by J. Kenner
“Sit.” Damien nods at one of the two middle seats, and I comply, feeling nervous and uncomfortable and, yes, aroused.
“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and there’s no missing the desire in his voice. It both flatters and calms me. “Arms on the armrests, and spread your legs.”
That extra bit of exposure adds to my nervousness, but I’ve already crossed the magic line, and I comply without hesitation.
He kneels in front of me, his hands on my knees. I close my eyes in anticipation of his mouth on my sex, then open them again in surprise when I feel the straps go around my right wrist. He’s using Velcro bands to restrain me. And once he’s done with my arms, he bends lower and secures my legs in place.
“Damien…” I can hear both nerves and arousal in my voice, and from the way he’s smiling, I’m sure he can, too.
I wait, certain he’ll tell me again to close my eyes. Certain he’s going to go down on me or tease me with a vibrator or find some other way to fill me with a pleasure so potent I’ll want to squirm away from it, and absolutely won’t be able to. Honestly, I can’t wait.
He walks away, then sits in one of the arm chairs.
I gape as he pulls out a leather file bag, then takes out a sheath I recognize as the technical specs for the prototype that is the focus of his upcoming meetings. When he leans back and starts reading, I scowl, realizing that I’m not getting anything I want. Not yet, anyway.
“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.
He doesn’t even look up from the papers. “Of course I am. That’s the point.”
I let out a resigned breath, and he puts the papers in his lap, giving me his full attention. “Do you remember our honeymoon in Paris?”
“Oh,” I say innocently. “Did we go to Paris?”
He raises a brow.
“Yes, sir,” I say. “Of course I remember it.”
“And the club? À la Lune?”
“God, yes.” My body reacts merely from the mention of the private sex club located in the Quartier Pigalle.
Early in our relationship, I’d dragged Damien into a dark, secluded alley, so desperate for him, I would have happily let him fuck me against the brick wall. He’d told me he didn’t do public sex, and that has never changed. Not literally. But he’s taken me in dressing rooms and limos—oh, God, the limos. He’s made me come in restaurants, his fingers hidden beneath tablecloths, and fucked me in front of hotel windows. He’s fingered me in dance clubs and made me touch myself in the passenger seat of convertibles.
At the club in Paris, we took things up a notch. We weren’t public—on the contrary, we were well-hidden in a curtained alcove and still dressed. More or less. But we had a view of the couples and threesomes in the public area, all stroking and teasing like a cornucopia of sex. Except for porn, I’d never watched other people having sex, and I’d been surprised by how turned on the sight made me. Especially with Damien’s hands on my breasts and his voice in my ear. And when he fucked me from behind while we both watched in the dark, I thought my body would rip apart from the pleasure.
“Do you remember why I took you there?”
“You said you didn’t want us to ever feel too settled. Too domestic.” I glance down at my naked body, spread wide and tied down in an airplane seat. “I’m thinking domesticity isn’t really an issue for us.”
A laugh bursts from him. “God I love you.”
“Ditto,” I say happily. “But why are you asking?”
“We’re going back. Tonight, after dinner.”
“Oh.” I draw in a breath, feeling my nipples tighten, my sex clench. Damien lifts a brow, and though he says nothing, I know he’s well aware of my reaction. “And now?” I hear the anticipation in my voice, the longing for his touch.
He holds up the papers. “I have to prep for my meetings.”
“Oh.” I swallow. “You’re really leaving me like this?”
“Mmm.” He’s already absorbed in the specs.
I watch him for a few moments, wondering if he’s really focusing on work, but he must be because he never once looks at me. Instead, he makes a constant series of notes in the margins, flips pages back and forth as if cross-checking facts, and nods to himself.
Well, fuck.
I end up dozing, closing my eyes and letting the vibrations of the plane against my bare ass entice me into erotic dreams. Dreams that dissolve into reality when I wake up and find Damien on the ground in front of me, his hands under my ass and his tongue teasing my clit.
I arch back as much as I can, trying to scoot my hips forward, desperate to latch on to the rising excitement. Wanting it to pull me right over the edge and out to the stars.
Damien, damn him, stops right as I’m teetering on the cusp.
“Please,” I beg, though I know it’s futile.
He says nothing as he unstraps me, and though I don’t stand—he hasn’t told me I can—I stretch the kinks out of my muscles as he goes to the bar, then returns with a shot of bourbon on ice for me. I toss it back, enjoying the burn, then meet his eyes. “Are we almost there?”
“No.” He takes the seat next to me, then starts to unzip his slacks. “Come here, baby. I want those lips on my cock.”
I do as he says, relishing the feel of him, the taste of him. Enjoying the way his hand twines in my hair, guiding my motion. I’m deliciously wet, the insides of my thighs slick, and I press my legs together as my sex pulses, craving what my mouth has.
“And Masque?” Damien says, as if we were still on the same sex club conversation from earlier. “I know you remember that.”
I don’t answer—my mouth is otherwise occupied, and the pressure on my head makes it clear he doesn’t need or want a reply. He knows well enough that I remember. The private Beverly Hills sex club is owned by a friend—Hollywood mogul and well-known bad boy Matthew Holt—and we went to his club not long before the horror with Anne began.
We went further there. Not entirely public sex, but Damien had led me to a second story alcove, from which we could look down and see the masked strangers engaged in every manner of intimate act below us. We’d been turned on, both by the surroundings and the knowledge that though many in the club switched partners, that was the one thing we would never do.
Before, in Paris, he’d said he would never let another man see me. But that was years ago, and Damien is a man who likes to show off what belongs to him. He’d released the tie at my neck, letting my halter-style top fall, baring my breasts to anyone who might look up. And though they couldn’t see the rest of it, he bent me over, lifted the back of my skirt, and fucked me from behind.
It had been wild. Decadent. And one of the more erotic things we’ve ever done together. There’s always a risk where Damien is concerned. Of being recognized. Of intimate pictures being released to the press. Both clubs have a strict privacy policy, and yet there is always that fear.
I’d conquered the fear those nights. Conquered, and embraced it. Even turned it around and let it fuel my desire, adding another layer of eroticism to my already intensely aroused state.
That’s what he’s doing now, I realize. That’s why he’s said we’re going back there. This trip—this game—is all about facing my fears.
And since I’m looking forward to this second visit to the Paris club, I can’t help but think that it’s working.
“Do you remember how exposed we felt at both clubs? How much it excited you?” Again, he doesn’t expect my response, but he’s voicing the things I’ve been thinking. “I wonder what you would do if we took the hidden part out of the equation. If I pushed this button to unlock the door, switching the light to green. If I called Katie over the intercom and asked her to bring me a drink.”
I’ve gone completely still. Surely he wouldn’t really…
“I think I’d like to sip a bourbon while my beautiful wife sucks me off. What do you think?” he asks, releasing his grip on my hair. “Should I call her?”
I lift my head, trying to ca
lm my pounding heart. “You’re not making me afraid,” I lie. “I know you won’t let Katie in.”
“Won’t I? We’ve been pushing boundaries, sweetheart. And so far, we’ve both enjoyed every step forward we’ve taken.”
I open my mouth, but can think of nothing to say. I’ll admit there’s something enticing about the fantasy of being watched. Of being secretly caught out doing something naughty. But I’m not about to admit that to Damien. And Katie is not on my imaginary audience list.
“Come here,” he says as he urges me onto his lap. I rock my hips, enjoying the feel of his cock at my entrance, then cry out at the wonderful sensation of my husband filling me as he holds my hips and forces me down. I arch back, wanting even more of him. Wanting all of this man I adore. This man who pushes my limits even while holding me close.
I move against him, my own private lap dance, trying to take him even deeper. I’m watching his face, the way his eyes darken as passion overwhelms him. And I’m listening to his low, rasping groans as he grows even harder inside me, coming closer and closer to exploding.
His hand moves to the call button, his finger hovering just over it. He’s bluffing. I’m certain.
My certainty dims as his finger starts to lower. I bite my lip, afraid I’ve misjudged him. And, dear God, I do not want Katie to find us like this, because how the hell would I be able to fly with her again?
“Damien…”
“I’m going to push the button, baby. I told you I was going to push you, didn’t I?”
“I—I could say sunset.” The words blurt out of me, and he freezes at the mention of our safeword.
“You could,” he says. “Are you going to?”
“I—I—” I draw in a breath, then gather my courage. “No,” I finally say, not because I want Katie to come in, but because I don’t want Damien to know he’s reached my limit. He wants me to face my fears? If that’s what he thinks I need, then, goddammit, I’m going to trust my husband.
“No,” I repeat more firmly, then hold my breath, waiting.
He doesn’t push it. Instead, he pulls his hand away. “I’m not going to push it,” he says, and I sag with relief. “You are.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Are you afraid?”
“Yes. No. Embarrassed,” I say, finally corralling my emotions.
“That’s a type of fear. A fear that people will look at you a certain way. Think of you a certain way. A fear that you’ve acted outside the accepted parameters.”
“Yeah, well, that applies to me,” I say as he slips his hand between our joined bodies.
“Baby, you’re so fucking wet. I think you like it.”
“The fantasy,” I admit. “Not reality.”
He says nothing, but he slides his finger between us, making it slick. Then he reaches behind me, teasing my ass with his fingertip, making me suck in an excited breath as he enters me. “You like this,” he whispers and I whimper in acknowledgement. “Hold my shoulders,” he demands. “Rock your hips. Ride me hard. Your ass, your cunt. I own every bit of you, Nikki. Tell me.”
“You own me.” I have to work to get out the words. He’s deep inside me, hitting that magical spot with both his finger and his cock, and pushing me so close—so incredibly fucking close.
“Please, Damien. I need—”
“Do you want me to tease your clit? Push you that last little bit over?” With his free hand, he does just that. As light as the brush of a butterfly wing, but the effect on my body is astounding. It pushes me to the edge, but not quite over, and I’m so ready, so turned on that I don’t know if I can even survive the next few minutes if he doesn’t give me that release.
“Please,” I beg.
“Push the button,” he whispers, and I’m too far gone to even be shocked by his words. “Forget embarrassment, forget fear. Forget everything but the pleasure I can give you. Push the button if you want to come.”
I’m beyond caring. Hell, I’m beyond thinking. I want release. I want to satisfy Damien.
I want to prove to him I can fight my fears.
Most of all, I want him to take me over.
I push the button. And the moment I do, he increases the pressure to my clit. I press my lips together, fighting a scream of deep pleasure as I shake with the force of the orgasm, my body clenching so tight around his finger and cock it’s a wonder I don’t cut off his blood flow.
I don’t care about anything but riding this out, about absorbing the pleasure that he’s giving me.
And then I hear the electronic ding that signals the opening of the door from the galley into the passenger side.
It’s like a splash of cold water, and I grip his shoulders, trying to bring myself back down to earth. I am embarrassed, but that’s okay. I can handle it. Damien’s my husband after all, and the fact that we have a sex life is hardly breaking news.
I bite my lip as I glance at Damien’s stoic expression. He’s looking over my shoulder, and I twist at the waist to look behind me, expecting to see Katie shocked into stillness.
But there’s no one.
For a second, I’m confused. “You rigged it. Katie never saw the call. And the door never unlocked.”
He lifts a shoulder in silent confession, and I realize in that moment that some part of me knew it. Because I know Damien, and he knows my limits.
But maybe my limits are inching out. Slowly, I think. But maybe I’m getting bolder. More fearless.
The bottom line, of course, is that I pushed the button—and he made sure that if I did, absolutely nothing would happen. I flash a triumphant grin. “I guess that makes you the one who’s afraid,” I tease.
“Careful. We still have most of a transatlantic flight to go. Who knows what else I’ll come up with?”
I ease off of him, my body tingling. “I think we should go to the state room and explore all the various possibilities.” I let my gaze dip to his still-hard cock. “Sir,” I add with a devious smile.
“And I think that’s one of the best ideas I’ve heard in a very long time.”
Chapter Seven
It’s just past one in the afternoon when we land at an executive airport on the outskirts of Paris. It takes hardly any time to deal with all the administrative details surrounding international travel, and soon enough we’re in one of the Stark International limos, and the driver is whisking us to our hotel.
I settle back beside Damien and watch the sights of Paris flash by. When we were here for our honeymoon, Damien booked us into a charming little hotel on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. He’d told me that he wanted us to disappear, and so he’d selected a small hotel that was absolutely stunning—and entirely unconnected to Stark International.
This trip, however, is all about work, and so the limo whisks us from the airport to the Stark Century Paris, located on the Place Vendôme, right across from the historic Ritz Paris hotel.
As far as I’m concerned, the travel details are the best part of being Mrs. Damien Stark. Everything from private planes to hotel limos to the ease of checking in. I’ve enjoyed those perks since my first days with Damien, but today they are lifesavers. I am, after all, still wearing nothing but a trench coat, and though I may have been self-conscious in the chopper and initially in the Bombardier, I’ve settled into what is starting to feel like a permanent state of naughty arousal. I wouldn’t have wanted to tug my luggage off of a baggage claim carousel—not with the lingering possibility of the belt loosening and the coat falling open—but I’m not above opening it myself in the privacy of our limo.
Damien, however, doesn’t take the bait.
On the contrary, when I sit across from him, part my legs, and start to unbutton the coat, all he does is lift a brow and say, “No.”
“No?” I repeat.
He studies me. “Then again, you do look appetizing. Do you want me to order you to open the coat? To spread your legs the way you did in the plane? Do you want me to watch while you finger yourself, teasing you
r clit until you explode for me?”
I whimper. I honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead, but what he is saying sounds pretty damn good to me. “Yes, Sir. Yes, please.”
“That would be nice. I like seeing you hot. Aroused. Wanting me. I like the way your skin flushes before you come, the way your nipples tighten and your lips part. I like knowing how wet you get exposing yourself to me. And after you’ve gone over the edge, I love the way your cunt feels around my cock when I fuck you all the way to another, bigger orgasm.”
He pauses, and I swallow, realizing my mouth is painfully dry.
“Do you like all that too, baby?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Good. Now tighten the sash on your coat and remember that on this trip, I’m the one who decides when and where and how. Not you.”
A flash of anger cuts through me, but it’s underscored by an even deeper arousal. And though I won’t admit it if he asks—not easily, anyway—I can’t deny to myself how much I like this game he’s playing.
I resign myself to watching the city go by, then draw in an awestruck breath as we approach the Place Vendôme and I see the famous column originally erected by Napoleon.
The Stark Century and a few of the other buildings that line this historic square were created from several of the magnificent residences that once graced the area. The whole square is breathtaking, but the entrance to the hotel has such a regal quality to it that for a moment I have to stop and simply absorb the stunning façade that is part of the history and beauty of this lovely city.
We’re escorted inside, bypassing the checkout process in the elegant lobby. Just as well, I think, as I notice a tall man with white-blond hair arguing about something with a calm-looking clerk, who obviously has more patience than I do. Really not the kind of vibe I want spoiling the mood of our afternoon. And whatever the guy’s problem is, I’m sure Damien’s staff will handle it brilliantly.
I force my attention away from the reception desk and return it to the interior of the lobby. The intricate woodwork. The stunning art. The glass cases showcasing the incredible jewelry on sale in the various mezzanine-level stores. I try not to gawk—after all, as Damien’s wife, I should be used to this kind of luxury. And to an extent I am. But the history and beauty that now surrounds us takes my breath away.