Claim Me: A Novel

by J. Kenner

“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.

  “Handcuffs?” I tease. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  “Maybe.” He takes out the cat-o’-nine-tails, a small whip with many strands of leather at one end. “But not yet.”

  He moves behind me so that I cannot see his face. Just his legs and his very hard cock, and that only when I drop my head and look down between my own legs.

  I don’t look for long, because he dangles the soft leather ends of the whip over my shoulders and back. “Want?” he asks. “And need?”

  “Yes,” I say as the horror of the evening rushes back. I want to banish those memories and those emotions. I want to claim them and destroy them. I want to survive them. And I want Damien to be the one to help me do that. “Yes,” I say again, but my word is drowned out by the snap of the toy against the soft skin of my ass.

  It stings, and I cry out, closing my eyes as I draw in the pain and cling to it. I want it, yes. And I need it, too. But with Damien delivering the blows, I can’t deny that I am getting off on it as well. “Again,” I say, as his hand rubs the spot where the whip connected. “Please, Damien, again.”

  He complies, bringing it down hard again and again, then rubbing my soft skin, which I imagine is now red. This is better than a knife. Safer, yes, but also more real. I’m turning something horrid into something good. Somehow, being with Damien turns it all around.

  “Spread your legs,” he demands. I comply, and the end of the whip dangles over my sex. I am more wet than I can ever remember being, and Damien’s moan of pleasure only makes me more excited. “I’m going to spank your cunt, too,” he says. “And then I’m going to fuck you, because dammit, Nikki, I can’t wait.”

  The whip snaps lightly between my legs, and I tremble from the fast shock of it against my clit. I discovered recently with Damien how much I enjoy this particular sensation, and that feeling hasn’t lessened in the slightest. Again, then again, and I am crying out from the spectacular intensity of the pleasure.

  I am on fire. I am burning up. I am a blaze burning free, and only Damien can quench this heat.

  “Please,” I beg. “Please, Damien, now.”

  He doesn’t hesitate. His hands take my hips and I feel the head of his cock at my vagina, and then he is inside me, deeper and deeper until I almost feel as though I cannot take it anymore. He holds me by one hip, the other hand beneath me, his finger stroking me in time with the thrusts so that I am lost in an overload of sensations.

  “Come for me,” he demands, and my body tightens around him.

  “Come for me,” he repeats. “Dammit, Nikki, I want to feel you come.”

  And then, as if my body really is abiding by his will, a deep, quaking orgasm rolls through me. My body quivers. My muscles clench, bringing him even tighter into me. And my arms go limp. I collapse down onto the bed, breathing hard as waves and waves of violent pleasure continue to crash over me before finally settling down into the soft glow of immense satisfaction.

  Damien shifts, pulling out of me and then lying beside me, his fingers stroking lazily up and down my back. “Turn over,” he says after a moment. “I want to show you something.”

  Curious, I roll over. He brings the box back onto the bed, and this time, he pulls out a red taper candle.

  “Damien?” I say warily. “What are you doing?”

  “Something new.”

  He straddles me at the waist so that I cannot move my legs, and as my arms are still bound, I am essentially immobile.

  “Do you trust me?”

  “Yes,” I say, but as he strikes a match and lights the candle, I can’t help but bite my lower lip.

  “Liar,” he says. “Close your eyes.”

  I do, and I’m certain I must look ridiculous. My eyes squeezed tight and my teeth grazing my lip.

  “Relax,” he says.

  “Easy for you to say.”

  “Tell me what this is.”

  I feel a gentle stroke along the swell of my breast. “Your finger?”

  “And this?”

  Soft and slightly wet, this time at my cleavage. “Your tongue.”

  “This?”

  It is rough and soft at the same time. “I don’t know.”

  “A feather,” he says, though he doesn’t say where he got it.

  “And this?”

  At first I feel nothing. Then there is a sharp, hot ping on my nipple that quickly shifts to something cool and tight. It’s not painful, and it is more than pleasure. It is, in fact, exquisite. “I—the candle?”

  “Very good. Now hold still.” I feel it again, only this time the ping lasts longer and is not confined to one place. I arch up to meet the sensation as what feels like long fingers tighten on the skin of my breast. Then the feeling repeats and repeats and now I am biting my lower lip not from nerves, but because of the glorious rapture that has sparked inside me, spreading out like electric shocks from my breasts to my sex. And then shooting sparks out through my fingers and toes.

  “Open your eyes,” he says.

  I do, and I see long strands of red crisscrossing my breasts. The skin beneath the wax is puckered and tight, and with my breasts and nipples already so sensitive, the sensation is beyond incredible.

  Damien still straddles my waist, but now he slides down and gently spreads my legs. Slowly, he enters me, then he leans forward and, as he thrusts in and out, he tightens his h
ands over my breasts in time with his movements.

  The wax cracks as my orgasm builds, and when I finally do come, my body clenching around him to draw him farther in, Damien tightens his grip and the last of the wax cracks.

  I cry out, lost in the exotic sensations that shoot through me, arching up as if I could keep the feeling from ending.

  And then, when my body quits quivering, I close my eyes and succumb to the lure of sleep as it tugs me under.

  19

  I wake to the smell of bacon and discover that not only are my arms free, but I am snuggled under the covers. I smile and stretch, feeling well fucked and well taken care of.

  I slide out of bed, find a shirt in the closet, and follow the scent to the huge black-and-steel kitchen. An electric skillet sizzles on the granite island, while Damien stands at the stove holding an omelette pan. Diced avocado, cubed cream cheese, and something else I don’t recognize neatly cover a small cutting board off to one side.

  Two flutes of champagne are half-filled, and beside them sits a carafe of orange juice.

  “Are we celebrating?” I ask, coming up behind him and peering into the omelette pan.

  “We are,” he says. “After the day we had yesterday, I thought we should celebrate the important things.”

  “The day?” I repeat. My body is still deliciously sore and aching. I stretch and smile slowly. “What about the night?”

  “That was a celebration in and of itself,” he says. His eyes skim over me. I am wearing one of his button-down shirts, and it hangs to mid-thigh. The sleeves are rolled up, and the unfastened buttons reveal more than a little cleavage. The desire in his eyes is as unmistakable as his slow, sexy Damien smile. I’m pretty sure I melt a little.

  He traces his finger down the open neck of the shirt. “I like you in my clothes.”

  “Me, too,” I say.

  “I like you out of them as well.”

  I laugh, and dance back out of reach of his fingers. “Don’t even get ideas,” I say. “I’m starving.”

  He laughs.

  “So what exactly are we celebrating?”

  He brushes a quick kiss over my lips. “Us.”

  That single word sends a thrill running through me. “I’ll drink to that,” I say.

  “Good. You can pour the OJ into our glasses. Then go sit.”

  He points to one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “If you stay back here you’ll only distract me, and while that might lead to very interesting kitchen sex, it would also undoubtedly burn the omelettes.”

  “I am hungry,” I concede as I pour the OJ and hand him a glass. I take my own with me and go sit at the bar that is attached to the island. It gives me a nice view of Damien looking deliciously domestic. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

  “I’m a man of many mysteries,” he says.

  “I’m a terrible cook,” I admit. “There’s not much point in learning when your mother is convinced that all you really need to eat are carrots and iceberg lettuce.”

  “After my mother died, my father would drag us out to restaurants for every meal,” Damien says. “I couldn’t stand being that close to the man for that long, so I told him that if he expected me to be more competitive, I needed to eat better. I cooked, then took my plate to my room and he took his to the television. Worked out great.”

  “And you learned a valuable skill.” I’m smiling, but my heart is breaking. My childhood had been seriously less than stellar, but at least I’d had Ashley during the years when my mother doled out calories as stingily as free time. Damien had no one except a vile father and an abusive coach. “Did you have friends?” I ask. “When you were competing, I mean. Did you make friends with the other players?”

  “Other than Alaine and Sofia? Not really.” He spoons the cheese, avocado, and mystery food into the omelette, then expertly folds it onto a plate.

  “Tell me about Sofia.”

  His smile is sad. “We had a lot in common. Both our fathers were assholes.”

  “Are we talking friend or girlfriend?”

  “Friend, then girlfriend, then friend again.”

  I nod, greedily soaking up these bits of Damien’s past.

  “Was she your first?” I ask.

  His face darkens. “Yes. But it wasn’t a moment of joy and bliss for either one of us. We were young, and we definitely weren’t ready.”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a difficult subject.”

  “It’s okay,” he says with a flicker of a smile that takes the edge off the flatness of his words. “Really.” He takes a sip of champagne, adds some bacon to the plate, then slides it in front of me. “Well?”

  I take the fork he offers, sample a small bite, and moan with pleasure. “This is amazing. What’s in it?”

  “Lobster.”

  “You just happen to have lobster in your fridge?”

  “Sure,” he says, deadpan. “Don’t you?”

  “Not hardly. Apparently the cars, hotels, jets, and chocolate factories aren’t the only perks of being filthy rich.”

  He laughs and I dig into my breakfast while Damien stands at the stove keeping a close eye on his own meal. I’m surprised when my cell phone rings until I see that Damien has plugged it into a charger and left it on the breakfast bar. I consider letting it roll to voice mail, because I am not interested in having the real world intrude. But it’s Jamie, so I answer.

  “Holy fucking crap,” she says, not bothering with the traditional “hello.” “Douglas just came over to tell me that you’re all over the Internet,” she says. “Like I didn’t already know. Douglas!” she adds, as if that is the worst affront of all.

  I want to tell Jamie that if she’s so irritated by our one-night stand of a next-door neighbor, then she shouldn’t have slept with Douglas in the first place. But I stay silent. We’ve been over all that before.

  “So it’s really everywhere?” I ask. “I haven’t wanted to look.”

  “Sorry,” she says, her voice thick with sympathy. “Your mom even called me.”

  “You?”

  “Lucky me, huh? She said she was too upset to talk with you yet, but that she—oh, fuck, Nikki. What the hell do you care what she thinks?”

  “I know what she thinks,” I say. “That I’m a disappointment. That I’ve ruined the family name. That she didn’t raise a whore.”

  I can tell from Jamie’s silence that I’m right. Damien is watching me carefully. He doesn’t come to my side, though. I have a feeling he’s afraid I’ll shatter.

  I won’t. Just thinking about my mother—about the fact that she cares more about what the tabloid press says than about what really happened—pisses me off and makes me strong. Well, stronger, anyway.

  “So it’s all over everywhere?”

  “Yeah,” Jamie says. “They don’t waste any time. The tabloids, social media, even the legitimate news, too. You get a million dollars from a guy like Damien for posing nude and even CNN is going to be reporting it. I mean, talk about the ratings.”

  “Jamie.”

  “Sorry! Sorry! So, are you okay? I mean, what are you going to do?”

  “I’m okay,” I say. My cheeks heat as I glance at Damien and think about exactly how I went from being a complete wreck to feeling relatively normal. “For now, anyway.” I haven’t turned on the television. I haven’t even checked my email. Considering what might be in my inbox from my mother, I’m certain I don’t want to.

  I catch Damien’s eye and I know he’s wondering the same thing that I am—will I still be fine once I step back into the world?

  “You’re staying in today, right?” she asks.

  “I can’t. I have to go to work.”

  Damien shakes his head. “Take the day off. Bruce will understand.”

  “I heard that,” Jamie says. “Listen to Damien. He’s smart. And you need to call Bruce before you go to the office, anyway. He called here looking for you.”

  “I’ll call him, but I’m going in.”<
br />
  Except, apparently, I’m not. Because when I call Bruce, he tells me that he thinks it would be in the best interest of the company if I took a leave of absence. “I’m sorry,” he says, “but this is more than a few photographers looking for a photo of Damien Stark’s girlfriend. They’re swarming around this story. And I can’t have the press hanging around the building trying to get a shot of you. Not now.”

  “Now?” I repeat. “What’s special about now?”

  I hear him exhale loudly into the phone. “Giselle and I are getting a divorce. I haven’t wanted to mention it before, but the point is that I need to be squeaky clean, and my lawyer thinks that—”

  “I get it,” I say. “I’m fired.”

  “Leave of absence,” he says. “Please.”

  “It’s shaping up to be a crappy day, Bruce. Can we at least call it what it is?”

  There’s a pause, and then, “I really am sorry, Nikki. It’s a lovely portrait and it’s unfair you’re getting this kind of blow-back. And I really could use a talent like yours here at Innovative. But you’re going to land on your feet.”

  “Yeah,” I say, looking at Damien. “I know.”

  “I think I’m going to take the day off today,” Damien says when I put my phone down.

  “You don’t need to coddle me.” I point to the back of the apartment where there is a private door to his office suite. “Go. Earn money.”

  “I’m in the fortunate position of having made enough excellent investment choices that I don’t have to actually do anything in order to make money.” He cocks his head to the side as if listening. “There. Did you hear that?”

  “What?”

  “The clink of coins as I just earned a few thousand more.”

  I roll my eyes. “I’m serious. If you take the day off, I’ll just feel like a burden.”

  “Maybe Switzerland. Or Greece.”

  “Damien.”

  “Hawaii’s nice, too, and I actually have a house there. We talked about getting sushi the other night. We could go to Japan.”

  I’m laughing now. “I think if I want sushi we can just go to that little place on Sunset that we like.”