by J. Kenner
The baby.
I glance at Damien, who obviously has been thinking along the same lines. "Do you think she's in labor?"
Since the possibility gnaws at me, I roll sideways to grab my phone, then actually gasp when I see the readout.
My mother?
I'd actually forgotten she was in the "family" group on my phone. I haven't spoken to her since I sent her back to Texas right before my wedding, and she certainly has no reason to call now.
Or, at least, I can't imagine a reason.
"Do you want me to answer it?" Damien's voice is soft, but his expression is hard; there's no love lost between Damien and my mother.
I shake my head. Honestly, I'd love for him to take the call and tell my mother that she's tormented me enough for one lifetime. But this is something I have to do myself. And since I really don't want the pressure of calling her back, I jam my finger on the button to answer before the call rolls to voicemail.
"Mother?" I have the phone on speaker and I put it on the bed as Damien moves to sit beside me, never letting go of my hand.
"Nichole, sweetie. It's good to hear your voice."
I bite the inside of my cheek so that I don't snap at her. She's known since I was four that I hate being called Nichole. And yet even with this sugary, conciliatory tone in her voice, she still doesn't have the brains or the class or the decency to respect my wishes. Honestly, it drives me nuts.
My frustration must be evident, because Damien squeezes my hand in solidarity. He may also be encouraging me to respond, but I ignore the cue. This is the woman who used to lock me in a dark room so that I got my beauty sleep. Who monitored my caloric and carb intake with military precision. Who single-handedly almost ruined my wedding. And who certainly is responsible for a good percentage of the demons that haunt my life.
As far as I'm concerned, her call intruded into my paradise. So she can damn well do the talking.
"Nichole? Sweetheart, are you there? Damn these cellphones, they're far too unreliable. Can you hear me?"
I draw in a breath. "I hear you. What do you want?"
"Oh." She clears her throat, and I pull my knees up to my chest, and wrap my arms around them. I'm still holding tight to Damien's hand, and he's forced to scoot closer, which is fine by me because now I lean against him and let him release my hand so that he can wrap his arms around me.
"Well, I was just thinking about you today," she continues. Her voice is overly chipper, and I'm absolutely certain she has an agenda. She always does. Honestly, I should introduce her to Damien's father; they'd certainly make quite the pair. Then again, that would probably be like introducing Bonnie to Clyde. Better to keep them far, far away from each other.
The silence between us is uncomfortable again, and so I say, "Okay?"
"Well, I just wanted to call and check on you. That's all."
I glance at Damien, who looks as surprised as I feel. "Um, well, everything's fine here, Mother. Was there--I mean, did you want to check on me for any particular reason?"
"No, no. Actually, yes. I was thinking about your sister today." I feel myself tense as I think about Ashley, who I still miss so much. Beside me, Damien pulls me closer. My mother, of course, doesn't even pause in her diatribe. "And I was thinking about your father, too. So I--"
"My father?" That little revelation pulls me from my memories of Ashley. My mother never talks about my father, who left when I was eighteen months old. I don't think I even realized that I had a father until my sister, Ashley, showed me a picture of him when I was five. She'd been almost seven when he left and could still remember him in bits and pieces, and, although our mother didn't know it, she had a hatbox under her bed full of photographs of the two of them together. And even a few of him holding little baby me. She mailed me that box before she committed suicide, and though I still have it, I haven't opened it since her funeral.
Thinking about her and my father now makes my stomach twist. I've lost so much. And so much of the pain in my life--so much of the impetus behind Ashley's suicide--ties straight back to my mom.
I can't help but wonder if my dad left because he couldn't bear a life with Elizabeth Fairchild, or if he's just as bad as she is.
Damien's hand caresses my cheek, and it takes me a moment to realize that he's brushing away a tear. I take a stuttering breath and focus on the phone again. "Why on earth were you thinking about my father?" I demand.
"I just--" She cuts herself off. "I don't know," she says, starting over. "It doesn't matter. I suppose I was just missing you."
"Oh." I know she's expecting me to say that I miss her, too, but I don't. I miss the idea of her--of a mother who loves me and cares for me even half as much as she cares for herself. But I gave up that fantasy long ago. Instead, I just say, "Well, thanks for calling."
"Nichole--" There's an urgent tone to her voice.
"Yes?"
"I--nothing. Just--just goodbye."
"Bye, Mother."
"Kiss, kiss," she says in that automatic way she has. And then the line goes dead.
I turn to Damien, who looks as baffled as I feel.
"What do you think that was really about?" he asks.
"I don't know." I shake my head, wishing I could erase the past few minutes. I don't want that woman in my head, and I damn sure don't want to spend the rest of the weekend wondering what prompted her to call.
"Nikki..."
He takes my hand and pulls me into his arms, and I want to collapse against him. To get lost in his touch and let the man and his love for me wash over me, healing my wounds and shielding me from all the pain and bullshit.
I want it--and at the same time, I so desperately want to be stronger. And I am stronger. I'm so much stronger than I used to be.
So why in every crisis is my first instinct still to collapse into Damien's arms?
I draw in a breath then ease back from him as I drag my fingers through my hair. "Just give me a sec. I--I want to splash some water on my face."
It's the truth, but it's hardly all of the truth. And when I get to our bathroom, I turn on the water, then bend over the sink. I clutch the counter, squeeze my eyes shut tight, and try my damnedest not to cry.
I'm standing like that when the sound of running water suddenly ceases. I open my eyes, and look up at Damien's reflection in the vanity mirror. There's worry on his face, and also a hint of pain that cuts through me.
My mouth is suddenly dry, and a single tear escapes when I blink. "It's not you," I whisper. "Just the opposite. I need you so damn much, all the time, for everything."
"And you think that's bad? Do you have any idea how much strength you give me? Baby, I want to do the same for you."
"I know--and you do. God, Damien, you give me so much strength. You're my blood, my heart. You're everything."
"And you think that makes you weak? Nikki, you know better."
"I do, but it's just, I don't know. Sometimes I want--"
In the mirror, I see his eyes narrow. Then he picks up a small glass holding toothbrushes. "Is this what you want?" he asks. "Should I throw it? Should I hand you a shard?"
The thought is far too appealing, but I shake my head, and when I do--when I push back that horrible urge--I feel stronger. "No," I say firmly. "That's not it. I'm just afraid that I can't stand on my own."
"Oh, Nikki." He presses a kiss to my shoulder. "You can. You do. But dealing with something on your own doesn't mean you have to actually be alone. I'll always be here. Don't you know that?"
"Of course I do."
"Then embrace it," he says. "Don't run from it."
I stay like that, facing the mirror with Damien standing behind me, a strong presence at my back, watching me. Protecting me.
And I think that, yeah, I'm being a fool. Because he's right. Damien fights with me, not for me. He's my support and my strength, but he's not my secret weapon. And that's a distinction that matters.
Slowly I lift my head. Even more slowly, I meet his eyes. "I w
ant you," I say. "I need you. I need you to help me cope." I turn in his arms, then tilt my face up so that my lips are only inches from his. So that we are breathing the same air, looking deep into each other.
"I get it," I say. "I understand what you've been telling me. That it's okay to need you this way. To let you anchor me so that I can get her out of my head. So that I can hold on to the me that I've worked so hard to build. And on to the life we've built together."
"Yes," he whispers. "Yes, Nikki. Yes."
"Then do it." I demand as he grabs my hips and lifts me onto the counter, balancing me right on the edge as he roughly spreads my legs. I reach out to stroke his rock hard erection. "Anchor me. Make it rough. Make it hard."
And damned if he doesn't do just that. Wild and fast--and exactly what I need.
He doesn't use his fingers first, doesn't get me ready in any way.
Instead he holds me steady and thrusts hard inside me all the way to his balls. So deep I cry out. So hard I swear he must be bruising my insides. He thrusts again and again, one hand on my hip, the other on my shoulder, so that he has absolute control of me and can hold me steady, so that I can't move at all to provide even the slightest resistance to his pounding. I'm absorbing it all, taking it. Letting him fill me. Letting him use me.
Harder and harder, not making love but fucking. Raw, violent, wild fucking. And I can do nothing but submit. I can't lean back. I can't shift. I'm right here, going nowhere, and it's hard and it's hot and I don't want it to end.
Again and again and again. And as he gets closer, he slides the hand on my shoulder down until he has my nipple tight between two fingers. I bite my lip, relishing this new sensation and the way the touch shoots all the way down to my clit, now throbbing with the need for release.
He pinches my nipple tighter, then twists a little. "Come with me," he demands, and this time he takes the hand from my hip and puts it around my throat, just tight enough so that if I want to breathe I can't move.
This is new and disconcerting and completely awesome, and as the pressure on my neck increases with the pounding of his cock into me, I feel my body start to unravel, the threads Damien is spinning from tit to cunt shooting out like lines of fire.
When his body begins to shake as he starts to come, it's as if he has flipped a switch in me. My own orgasm bursts through me, and in that moment I know with crystal clarity that this is the real key between us. Because Damien will always be there, when I'm broken and when I'm not. He will always be there to hold me close. To give me what I need.
And he will always help me heal.
Chapter 4
Damien and I spend Sunday morning in bed, then join the others at the restaurant for brunch and a walk along the storm-swept beach before we all go to our bungalow to just hang out until we head back to the mainland. The others take a boat--except for Jackson and Sylvia who decided to stay an extra day to play with Ronnie on the beach--but Damien and I travel by helicopter from the island directly to our home in Malibu.
There are, as I remind myself almost daily, some fabulous perks to being married to a billionaire. Door to door transportation is just one of many.
We spend the evening relaxing at home, curled up beside each other in bed, with our cat, Sunshine, purring contentedly at our feet while Damien reads a Ray Bradbury novel and I scour the most recent edition of Wired. Or, that's what we do until I yawn and stretch and put my magazine on the side table.
That's when Damien rolls on his side, his expression devilish. "Tired?"
"Exhausted," I admit. "I bet you could wake me up."
"Do you think so?"
"Well, you may not be able to handle it." I let an impudent tone color my voice. "I mean, you're good at so many things, I can't expect perfection in all areas."
He laughs. "Is that a challenge?"
"Maybe a little one," I admit, then burst into laughter as he rolls over on top of me and effectively silences me with a kiss.
"I don't know about energizing you," he says once he breaks the kiss. His hand slides down over my T-shirt, then back up over my skin. "But I can guarantee a good night's sleep."
"Oh, really?"
"Shall I prove it? Shall I play out a lullaby on your body?"
My smile blooms wide. "I like the sound of that."
"That's convenient, then," he says. "Because I like the feel of it."
As if in illustration, he brushes his thumb across my nipple, then cups my breast gently. I sigh with pleasure as Damien's hands continue to roam my body, teasing my breasts, stroking my rib cage, then settling between my thighs.
"Close your eyes, baby," he says as he strokes me. "Close your eyes, and let me fill your dreams."
I comply, and give myself over to the feel of Damien's soft touch as he slowly takes me higher and higher. His fingers are teasing me, firing my senses. This isn't rough or wild, but as gentle and soft as a feather. A stroke here. A kiss there. Until I feel as if I am floating.
And when his mouth cups my sex and his tongue teases me just right, I come apart in his arms. But it's not an explosion that rips through me. Instead, I'm deluged with sensations, as if I am standing beneath a warm waterfall as pleasure pounds through me, on and on and on, in what feels like an infinite loop of sublime gratification that ushers me into Damien's arms. And then, finally, to sleep.
All of which means that by the time Monday morning rolls around, my mother's call has been completely erased from my mind, and I'm feeling wonderfully loved and thoroughly satisfied.
"So what's on your agenda today?" I ask Damien as we both stake out the coffeemaker, waiting for it to finish brewing. "Buying a small country? Building your own space station?"
"I considered spending the day colonizing Mars, but then Rachel reminded me that I have a lunch meeting with Dallas about some tech project he wants to pitch."
"Really?" I'm a little amazed. "A tech project? That's kind of outside the department store milieu, isn't it? What kind of tech?"
"No idea," Damien says. "But he assures me it won't be a waste of my time."
"Because nothing that man does is ever a waste of time." I glance around the kitchen. "Did Gregory leave the Sunday paper in here?" I ask, referring to the man who's worked for years as Damien's valet, butler, and all-around house management guru. "Because I'm betting there are at least three candid shots of Dallas in the life and style section. And that conservative number is only because he was on the island and out of the public eye for the weekend."
"You're probably right about that," Damien says. "But that doesn't mean he's not serious about this project, whatever it is. Besides, I figure I owe him the chance to pitch his idea to me. After all, he's invested a lot in my various projects. And his own money, not funds from his family trust."
"Well, I'm dying to hear what he's pitching. Maybe it's an app to help keep track of his many women." I tap my fingertip to my lip as if considering. "Something subtle on his phone so that he can keep notes on their favorite foods, wines. A scheduler so that he doesn't accidentally double-book." I remember that Dallas had two women with him on the island and backtrack. "Actually, double-booking probably wouldn't concern him. Even so, it's a solid idea. Maybe you should convince him to develop it with me."
As I'd intended, Damien laughs. "I'll have him call you for an appointment. In the meantime," he continues as he pours us both cups of coffee, "what about you? What's filling up your plate today?"
"I'm prepping for tomorrow's meeting with Preston," I tell him, referring to Lisa's fiance and the head of acquisitions for Stark Applied Technology. I recently licensed a web-based app I'd developed to the company, and I've been working with Preston on customizing the app for Stark International's particular needs. "And then I'm meeting Jamie for lunch--she's covering a story at the CityWalk, so she's just down the street from my office. And after that I have a meeting with a new client."
"Who's the client?"
"Frank somebody--I don't recall offhand. He emailed me. New t
o Los Angeles. Has an idea for an app he wants to develop but no skills. Wants to talk to me about the cost of putting it together for him."
"Busy woman," he says, taking my free hand and pulling me close. Then he takes my coffee from me and sets it aside so he can pull me even closer. "My wife is taking the tech world by storm."
"I don't know about that," I counter. "But my balance sheet is looking pretty good these days." I don't bother to add that most of this year's profit is coming from the license to my husband's company.
"Worth every penny," he says, and I have to laugh.
"Damn right," I say. Damien had been wanting to license the app ever since I told him the idea, back when I'd barely even written a line of code. I'd held off, though, wanting to get my business off the ground on my own first.
I'm glad I did, too. I proved to myself that I have the talent to build my own business, and that's just rounded out the whole package of what has turned into an exceptionally good life. A business that challenges me. Good friends. A roof over my head that can only be described as amazing. And a view of the world from the peaks that Damien has climbed that I can't deny I like.
All in all, it's more than I ever expected.
But what I am most grateful for is the man beside me. A husband who loves and cherishes and protects me.
I think about my mother and my scars and all the demons that have tormented me. Sure, I'm still fighting them, but they really are mostly in the past. And that's because of Damien. Because he fights with me, not for me, just like he said.
He understands me, and that simple reality is so, so precious.
"Damien," I say. It's enough--I can see in his eyes that he knows where my heart has wandered. And when I rise on my toes to kiss him, he holds me close and kisses me long and deep and slow.
"Me, too," he says, when we pull apart.
"I could cancel everything," I suggest, only half kidding.
"Don't tempt me. Then again, you always tempt me." He kisses me again. "Go. Before I take you up on that very appealing offer."
"I'll see you tonight."
"And every night after," he says, making me smile.
I'm still smiling as I pull Coop, my bright red Mini Cooper, into my parking space by my office. The building went condo recently, and now my unit is all mine. And that simple fact makes me grin even wider as I head into my personal, private space.