by J. Kenner
Damien looks at her, and the slow smile erases the last remains of his fury. I want to give the girl a hug.
Damien keeps his arm around me for the ride back to the apartment, but he says nothing until we are back in the penthouse. His eyes go quickly to where the mirror once hung. He does not have live-in help, but the crew from the office also cleans the apartment, and they’d swooped in quickly and removed all the glass. Even the drywall is now repaired. There is no evidence of Damien’s fury left, and yet he and I both know it is there.
“I should have smashed his face in,” Damien says.
“No, you shouldn’t have,” I say. I draw a breath, because I have been thinking about this. “Besides, in a way he’s right.”
Damien’s sharp glance almost halts my words, but I press on.
“That million wasn’t just a modeling fee and we both know it.”
He opens his mouth, then shuts it again and rubs his temples. “I’ve done this to you.” The words are soft and filled with pain. “I swore that I would never hurt you. That I would be the one you could hold tight to. And yet I’m the one who has done this to you.”
“No.” My tone is harsh. Vehement. “You’ve never done anything to hurt me. Ever. And I took the money because I wanted it. And I took your deal because I wanted you. To be honest,” I add with a wry grin, “I would have said yes for a lot less money.”
“Really?” He lifts a brow. “Now I really do feel like a fool. Come here,” he adds, then kisses me.
My words, however, have not soothed him enough. I can feel the tension coming off him, like a spring wound too tight.
When he looks at me, his face has the dark intensity of a hunter, and I feel as vulnerable as his prey.
“Come on,” he says. “You know what I want. And what we both need.”
I follow him to the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to forget the outside world once again, and when I see what he has in mind, I know that in a few minutes I’ll be thinking of nothing but Damien. He has pulled out his box of toys and is dangling the metal handcuffs from his index finger.
“It occurs to me that this is the most surefire way to keep you in my apartment—and in my bed—while I’m in London.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say, and scoot to the other side of the bed.
“Wouldn’t I?”
He leaps onto the bed, then rolls to the side, cutting me off as I try to break for the door. I squeal as he pulls me down on top of him, then very quickly fastens one cuff to my wrist, and then that cuff to the eyebolt.
“Don’t you even think about it,” I laugh, even though I know he’s joking. Or, at least, I’m pretty sure he’s joking …
“No?” he asks, as he starts to push my skirt up my body. “You don’t want to stay like this, in my bed, constantly ready to be fucked by me?”
“Now that you put it that way,” I say, and then close my eyes with pleasure as he starts to kiss his way up my thigh. It is sweet torment, because Damien knows exactly how to drive me crazy. His breath teasing my sex, his lips making me wild.
I struggle under his ministrations, as with each touch he finds some new sensation, some new way to make me writhe and beg. Even the way his finger strokes my ankle and his tongue licks the back of my knee sends ribbons of pleasure curling through me.
I twist and turn on the sheets, but the cold metal that surrounds my wrist prevents me from escaping the sensual onslaught that is coming so near to driving me out of my mind.
The cuff digs into my skin, and with each turn, with each motion, I tug hard at it. I want the pain. I want the pressure. I want a bruise to rise there. And not because I want to escape the horror of this afternoon—that, in fact, is the least of it.
No, I want it because it represents now. This moment, with Damien’s mouth on my naked body. With his fingers exploring every inch of me, finding all sorts of erogenous zones and erotic secrets.
I want the bruise because it is a physical reminder of how Damien makes me feel.
A bruise will be proof when he is London that I was in his bed—and a reminder that he will come back to me.
And so I struggle against my bonds, not because I want to get free, not even because I want the pain. I want what it represents. That I am Damien’s.
Bound to him. Marked by him. Claimed by him.
And right now, that is all I want to be.
21
It’s the middle of summer, but with Damien gone this might as well be a cold, wet Saturday in December. I know that he will be back Sunday afternoon, and that the trip is a quick one, but on my end it doesn’t feel quick at all.
I am restless and lonely. Damien texted me when he landed. He’d asked how I was, and I’d smiled and gently rubbed the bruise that now rings my wrist like a bracelet. “Thinking about you,” I’d said. “Missing you.” All true, but what I didn’t tell him was that I was bored out of my mind. Knowing Damien, he’d hire Cirque du Soleil to come into the living room and entertain me.
Jamie texted me cyber-hugs in response to my SOS, but she is roller-skating in Venice with Raine. I hope she manages to fall on her ass less than I did. I consider calling Lisa, but I don’t know her well enough yet, and I think we should start with a simple coffee before I hit her up to provide me with entertainment on a lonely Saturday evening.
I’m left with either work or photography, and since my camera is still at the Malibu house, I decide to go with work. Now is as good a time as any to finish the coding on my two smartphone apps that are almost ready to market. That, of course, means a quick trip to my condo. Since I have no car at Damien’s apartment, that’s not as easy as it sounds.
The phone in the kitchen acts as both a regular phone and an intercom to Damien’s office. I’ve seen him use it a dozen times, and I press the button to operate the speaker. “Hello?” I say tentatively.
“Yes, Ms. Fairchild? Can I help you?” I grin. This really is pretty cool.
“Um, yeah. Is this Ms. Peters?” I ask, scraping my memory for the name of Stark’s weekend assistant.
“How kind of you to remember. It is. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t have a car and I need to go pick up something at home. Could you arrange a taxi or—”
“I’ll have Edward bring the limo around. If you take the elevator to parking level C, he’ll meet you right there.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” I end the call and shimmy happily in the kitchen. Yes, there are definitely perks to having money.
As Ms. Peters had predicted, Edward is waiting for me.
“Thanks so much,” I say.
“Not at all, Ms. Fairchild. Where are we going?”
“My condo,” I say. “I just need to run in and pick up something. And I really wish you’d call me Nikki.”
“Right away, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, but he grins as he says it.
I slide into the limo and curl up in the corner, thinking about that first night I met Damien. Or re-met him, I suppose, since our first encounter six years ago doesn’t really count. I close my eyes and remember the way Damien whispered to me. How turned on I’d been by the words he’d spoken into the phone, and how shocked I’d been by what I’d so willingly done in the back of a limo.
By the time we reach the condo, I’ve played back that entire evening in my mind—and I am very much missing Damien.
“Will you be long?”
“Not too long. I need to download a couple of things onto my laptop, but that’s all. Are you listening to a book?”
“Decided to try a classic,” he says. “The Count of Monte Cristo. Not bad, so far. Not bad at all.”
I smile at his assessment of one of my favorite books, then hurry up the stairs.
I can hear the loud bangs coming from our neighbor Douglas’s apartment, and I wince. I know it’s not Jamie in there burning up the sheets with him, but I still scowl at his door.
Inside, I toss my purse on the bed that still looms in the living room, head for the two stairs
that lead up to the bedroom, then scream as the door to the bathroom jerks open on my right.
Ollie.
“Jesus Christ!” I shout. “You almost gave me a heart attack. What are you doing here?” He looks like hell. His eyes are bloodshot, his skin splotchy, and his hair hangs limp around his face. I take a step toward him. “Are you okay?” A horrible thought occurs to me. “Oh, shit,” I say. “You and Jamie didn’t—I mean, she’s out with Raine right now.” The idea that he and Jamie had been doing the nasty only hours before she went out on a date with her new boyfriend bothers me almost as much as the idea of Ollie cheating on his fiancée.
Actually, the whole thing makes me ill, and I’m not thrilled about finding Ollie in my apartment. I don’t want to think about their drama. More than that, I’m still stinging from the fact that Ollie hasn’t called since I saw him at The Rooftop. Sure, he could be busy, but once the million-dollar-painting news broke, surely he could have at least texted. Yet days have passed, and he hasn’t said even one word to me about all the gossip that’s been swirling around me like leaves in a windstorm.
Or, as Damien would say, like sharks smelling blood.
“I didn’t do anything with Jamie,” he says sullenly. “Courtney and I had a fight.”
“Oh. I’m sorry,” I say, though I am not surprised.
“Yeah, me, too.” He sighs, then checks his watch. “We’re meeting for dinner. Patch things up. At least I hope so.”
“So do I.” I don’t mention that I am dubious. Ollie doesn’t have the best track record, and though he is my friend—at least I think he is still my friend—I can’t help but think that Courtney deserves better.
Ollie runs his fingers through his hair. “Jamie let me crash here. I slept in your room.” He shoots a questioning glance at the bed that fills the space between the dining table and the door. I say nothing, and after a moment, he shrugs and continues. “I didn’t figure you’d mind if I slept in your bed.”
“I do mind,” I say, the words snapping out before I think about it. I see the hurt on his face, but I don’t care. I’m pissed, and it’s all just spilling out of me. “You just grab my bed like everything is like it always was? It’s not. I’ve needed a friend, and you haven’t even called.”
“Maybe I didn’t call because you didn’t tell me about the painting,” he says. “A million dollars. Is it true?”
“It’s true,” I say.
He shakes his head. “Stark’s bad news, Nikki.”
“No,” I say firmly. “He’s not. And did you ever think that that’s exactly why I didn’t say anything about the painting to you?”
“Why the hell are you so fucking obstinate? Are you afraid to learn the truth about him? Or are you afraid I’ll learn the truth about what you do with him?”
He’s spewing words at me, clearly as pissed off as I am. Then, without warning, he grabs my arm and tugs it toward him. He jabs a finger hard on the bruise around my wrist. I jerk my arm back, blushing, and undoubtedly erasing any possible question in Ollie’s mind as to the cause of those marks.
“You’re being an idiot,” he says. He reaches out and tugs a lock of my hair, then looks pointedly toward my thighs. “How long will it be before Stark does something else that makes you take a knife to yourself?”
I don’t even realize I’ve moved until I feel the sting of my palm intersecting his cheek. “Get the hell out of my house,” I say.
He stands perfectly still, his mouth hanging open, his breath coming hard. “Oh, shit,” he whispers. “Oh, shit, oh, shit. Nikki, I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not,” I snap. “You’d be thrilled if Damien and I broke up. I don’t know why you dislike him so much—”
“And I don’t know why you’re so blind.”
“I’m not,” I say. “I see him perfectly clearly.”
“You see what he wants you to see. But you forget where I work. You forget that my boss is his attorney. There is shit raining down on Stark,” Ollie says, “and I don’t want to see you get hurt.” He sighs. “I warned you, didn’t I? You’re in the spotlight now, and that’s not where you want to be. It’s not where you should be.”
My blood feels as though it’s moving too fast through my body, and I feel a little sick to my stomach. “Just go.”
“Fine, whatever. I’ll get my stuff and get out of here.” He returns to my room, then emerges with his briefcase. He marches for the door, then stops. “No, you know what? I get that things are bad between us now, and I’m sorry. But I can’t just let this slide. Do you even know where he is now?”
I cross my arms over my chest. “In London.”
“Why?”
“Business.”
“Yeah?” He digs in his briefcase for his iPad, then pulls up a page from Hello! “Here,” he says, shoving the tablet at me.
It’s a picture of Damien with his arm around a woman. Her head is down, she’s wearing sunglasses, and a hat shields most of her face. I don’t know who she is, but I can guess. Apparently Hello! can’t even do that, because the caption reads
Did Damien Ditch the Delicious Darling? Is it the end for Damien Stark and Texas Beauty Queen Nikki Fairchild? Our sources say Stark looked quite cosy with this unidentified woman as they strolled the Hampstead Heath earlier today. Stark arrived in London without the woman whose portrait he paid a cool million dollars for. Buyer’s remorse, perhaps?
I hand the tablet back to him, feeling smug. “She’s a friend.”
“I thought he went on business.”
“He’s not allowed to see a friend while he’s doing business?”
There’s a loud bang on the wall Jamie and I share with Douglas, followed by a very loud, very satisfied groan.
Ollie and I meet each other’s eyes and, as if on cue, we both laugh.
For those few seconds, we are Ollie and Nikki again. But the seconds pass all too quickly.
“I don’t want to screw us up,” Ollie finally says.
“You already have,” I say. “All you can do now is try to fix it.”
For a moment I think he’s going to snap something back at me. Then he nods. “Yeah. I guess so.” He glances toward the door. “Should probably fix things with my fiancée first. That’s all I do, lately. Piss people off and then try to patch it up.”
“Ollie …” Sadness envelops me as he leaves. I think about what Damien says—that Ollie is in love with me. But I don’t think it’s true. I think that he’s grieving. Through our lives, I’ve always been the more damaged, and Ollie has been my rock. But I’m healing, and I have found a new rock in Damien, and I think Ollie wonders how our lives will fit together.
It’s not a question that I can answer for him. Not now. Not when he attacks Damien every time we come together. But I hope there is an answer, because I don’t want to lose him. And I know that if I am forced to make a choice, I will go with my heart. I will go with Damien.
I realize that Edward’s probably halfway through The Count of Monte Cristo by now, and so I hurry to my bedroom and get my laptop and the files I need. I pause at the door, then return to my closet for my old Nikon, since the fabulous digital Leica Damien gave me is still in Malibu. And as much as I love the Leica, the Nikon was a gift from Ashley, and I refuse to give up using it entirely.
“Back to the apartment?” Edward asks as he opens the limo door for me.
I close my hand tight around the camera. “Actually,” I say, “there’s one more place I want to go.”
“How you holding up, Texas?”
“Okay, I guess.” We’re on Evelyn’s balcony, looking out over the beach. Blaine is out with friends, and Evelyn had been enthusiastic when I’d called from the limo to invite myself over.
I’ve only been here once—the night that Damien and I met in Malibu—but it feels like home. I attribute that more to the woman than the location. “When I’m inside and away from it all, I do great. But when I see a paper or am accosted by a reporter, I feel like I’m going to crumble. H
onestly, I don’t know how celebrities do it.”
“They have the fame gene,” she says. “You don’t.”
“There’s no such thing as bad PR?” I say dryly.
“For some people, it’s a truism. Have you watched reality television?”
I have to laugh. I don’t watch it regularly, but I’ve caught enough episodes with Jamie to understand what she’s saying. Some people don’t mind being the train wreck that other folks watch. Me, I mind.
“Pretty soon you’ll be last week’s news. Until then, hold your head up and smile.”
I flash a brilliant pageant smile. “That’s one thing I know how to do.”
In front of us, the sun is beginning its descent toward the horizon. I take out the Nikon and snap shot after shot, hoping that when the prints are developed, I’ll have managed to capture even a fraction of that beauty.
“You’re going to show me the shots you took at the party, I hope,” Evelyn says. “The more snapshots there are of me, the better my odds of finding a picture that’s actually flattering.”
“Do not even try fishing for compliments with me,” I say, laughing. “You’re gorgeous and amazing and you know it.”
“It’s true,” she says, then taps out a cigarette and lights it. “I just hope Blaine keeps remembering it.”
“I think you’ve got him hooked.” Despite their age difference, they really do seem like the perfect couple. After the drama with Ollie, it’s nice to know that some of my friends have relationships that are actually stable.
I’d been spurred to come here after the bullshit with Ollie, but now that I’m here, I find I don’t want to talk about it. Instead, I’m enjoying just hanging and chatting. We’ve already covered the scintillating topics of male models, Botox, and the current summer blockbusters. The conversation was so scattered in fact, that I’d been surprised when she raised the specter of my personal tabloid hell.
“Blaine’s still mortified, of course,” she adds. “Thinks it’s his fault.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I say. “I’m the one who accepted money to pose nude, and then I consented to be tied up. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s mine.”