In some ways, this space reminds me of Damien's house in Malibu. Our house, I think, mentally correcting myself. It's similar in appointment and elegance, and yet it's different, too. Exotic. It is the perfect place for a honeymoon, and I whisper as much to Damien even as I continue to gaze around in delighted awe.
A small stone bridge stretches across the pool to the giant, modern tub that sits in the middle like an island.
But it is not these architectural enhancements that have stolen my breath and teased my heart. Instead, it is what Damien has made of the room. Because it is awash in rose petals. They cover the floor and they peek out from the bubbles that fill the tub. Incredibly, they also float on the water of the infinity pool. Beside the tub, a tripod champagne bucket rises from the water. A bamboo tray rests across the tub. On it sit two champagne flutes.
The tub has no shower, but I can see that there is one outside. Right now, the room is open, with the glass wall pushed aside so that the breeze flutters in, cooling my heated skin.
Unlike the room, which is more stone flooring than pool, the patio is mostly pool with only a few stone islands. One supports a chaise lounge that is little more than an outdoor bed, and which has, for that reason, drawn my attention. The other stone island is near a freestanding wooden wall from which a showerhead protrudes, as well as some hooks on which hang loofahs, bottles of shampoo, and other spa-style bath items.
Because the patio is completely open, there is no privacy here other than that offered by the stretch of empty beach and the wide open sea. It is wild. It is free. It is civilization stripped bare, and everything about this room--from its appearance to its rose-petal scent to its promise of decadent pleasures--has captured me utterly.
As Damien said, we are completely alone, and the knowledge that he can take me here with the ocean breeze kissing my skin and the wide open sky witnessing our pleasure makes me so weak with longing that I am even more grateful that Damien is holding me, as I doubt I could stand otherwise.
He crosses the stone bridge, then puts me down gently near the edge. I start to move, but he shakes his head, then slowly reaches behind me to untie the two knots that hold my bikini top in place. It falls into the water, and though I raise a brow in surprise, Damien simply continues.
His fingers skim lightly over my breast, making me draw in air, then shiver as his caress continues down my side and over my waist, making my skin prickle with need and anticipation.
He unties the sarong and lets it fall, as well. It floats on the surface of the water, and I watch as it flows outside, the sunlight catching it and making the fibers sparkle.
"The rest," Damien says, and I lick my lips as I comply, easing the bottoms down over my hips to pool around my ankles. I step out of the tangled fabric, then stand naked in front of my husband.
He smiles, soft and easy and full of promise, then pulls me to him. With practiced ease, he lifts me up and then gently places me into the tub. The temperature is perfect, and I sigh in ecstasy, letting the slightly oiled water sluice over my skin. I scoot back to lean against the smooth side of the tub and make room for Damien to join me.
Except, of course, he doesn't.
"Damien," I protest.
"Hush. Let me take care of you." He takes the champagne and opens it, very deliberately letting the cork fly out of the room, and sending foaming bubbles splashing down upon me.
I laugh. "Isn't that the uncouth way to open champagne?"
"Perhaps," he says. "But it's much more fun." He fills the two flutes, then hands one to me before picking up the second. His eyes skim over me, but the humor I'd seen only moments before is gone, replaced by something both soft and deep.
"Damien?"
His eyes meet mine, then, and I see the heat--and the love. He raises a glass in a toast. "You are my heart," he says, his gaze never leaving mine. "You are my blood. You are the air that I breathe and the strength inside me. You are not just my wife, Nikki, you are my soul. You are my world. You are my life."
I draw a shaky breath, nodding foolishly as if that will keep the tears at bay. "And you are mine," I say, then extend my flute to clink with his. "I love you," I add, wishing that I had his eloquence, but knowing that he understands what is in my heart even if I can't quite find the words.
"I know," he says as he moves to kiss the top of my head.
"Will you join me now?" I ask. I want his touch. I want him wrapped around me, lost with me in this warm and wet embrace.
Instead of answering, he sets down his champagne flute and picks up a glass container and pours some scented oil onto his hands. Then he moves behind me as I make a low noise of protest. But not as adamantly as I could have--while I do want him in the tub with me, I certainly can't deny the appeal of being bathed by Damien.
"Lean back," he says. "Close your eyes."
I comply, then sigh in utter delight as he gently rubs my shoulders. His fingers are strong and hot, and I lose myself in the pleasure of his touch and the rich scent of vanilla. He is tending me, seducing me, and right then I am more than willing to be seduced.
"Are you familiar with how honeymoons got started?" he asks, lifting my arm out of the tub and focusing on my hand.
I shake my head, too aroused by both the gentle pressure he is now exerting along each finger and by the not-so-gentle direction of my thoughts to form words.
"Years ago--back in tribal times--a man would take the woman he claimed for his wife to a secluded spot, where he would very thoroughly seduce her."
As he speaks, he draws his oil-slick hands up my arms, then eases them down over my collarbone until his palms cup my breasts. I draw in a stuttering breath as my nipples tighten, wanting more.
Thankfully, Damien doesn't disappoint. He moves his hands in small circular motions so that his palms brush lightly over my erect nipples, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through me. I shimmy a bit in the tub, trying to quell the need that started out as a soft hum between my legs but is now a throbbing demand.
"She probably wanted to run," Damien says, and I can't help the small sound of demur. Certainly I have no desire to run.
My eyes are closed, but I can still hear the chuckle in Damien's voice as he continues. "But he wants her, and in his determination, he keeps her for a month. One full cycle of the moon."
"Honeymoon," I murmur.
"It's a long time to be a captive," he says. "Most likely she wanted to hate him." He slides one slick hand from my breast down into the water. He continues south, teasing my abdomen until his fingers brush the line of trimmed hair at my pubic bone. "But he was determined to ensure that she would stay. And so he set out to satisfy her."
His hand slips between my thighs to stroke me lightly. "She was probably scared," he comments as I gasp, arching up toward his touch as the first electrical sensations of an orgasm dance through me in a glorious hint of more pleasure to come. "But he did his best to soothe her."
"Yes," I say, feeling deliciously soothed. My head is tilted back, my eyes still closed. My breathing is shallow now, my body primed.
The pad of Damien's finger traces small circles on my sex, teasing my clit in a way that makes me whimper, but which doesn't bring the satisfaction I now crave.
Frustrated, I shift my hips, seeking gratification as I silently beg for more. I am wild with need, shameless with desire.
"All of his focus was on erasing her fears. On making her warm and weak and wanting."
I want. Oh, dear god, I want.
He eases a finger inside me, and I release a moan of both demand and pleasure as I arch up, then fall back into the tub. Water sloshes over the sides, undoubtedly soaking Damien, but I don't care. All I want is this moment. All I want is for him to take me there.
"His every thought was on her," he says, thrusting another finger inside me even as his thumb teases my clit in the most subtle of motions. "His only goal was this woman."
"Yes," I whisper. I slide one hand down between my legs and press my palm over hi
s hand, silently urging him to go deeper. Harder.
He does, thrusting those two fingers roughly inside me as the tip of another finger dances along my perineum. I gasp, writhing with pleasure, my body poised to explode. I'm close, so very close, and I slide my hand up to grasp my own nipple, tugging hard in an attempt to force myself over the edge even as Damien teases and torments me.
But this is Damien's show, and as he uses his free hand to cup my breast and still my fingers, I open my eyes to see my own wildness reflected back at me in Damien's expression.
"Please," I say, but he simply shakes his head, his mouth curving into the kind of arrogant smile that I know only too well. The kind of smile that promises abundant pleasure and unimaginable delights--but all on Damien's terms. And Damien is a man who knows how to prolong a seduction.
"He would take her to the edge," Damien says slowly. "Making her crave him. Making her want him. Pushing her to the very height of sensual pleasure, promising her the explosion. Taking her so far that she would surrender to him, give herself over to the promise of pure pleasure in the arms of this man."
"Yes," I say. "Oh, yes."
He withdraws his fingers from my sex, and my muscles tighten in protest, my body wanting to draw him back in. He cups his hand there, the pressure making it hard for a cogent thought to form in my head.
"And only when he is sure does he claim her fully, take her completely." He draws his hand away, and I have to bite my lip to stifle a moan of protest.
He reaches into the tub and scoops me up, one arm beneath my knees, the other around my back. I hook my arms around his neck and snuggle against him, wanting to be as close to this man as humanly possible.
"He plies her with softness and seduction," Damien says, and I murmur a protest against his throat. "What?" he asks.
I tilt my head back and look at him through heavy lids. "I'm not complaining," I say, "but I'm not so sure that men in history saw it entirely your way."
His lips twitch. "No?"
"I think they just took what they wanted, and the woman be damned." I lift an eyebrow, teasing, and he dips his head to kiss my forehead.
"Perhaps," he says. "Or perhaps I'm not finished telling you my story. It's one thing for him to make her crave him. It's another thing entirely for him to finally claim her. For her to truly understand that she is his."
"Oh," I say, as a sensual tremor cuts through me.
"The height of pleasure," he says slowly, the words so heavy with meaning they make me weak. And, yes, they make me wetter. "The precipice of passion. He would take her there, again and again, until she was desperate with longing, all resistance lost, all hesitation erased. She would know only him. Want only him. And she would beg for the relief and explosion that only he could bring her."
We're on the patio now, and he carries me to the shower, then puts me down. He turns on the tap, and pleasantly warm water begins to fall from the rain-style showerhead. I tilt my head up, enjoying the way it washes over me, then look down to watch as the last remnants of the bubbles that clung to me from the tub are washed away down the drain.
Beside me, Damien is still in his shorts and open white shirt. He's soaked, and the thin material now clings to him in the kind of magazine-cover-model way that makes me want to simply stare at him and bask in the knowledge that he is mine.
"Here," he says, turning me to face the wooden wall from which the showerhead protrudes. He takes my wrist and raises my arm above my head. It is only then that I notice that the hook that I saw holding shampoo is actually a slipknot. He takes the bottle of shampoo out, then slips the rough rope around my wrist before pulling it tight, effectively trapping me in place.
"Damien," I say, and I can hear both trepidation and excitement in my voice.
He hears it, too, and I see the hint of a smile as he takes my other hand and repeats the process so that I am standing there naked and bound, facing the freestanding wooden wall.
He steps back, watching me from just to my left, far enough back so that I have to turn my head to see him.
"He claims her," he says slowly. "Claims her and possesses her. Takes her and commands her. Teases and taunts until she understands that he is her life now, just as she is his."
I swallow, hearing both reality and history in his words. "And if she already knows it?"
Our eyes lock and the air between us seems to shimmer. I can feel it touching me, the tickle of electric fingers dancing over my body. I am alive with this man. My husband.
I am alive, and I am his.
And we both already know it.
For a moment, I think that he will say something else. His eyes narrow in what I can only assume is amusement. Then--without saying another word--he turns and walks away from me, carefully stepping on the stone path that leads the way across the infinity pool.
I watch him go, determined not to call after him. I don't know what game he is playing, but I am certain that there is a game. I'm also certain that while Damien might deny me simply for the pleasure of making me beg, he won't deny me for long. Not today. Not when he wants me just as badly as I want him.
Still, just in case, I give a firm tug to my bonds, managing only to tighten the slipknots. Well, damn.
And then, as if to prove my hypothesis, Damien returns. He's changed clothes, and now he's wearing khaki shorts and nothing else. He seems to glow in the sunlight, and I think to myself that he is sun kissed. At the moment, all that thought does is make me jealous of the sun.
He crosses purposefully to me, and even on this beachfront patio and dressed so casually, there is no question but that he is a man to be obeyed. More than that, I know that I will willingly do so.
He's carrying one of the champagne flutes, and now he comes to stand just to the side of the wooden wall so that I can look at him more easily.
"You're beautiful," he says, with such reverence in his voice that it makes me go weak.
"Is this how you like me?" I ask, lifting my chin. "Naked and bound and wet for you?"
One eyebrow arches slightly as he takes a step toward me. "Are you?"
Yes, yes, oh, dear god, yes. I don't say that, though. Instead I just smile. "Come and find out."
"Tempting," he says, moving even closer, and with each step my anticipation rises and my body fires just a little bit more.
"Please," I say, when he is close enough to touch me, but maddeningly doesn't do so.
"Please what?"
"Touch me," I say. "Fuck me."
"Feeling desperate, Mrs. Stark? Dear god, I like the sound of that."
"Desperate?" I quip.
"Mrs. Stark," he says firmly, and takes a sip of the champagne. "I'm not sure there are any two words in the world that give me greater pleasure." He lifts the glass to me. "A sip for the bride?"
I nod and ease forward. He puts the glass to my lips and tilts it for me to drink. I swallow some, but most of it dribbles down my chin and onto my breasts.
I shiver slightly from the unexpected splash of cool liquid, then shiver even more when Damien moves closer, pressing one hand to my lower back to hold me in place as he licks the champagne from my cleavage.
I do not recognize the sound I make. It is wild. Feral. It is a demand, a plea, and if I were not bound to this wall I would fall to my knees and beg him to take me hard, to take me fast.
With his free hand, he cups my breast as his tongue laves my areola before his mouth closes over my nipple. He suckles me, sending electricity shooting down to my clit, making my already throbbing sex go almost painful with need.
I struggle to move my hands because I want to touch him. To stroke his back and bury my fingers in his hair, but I am bound, and I can only feel and want and need.
Damien.
I don't realize that I've said his name aloud until he looks up at me, his lips still pressed against my breast, his face full of wide-open desire.
"Pleasure," he says, then bites down on my nipple. "And pain."
I cry out as hi
s teeth dig into my sensitive flesh, but at the same time, my breast tingles with arousal, and my body hums as if every erogenous zone is interconnected. A web of sensuality crisscrossing my body, from my clit to my breasts, to my mouth, to my fingers. Over and through me as pleasure and pain combine to bring me closer and closer to something that has the power to both destroy me and make me whole.
"Tell me what you want." He straightens, his body pressed hard against mine so that I can feel his erection through his shorts. "Tell me what you need."
"You," I say. "Hard. Please."
Our eyes meet, and he cups his hand behind my neck then tugs me forward into a kiss so violent that our teeth clash and I swear I taste blood.
"You are my wife, Nikki. My heart, my life."
"Say it again," I beg.
"Wife," he says, understanding perfectly what I need to hear. He moves behind me, his palms stroking my shoulders, my back, my ass. "Mine," he adds as he presses against me from behind and slides his hand around to stroke my sex. I am drenched, desperately turned on, and a wild tremor shakes my body.
We're one, he and I. And right now I need him inside me, as if in proof of that simple truism. "Please, Damien. I need you."
"Not yet," he says, and I hear the rustle of cloth as he takes off his shorts. He moves back in front of me now, and as he goes to unbind one of my hands, I take the opportunity to drink in the perfection that is Damien Stark. He's impressive dressed; naked and erect, he's perfection. And I am selfishly, greedily, gloriously happy that he is mine.
"You're smiling," he says.
"I have reason to."
"We both do."
One of my hands is still bound, but he turns me so that my back is to the wall. He kisses me gently, his tongue exploring my mouth even as his hands graze my body, as if he is just discovering me for the first time.
With my free hand, I clutch the back of his head, keeping him close to me, not wanting this kiss to end, but also not wanting it sweet. I want it hard. I want to be fucked.