"I want you standing, not passed out," he says, but he's smiling indulgently. He squeezes my hand. "The first moment is the hardest."
"And you know this because of the many times you've posed naked?"
"Touche," he says. "Take your time."
"By the window," Blaine says, and I'm grateful for the businesslike tone in his voice. "Close to the drapes. Damien, where'd you put that robe?"
There's an antique trunk at the foot of the bed, and Damien opens it and pulls out a red silk robe.
"Just put it on the bed--the far side so it's not in my composition. Yeah, that's right. Okay, Nikki, right there. Do you want to put the robe on in the bathroom and then come in? Easier to just slip it off your shoulders."
I run the drape through my fingers. "No," I say. I take the hem of the tank top and pull it defiantly over my head. The cool air assaults my bare breasts, and my nipples feel hard and heavy. I don't look at Damien. Instead, I look out at the ocean.
"Oh, man," Blaine says. "That's great. Your profile is amazing. And you have the most beautiful breasts. Stay like that," he says as he starts to walk the room. "I just want to find the right place."
After a few moments, he's settled in and though I should be more relaxed all I can feel is the tension building inside me, getting tauter and tauter every time he says I'm beautiful. Every time he praises my soft, perfect skin.
I'm holding my eyes wide open, trying not to blink, trying to imagine I'm part of that ocean. That I am the tide, coming in and out, in and out.
"Can you do the jeans now?" Blaine asks, and his voice startles me so much that I jump.
"Nikki?" Damien's voice is soft.
"I--sure." I put my hands on the button and unclasp it, then start to ease the jeans down over my hips. My fingers are on my skin, and I feel the scars, raised and ugly.
I freeze, take a deep breath, and try again.
But I can't do it. I open my mouth to say something--to ask for more time, a moment alone, something. But no words come out. Instead, I'm suddenly sobbing, my body shaking and my legs unable to hold me up. I sag to the floor and bury my face in the soft material of the drapes.
Damien is immediately at my side. "Shhh," he whispers. "It's okay. We'll take it slow. It's hard, I know. Revealing yourself like that. It takes courage, but you can do it."
I shake my head and let him pull me into his arms. I press my face to his shoulder and he holds me close. My breasts are pressed tight against his chest, the cotton of his T-shirt soft against my nipples. His palm strokes my back. But there's nothing sexual. He's comforting me, holding me, and I feel warm and safe.
"I can't do it," I whisper when the sobs slow enough to let me speak. "I'm sorry, but I can't."
I pull away. My body is still shaking, and I have the hiccups. "I thought I could. I don't know what I thought. That it would be revenge against you. Against the world. I don't know."
I'm babbling, and he's looking at me with such concern and sympathy that I think my heart is going to break.
"I'm sorry, Damien," I say. "I can't take your money. And I can't do this."
20
I scramble out of his embrace and snatch my shirt off the floor. I pull it on, then stand up, brushing my tears away with the back of my hand.
I fasten my jeans and look around for my purse and camera bag. They're on the floor by the foot of the bed, right where I left them.
I hurry that way and sling my purse over my shoulder. I briefly register that Blaine is gone. I'm grateful he didn't make a show of leaving, even though I'm embarrassed I melted down in front of him.
"I--I can call a cab if you want. Or Edward can--" I cut myself off, closing my eyes. My entire body feels warm. I'm burning up with embarrassment.
Damien has risen to his feet and he's standing by the bed, watching me. I can't read his face, but I know he must be furious.
"I'm sorry, Damien. I'm so sorry." How many times can I say it? Will it ever not sound hollow? "I'll wait outside."
I hurry toward the stairs, my head down.
"Nikki ..." His voice caresses my name, and I hesitate, but then move on.
"Nikki." This time, my name is a command. I stop, my back stiff, and turn to face him.
He is right there, and he brings his hands to my shoulders, his eyes on my face. His expression is dark. "Where do you think you're going?"
"I have to leave. I told you. I can't do this."
"We have a deal," he says, his eyes burning into me. "You're mine, Nikki." His hand slides behind my neck, tugging me toward him. With his other hand, he lifts my tank top and cups my breast. "Mine," he repeats.
The warmth of his hand fills me, and I gasp. I want him, but I can't do this. I can't ...
I shake my head. "I'm breaking the deal."
"I don't accept that."
Anger pierces my embarrassment and shatters my desire. "Fuck what you accept. I'm saying no."
His thumb makes lazy circles on my nipple. "Stop it."
He doesn't. "What are you afraid of?"
"I'm not afraid." This, I think as desire knots through me. The way I feel. Where this will lead ...
No, I'm not afraid. I'm fucking terrified.
"Bullshit." He pulls me close and takes my mouth with his, kissing me roughly and then pushing me away. "I can taste the fear on you, baby. Tell me. Dammit, Nikki, let me make it better."
I shake my head. I have no words.
Slowly, he nods. "All right. I won't hold you to our deal. But at least let me see what I'm losing."
My head jerks up to look at him. "What?"
"I wanted a portrait. And I wanted the woman. Naked, Nikki. Naked and open in my bed. At least let me see what I'm missing out on."
The anger that's been growing bursts out like gasoline thrown on a fire. "Are you fucking kidding me?"
He is perfectly calm, his eyes flat and focused on me. "I'm not. Take your jeans off, Nikki. Let me see you."
"You son of a bitch." I blink, and a tear streaks down my cheek. I wanted my scars to be a weapon? Well, they're damn well going to be. Angrily, I rip open the button of my jeans and yank the zipper down. I wriggle out of them until the denim is pooled at my feet. I kick off the damn flip-flops and stand there, my legs spread slightly. There's no way he can miss the welts on my hips and inner thighs. "You goddamn son of a bitch."
I don't know what I expect, but Damien drops to his knees. His face is about level with my hips, and he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over the thickest scar on my hip. I'd cut too deep, and I'd been too scared to go to the emergency room. I'd closed the wound with duct tape and super glue and kept pressure on with an Ace bandage wrapped tight around me. I'd kept my secret, but the scar was vile. Even now, years later, it's still slightly pink.
"Oh, baby." His voice is soft, like a caress. "I knew there was something, but ..." He trails off, his other hand tracing the scars on the inside of my thighs. "Who did this to you?"
I close my eyes and tilt my head away, ashamed.
I hear his soft exhale and know that he understands. I force myself to look back at him.
"Is this what you were afraid of? That I'd learn about these scars? That I wouldn't want you?"
A tear is clinging to the end of my nose. It falls and lands with a plop on his arm.
"Sweetheart ..." I hear my pain in his voice. And then he leans close to me and runs his tongue over the inside of my left thigh. Over my flesh, over my scar. I can't believe this is real, but it is. He's not running. He's kissing me there, so sweetly, and then he takes my hands and pulls me down until I'm kneeling in front of him.
I'm a mess, tears spilling, my nose running. I'm hiccuping and it's not easy to breathe.
"Shhhh," he says, and then he's gathered me in his arms. I cling to him as he carries me back to the bed and lays me down, naked except for my tank top, which he very slowly pulls off.
I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head to the side, not looking at him.
"No,
" he says, and eases my arms to my sides. He takes some pity on me, though, and doesn't make me look at him.
Slowly, he explores my scars, as if I am a road map, his finger tracing over each of them. He speaks soothing words, and there's no horror in his voice. No disgust. "This is what you were trying to hide. Why you've run from me. Why you wanted to be painted exactly the way you are."
He doesn't wait for me to answer. He already knows.
"You're a goddamn fool, Nikki Fairchild." The harshness in his voice makes me turn my head. I look at him, expecting anger or disgust or exasperation. What I see is desire.
"I don't want an icon. Not on my wall, not in my bed. I want the woman, Nikki. I want you."
"I--"
He presses a finger over my lips. "Our deal is on. No arguments. No exceptions."
He eases off the bed and goes to the window, then pulls down one of the drapes. I hear the rattle of the ornate clips that have connected the material to the bar.
"What are you doing?"
"What I want," he says as he ties the end of the drape to the bedpost. "Raise your arms."
My pulse quickens, but I comply. Right now, I don't want to be in charge. I don't want to control. I want to be swept away, to be taken care of.
Gently, he twists the drape around my wrist, then weaves it through the bedposts before repeating the process with my other wrist. Finally, he ties the loose end off on the other bedpost.
"Damien."
"Hush." He kisses the soft skin of my wrist, then trails his lips down my arm, my shoulder, then over the curve of my breast. His mouth closes over my right nipple, and he sucks hard, making the areola pucker and tingle as he twists and strokes my other breast. Hot threads seem to crisscross my body, tracing from my breasts to my clit. My sex is throbbing, and I bring my legs together, trying to quell some of the building pressure.
He lifts his head and grins at me, and his expression is so devilish that I'm certain he knows exactly how I'm suffering. Then he sets off on his trail of kisses once more, moving down my stomach, to my navel, to my pubic bone, and then--oh, yes, oh, please.
But he shifts his attention, sitting up and putting his hands on my knees. "Spread your legs, Nikki."
I shake my head, and he chuckles, then stands up and rips down another drape.
"What are you doing?"
"You know."
"Damien, no. Please, no."
He pauses and looks at me. "Do you know what a safeword is?"
"I--yes. I think so."
"No doesn't always mean no. But the safeword always means stop. If I go too far, that's what you say. Do you understand?"
I nod.
"What do you want your safeword to be?"
My vocabulary has entirely left my mind. I look around the room, as if something will leap out at me, then gaze out at the ocean. "Sunset," I say finally.
His mouth curves into a smile, he nods, and then he ties the drape to the post at the foot of the bed. I swallow and watch him.
Slowly, he reaches for my right foot, easing my legs apart. He looks at me, and I see the question mark in his eyes.
"Will you hurt me?"
His eyes dart to my scars. "Do you want me to?"
"I--I don't know."
"Do you know what passion is?"
I blink, confused.
"Most people think it only means desire. Arousal. Wild abandon. But that's not all. The word derives from the Latin. It means suffering. Submission. Pain and pleasure, Nikki. Passion." The flash of heat that burns across his expression is unmistakable. "Do you trust me?"
"Yes," I say without hesitating.
"Then trust me to take you where you've never gone before."
I nod, and he looks at me with such naked desire that warm satisfaction fills me. Gently, he binds my ankle, then moves on to the other. When he's done, I'm spread-eagled on the bed, naked and helpless and undeniably turned on.
"You're mine, Nikki. To touch. To soothe. To pleasure." He tenderly cups my sex. I'm slick and hot and he groans with desire. "I want you, Nikki. I want to bury myself in you and fuck you hard. I want to hear you scream when you come. Tell me you want it, too."
"Yes, oh, yes." I've wanted it since he first touched me. Wanted to feel him inside me, filling me, claiming me.
He sits beside me on the bed, still in jeans and T-shirt. He trails his index finger up my stomach to my breasts. Slowly, he circles one, then the other. "Should I make you beg for it?" he teases.
"I will," I say, utterly shameless.
His expression is devious. "I want you hot, I want you desperate."
I swallow. "I already am."
"We'll see," he says. Then he reaches for the robe and pulls off the sash. Without his eyes ever leaving mine, he puts it over my eyes.
"Damien?"
"Shhh."
He ties it behind my head. I think of the word--sunset--but I keep it to myself. I want this. I want to feel, and how much more will I be able to if I can't see?
The bed shifts, and I realize he's no longer beside me. I bite my lower lip, but I refuse to call out. He's playing a delicious game with me, and I fully intend to hold my own. He's taken me full circle, I realize, from fear and shame, to excitement and arousal. I don't think anyone but Damien could do that, and whatever he has planned for me now, I trust him.
I jump as something cold and wet hits my breast.
"Ice," I whisper.
"Mmm." But he doesn't speak, because he's licking the water off, his mouth hot against my nipple. He traces the cube down my belly, and my muscles jump and twitch from the cold and from excitement. His mouth follows, his tongue, his lips. He leaves a hot trail down my body. I tug against the sash that binds my wrists, wanting to touch him, wanting to rip off the blindfold. And yet I don't want to, either. There's something exciting about being so totally at his mercy. Of seeing just where this will lead.
My legs are spread wide, and I can feel the cool night air against my soaking wet sex. I shift my hips, partly to try to quell the growing need and partly as an invitation. Either that or a demand. I want him in me, and I want it now.
"Getting anxious, Ms. Fairchild?"
"You're a cruel man, Mr. Stark."
His laugh suggests that I don't yet know just how cruel, and then I feel the bed shift again. One finger stays on my belly, but I don't feel the rest of him. And then--oh, God, yes--I feel his warm breath against my sex followed by the brush of his cheek against my inner thigh.
I almost come right then, and my hips buck up involuntarily.
"Please," I whisper. "I'll beg. Damien, I'll beg."
"I know you will, baby." His mouth is right there, and then I feel the sharp flick of his tongue and I cry out from the almost painful pleasure that shoots through me. "But you're not ready yet, not quite yet."
"I think you're wrong about that," I grump and draw another laugh.
It's stifled, though, by his mouth on my inner thigh. I squeeze my eyes closed tight behind the sash as he brushes his lips over my scars, kissing his way down my leg, worshipping me with his mouth. I feel his tongue dart out and tease the back of my knee, and I learn in that moment just how sensitive that part of a body can be.
I'm still twitching from the electrical sensations that buzz over my body when he reaches my feet.
"You have lovely toes, Ms. Fairchild," he says. "I don't have a foot fetish, but if I did ..." He trails off, and his mouth closes over my big toe. He sucks on it, gently at first, and then harder until I'm squirming again, feeling the corresponding tug all the way in my cunt. I'm throbbing, but I know better than to beg. Damien's not done with me yet.
He moves his attention to my other foot and licks each of my toes gently. Then he kisses his way back up my leg. By the time he reaches the soft skin between my thigh and my vulva, I am completely lost in a haze of pleasure.
At least, I think I am. When he closes his mouth over me and grazes my clit lightly with his teeth, I am wildly, hotly, intensely pro
ven wrong. There are still heights, and Damien is taking me there.
He has an expert tongue, and it swirls over my clit, soft and gentle, but with a building intensity. My eyes are squeezed shut behind the blindfold, my breath coming in short gasps. I twist against the bindings that hold me. I am lost, I am nothing but pleasure. A vibrant white scream of pleasure concentrated between my thighs.
And then--oh, yes, oh, my--the world seems to explode, and I'm bucking against him, and still he's sucking and pulling and tonguing me and I'm climbing higher and higher until finally, finally, the world settles back around me and my chest is rising and falling with the power of the explosion.
"Now," Damien whispers, and I realize he's above me. His mouth closes over mine, slick with the scent of me. The thick head of his penis is pressed against me, and he thrusts inside. "Oh, baby," he says. His hand slips down between our bodies, and I feel his thumb on my sensitive clit. My body trembles again, and I gasp as my muscles clench, drawing him in even more. "There you go, that's right. Are you sore?"
I manage to croak out a no.
"Good," he says, and I feel him withdraw just a little, then slam back into me. He said he was going to fuck me hard, and he is, and I'm lifting my hips to meet him, because I want him deeper now, deeper and harder. I want all of him, and, dammit, I want to see him.
"Damien," I say. "Damien, the blindfold."
I'm afraid he's going to ignore me, but then his fingers brush my temple and he pulls it off. He's above me, his face hard but his eyes showing nothing but pleasure. His mouth curves into a gentle smile, and then he kisses the corner of my mouth. The frenzied fuck slows to a sweet, sensual rhythm that is all the more devastating because he's drawing it out, making it last. It can last forever as far as I'm concerned.
And then I see the tension building in his body, his muscles tightening, his body stiffening against mine. He closes his eyes and I watch as he arches back, and then I feel the sweet pressure as he explodes inside me.
"Christ, Nikki," he says as he collapses against me.
I want to press my body against him, but I'm still trapped. "Damien," I whisper. "Untie me."
He rolls over and smiles at me, warm and languid. At some point he put on a condom, and he takes it off and drops it in a small trash bin by the bed. Then he moves quickly to undo the drapes. I didn't get to enjoy watching him strip, but I'm very happy with the view now. He may not have played tennis professionally for years, but the man still has an athlete's body, long and lean and so damn sexy.