slowly, he moves behind me again. I turn my head, trying to see him, but I don’t know what he’s doing until I feel him loosening the knots that bind my wrists.
“I’m surprised,” I say. “After what you said, I didn’t think you’d free me.”
“Who says I am?” His voice is low and sensual. It surrounds and strokes me. “I’m taking care of you, Nikki. Wholly and completely.”
I close my eyes in sweet anticipation. Behind me, he finishes unraveling the knots. I sigh and rub my wrists, which have gone a little numb from being in one position for so long. I try to guess what Damien has planned, but it’s no use. I am clueless, and I watch helplessly as he moves across the room to the section of the closet that boasts a wider selection of designer tops than the Neiman Marcus back home in Dallas. He chooses a sleeveless black sweater with a cowl neck. Then he returns to my side.
“I’m going to dress you now,” he says. “Arms up.”
I obey. The knit is soft yet snug, and I can’t deny that it fits perfectly. I lift my hand to my neck, enjoying the freedom of movement, and am happy to realize that the high, loose neck covers the cord that still hangs between my breasts under the shirt.
He holds out a tiny leather miniskirt next, and I dutifully step into it, careful not to trip over the cord that still hangs in front of me, and that Damien makes sure remains hidden inside the garment.
“Damien,” I say, and though I try to sound harsh, there is no hiding the excitement that laces those three simple syllables.
“Hush,” he replies. He moves behind me, presumably to zip up the skirt. Instead, he reaches between my legs for the dangling cord and tugs it toward him. Once again, I tingle from the enticing feel of the silk against my oh-so-sensitive flesh. He pulls it up, threading it under the skirt so that a tiny bit peeks out from the waistband. Then he zips me up tight.
“I don’t think that adds much to the outfit,” I say, looking over my shoulder at the flash of red that resembles an exotic zipper pull.
“I beg to differ,” he retorts, and underscores his words with a slow, yet firm tug on the cord. I cry out in pleasure and surprise, the simultaneous stroking of my sex and ass almost more than I can handle.
“You still need shoes,” he says gently, this time crossing to a section of shoe cubbies. He grabs a pair of strappy black sandals with three-inch fuck-me heels. “These will do,” he says. “And as much as I like you in stockings, I think we’ll skip that tonight.”
I can only nod, then sit on the white leather bench to which he leads me. As I sit, the cord tightens, and I am quite certain that Damien intended it that way.
He crouches in front of me and lifts my foot. My knees are apart, and as he slides on the shoe and fastens the tiny buckle around my ankle, his eyes flicker up to meet mine, and then down to the shadow between my parted legs. Unless a red silk cord constitutes underwear, I am naked beneath the skirt. Naked and wet and so needful that I want to slide my hips forward in a silent demand that he touch me. That he take me.
With Damien, however, I don’t have to beg. As soon as he has fastened the other shoe, he puts my feet on the ground. Because of the heels, my knees now rise above the bench, which means my skirt has lifted a bit as well, giving the man in front of me an even more intimate view.
Gently, he presses his palm against my bare knee. Then he leans in and brushes his lips over the sensitive skin on the inside of my right thigh. I shiver from the contact, the pressure from the cord making the sensation that much more erotic.
“You’re like a drug to me.” Damien’s voice is low and his breath upon my skin is so tantalizing that I have to close my eyes and clutch the bench even tighter. “I wasn’t going to touch you—not yet. But I don’t have the strength to deny myself the taste of you.”
“Yes.” It is the only word I can manage, but right then it is the only word that matters.
His hands ease up my legs as he presses gentle kisses along the insides of my thighs.
“Up,” he says, as he pushes at the skirt. I rise off the bench and he lifts the skirt over my rear so that when I sit back down, my bare ass is against the warm leather bench. His hands are still on my hips, and his thumb gently strokes the worst of my scars. The one where I’d cut too deep and been too scared to go to the ER. I’d fixed myself up with duct tape and superglue. I’d survived, but the scar now acts as a hideous reminder of the emotional damage that had put it there in the first place.
Between my legs, Damien’s lips brush over another angry scar. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs. “Strong and beautiful, and mine.”
I tremble and blink back tears. I desperately hope that he is right, but I still fear that my strength is like a rubber band. Stretch me too far, and I will snap.
I can’t worry about that now, though. I can’t think about anything except the brush of Damien’s lips against my skin and the pressure of his hands upon my legs.
Gently, he urges my thighs farther apart and I comply willingly, almost desperately. I need him now—need to lose myself in his touch—and Damien does not disappoint. I feel his breath upon my sex, and my own breath comes faster, my breasts rising and falling, my nipples tight against the knit sweater.
He teases me, his tongue gently stroking the tender flesh between my legs and my vulva. I squeeze my eyes tight and try not to squirm. I cannot help it, though, and when I do, that wonderful, damnable cord slides over my dripping sex. I am so wet, so turned on, and just that tiny bit of friction is enough to shoot electricity all through me. I curl my toes in the shoes, shifting them so that only the points touch the ground and my knees raise even higher. I want more—so help me, I need more—and then, thank God, his tongue
flicks gently over my clit and that is all it takes. I shatter, leaning back, my hands gripping the bench so hard I’m afraid I might dent the frame.
He holds me in thrall, his mouth pleasuring me so fully, his tongue dipping intimately inside me. The orgasm that is racking my body seems to go on forever, and I squeeze my legs shut, trapping Damien, not certain if I am trying to ensure that he never stops, or trying to make him stop because I cannot possibly survive such an onslaught of pleasure.
I feel the stubble of his beard against my thigh and gasp, then realize that I have been holding my breath. I lean forward, my senses returning, and twine my fingers in his hair. I don’t want him to stop, and yet right then, I need his arms around me. I need to hold him close and kiss him, and I roughly pull him up. I claim his mouth with my own, kissing him fiercely and relishing the taste of me upon his lips.
“Take me to bed,” I plead moments later. I’ve had only a taste of Damien, and like a long-starved refugee, I am nowhere close to having my fill. “Please, take me to bed,” I repeat.
“Not yet,” Damien says, and his eyes are dark with promise. “First, I’m going to take you out.”
I shift on the soft, leather passenger seat as Damien maneuvers the sleek and speedy Bugatti Veyron onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Damien has not actually said as much, but I think that of all his cars, this one is his favorite. It’s certainly the one we use the most, and I have even managed—finally—to memorize the make and model. Now it’s “the Bugatti,” not “that unpronounceable car.”
He’s smiling, obviously enjoying putting the car through its paces, leading us away from Malibu to God knows where. He hasn’t told me, and I haven’t asked. Wherever we’re going, I trust that it will be fabulous, and I am happily lost in the pleasure of watching him. Damien Stark, my playful, sexy billionaire. I smile even broader. Mine, I think. That is what he said about me. That I am his.
But is the reverse really true? Is Damien mine? For that matter, can a man like Damien Stark—a man who holds power close, but his secrets closer—ever belong to anyone?
His attention shifts from the road, and his brows rise in question, creating two horizontal furrows on an otherwise perfect forehead. “Penny for your thoughts,” he says.
I force my lips to curve, banishing my worries. “I haven’t taken a look at your balance sheets, but I think you’re worth more than a penny, Mr. Stark.”
“I’m flattered.”
“At my assessment of your value?”
“That you were thinking of me,” he says, taking his eyes off the road long enough to meet my eyes. “Then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. There isn’t a moment that goes by that I don’t think of you.” His words are as smooth as whiskey and just as intoxicating. “Even at the bargain-basement price of a penny, if I was required to pay each time my thoughts turned to you, my fortune would have evaporated days ago.”
“Oh.” My smile is soft and ridiculously, foolishly shy. He has, in that Damien Stark way that he has, completely banished my troubled thoughts. “I guess I won’t charge you, then. I’d hate to see you destitute.” I flash an impish grin as I snuggle back against the soft leather seat. “I like your cars too much.”
“I imagine they make putting up with me more palatable.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I say. “The cars, the clothes, the jet.” I’m counting on my fingers now.
“The paparazzi?” He glances sideways at me, and even in that quick flick of his gaze, I see the concern on his face.
I grimace. “They make me want to pull out my Leica and snap pictures of them. Then we’d see how they like it.” I frown. “On the other hand, I love that camera.” I think back to the day that Damien surprised me with it after I’d told him how I dabble in photography. “I don’t want to soil it by taking pictures of them.” I say the last word as if there’s a nasty taste in my mouth.
“Besides,” Damien says, “no tabloid will pay for a picture of one of them. They want you. And because of that—because of me—you’ve lost a level of privacy.”
I shift in my seat to look more directly at him. Is this the source of his concern? Was that what the telephone call was about? His lawyers warning him about some new picture of us that will appear on the cover of a half dozen magazines next week? Mentally, I flip back through the last week, trying to think what image could be so mortifying that it would cause Damien so much consternation.
Already, the tabloids have gotten hold of a half dozen shots of me in a bathing suit, courtesy of the various pageants I’ve entered over the years. Seeing myself displayed at the grocery store checkout line had been a less-than-fun experience, but I’d taken about a million deep breaths and reminded myself that those pageants had been open to the public and at least two of them had even been televised.
I can’t think of anything else disturbing that could be printed about me or about the two of us together. Certainly there’s nothing that Damien and I have done in public that I’d be embarrassed for my mother to see. And as for in private—well, if the paparazzi have pictures of us in private, they would have to be very brave indeed to face Damien’s wrath and publish them.
But there is the balcony of the Malibu house.
Every day I’ve stood naked and bound in front of that open door, and although Damien owns acres and acres, and the distant beach is a private one, surely a resourceful photographer could—
I can’t even finish the thought. A wave of fear crashes over me, so palpable that I suddenly feel nauseated. And despite the cold that seems to settle over me, I realize that my armpits are damp with perspiration. “They don’t have anything new, do they?” I say, trying hard to make my voice sound normal. I can handle the attention that goes with being Damien’s girlfriend. But nude images of me splashed across papers and the Internet? Oh, dear God …
“It’s not like they’ve stepped it up a notch, right? I mean, it’s not like someone’s been aiming a long lens at the balcony. Have they?”
“Good God, no.” His response is so fast and full of such astonishment that I know my guess completely missed the mark.
I relax, the feeling returning to my body. “Good,” I say. “I thought—” I break off, because I need to take another deep breath. I realize my fingernails are digging into the flesh above my knees, and I release my grip and force myself to relax. I don’t need the pain to get through this; there’s nothing to get through except fear. And besides, I have Damien to hang on to.
“Nikki?”
When I speak, my voice actually sounds normal. “I just thought that since you brought up the paparazzi, that maybe that was what the call was about.”
“Call?”
“Earlier,” I say. “At the house. You looked so upset.”
His eyes widen with what I recognize as genuine surprise. “Did I?”
I lift a shoulder in concession. “I doubt Blaine noticed. But I know you.”
“Yes,” he says. “Apparently you do. But no, that call had nothing to do with those vultures.”
I can almost see a red haze of anger surrounding Damien, but I don’t know if he’s angry at the original caller or with me.
I clear my throat and continue the conversation as if I’d never even mentioned it. “Besides,” I say, “the paparazzi are not one of your acquisitions. More like an infestation. I don’t like them, but I’m learning to live with them.”
He glances at me, and I catch his worried expression. It had been too much to hope that Damien missed my minor freak-out moment a second ago. Damien, I’ve learned, misses nothing.
“Really,” I say, and I mean it, too. So long as no one has taken a nudie picture of me with a long lens, I am just fine. “They’re like fire ants in Texas. They swarm, but the trick is to just not get in the middle of them. And if you do get bit, the sting fades soon enough.” I am so firm that I almost convince myself. “Besides,” I add with a wicked grin, “your Santa Barbara hotel and your penthouse apartment make it all worthwhile.”
“Don’t forget the house in Hawaii,” he finally says.
I release a happy sigh. “You have a house in Hawaii?”
“And an apartment in Paris.”
“Oh, now you’re just trying to make me drool.”
“Have I mentioned that Stark International has several divisions in the food industry, as well as a significant share of a company that produces high-end Swiss chocolates?”
I cross my arms. If we’re playing Itemize Stark’s Assets, this game will go on forever. “You realize that the fact that you have never once offered me one of those Swiss chocolates is grounds for me to hold a grudge for at least two weeks.”
“Two weeks?” His hand hovers over the button on the steering wheel that operates the speakerphone. “And would you be withholding sex during that time, Ms. Fairchild?”
I manage a very unladylike snort. “Hardly. The idea is to punish you, not me.”
“I see.” He moves his hand away from the button. “No need to bother Sylvia this late, then. I’ll have her order your chocolates in the morning.”
I laugh. “So far the chocolates are in the lead in my assessment of your assets. But I’m also impressed by your fabulous taste in restaurants. That’s a hint, by the way.”
“I applaud your subtlety.”
“I try.”
“And I’ll reward you with the news that we’re almost there.”
“Really?” I’ve been ignoring the world outside the car, but now I look through the passenger side window. We’ve been on the road almost half an hour, the dark Pacific with the moon-crested waves rippling to my right as we head south. Now I see that we’ve arrived in Santa Monica, and after a few turns and stops at traffic lights, we are on Ocean Avenue between Santa Monica and Arizona.
Damien pulls up in front of a sleek white building that, as far as I can tell, has no hard angles, only sweeping curves. It’s several stories tall and mostly dark, but when I press my nose to the window and look up, I can see that the top floor is brightly lit.