"Come here," he says roughly once I'm untied. He pulls me close to spoon against him, my back against his chest, my ass against his magnificent cock. His fingers stroke the outside of my thigh, and his lips graze my shoulder. "I liked taking you tied up," he says. "We may have to try more of that."
"More?"
"Have you ever heard of Kinbaku?"
"No."
His hand slides over my thigh to rest on my sex. His fingers stroke my hair lightly. "It's ropes," he says. "But they're for restraint as much as for pleasure." His fingers ease between my thighs, and I gasp, amazed that I already want him again so desperately. He rubs his finger over my clit and whispers, "It's all about the placement of the ropes."
"Oh." My voice is breathy.
"Would you like that?"
"I--I don't know." I swallow. "I liked this," I admit.
His fingers slide easily inside me and I moan. "Yes," he says. "I could tell."
He's teasing me for being aroused, but I can feel his cock twitching against my rear. He's getting hard again, and I wriggle my butt a little, hoping to speed up that process.
"My, my, Ms. Fairchild. You are a naughty girl."
"Very," I say. "Fuck me again, Mr. Stark."
He bites my earlobe, just hard enough that I squeal. "On your knees."
I look back at him. "What?"
"On your knees."
I obey.
"Spread your legs."
I do. I've never had sex like this--who am I kidding, I've never had sex like anything I've done with Damien. I feel exposed. And, yeah, I like the feeling.
He is behind me, and he runs his palms over my ass, then bends to kiss my cheek. "Sweet," he says. He slides his fingers between my legs, stroking my sex, the sensation of his touch beyond delicious.
He brings his hand up, and I feel his thumb at my anus. I bite my lower lip. "No," I whisper.
"No?" he repeats, increasing the pressure and sending a shock of amazing sensations through me. "Not sunset?"
I gasp, and he laughs. "No," he repeats. "You're right. Not now. Not yet." He slides his finger between my ass cheeks, and I draw in air, overwhelmed by the sensations. "But soon, Nikki," he says. "Because there is no part of you that isn't mine." Swiftly, he thrusts two fingers into my vagina even as the pad of his thumb presses against my ass. My muscles contract, wanting to draw him in, and there's no denying the intensity of my arousal. Even if I admit it only to myself, I want to experience everything with Damien. Every last thing.
"Put your arms down," he says, "so you're resting on your elbows. That's right."
I'm on the mattress, my head low, my ass high. Yeah, exposed is right. But I don't have time to think about my position, because Damien's touch grows more intense. He's leaning over me, one hand stroking my nipple as the other plays with my cunt, dipping in and out, in and out. "You make me so hard," he says.
I hear the rip of a condom packet, and then, a moment later, the pressure of his cock against me. This time, he does fuck me hard and, dammit, I don't want it to end. The pressure of his thrusts moves us across the bed, and I reach out, grabbing hold of the iron bedframe to hold myself in position, meeting him thrust for thrust, losing myself in the sensation and the sound of our bodies meeting.
I feel when he gets close, and as he does, his hand returns to my clit, stroking and teasing and bringing me closer and closer. "Come with me," he demands. "I'm coming, baby, I want you to come with me, too." He explodes inside me, and that's all it takes to bring me over the edge with him, the universe showering stars down on the two of us.
Spent, we collapse together on the bed, a tangle of arms and legs.
When my body is functioning again, I prop myself up on an elbow and brush his cheek. He looks rumpled and sexy and very well-fucked, and I get a nice little knot of satisfaction in my belly.
He looks at me and smiles.
I grin flirtatiously. "That was nice," I say. "Can we do it again?"
21
"Nice?" he repeats. I can tell he's trying to sound offended, but the crinkling around his eyes gives away his mirth. "That wasn't just nice. That was rocket ship to the moon. That was fucking amazing. Guinness World Records quality. Hell, that fuck was a thousand times better than those shoes you were wearing the night we met."
"I wasn't sure you remembered."
He runs his fingers through my hair and sighs. "I remember everything about you."
Considering how well he knew the details of my education, he may not be exaggerating. "You didn't remember the pageant."
"The Dallas Convention Center. You wore a fire engine red ball gown and a turquoise bathing suit. You were also about ten pounds lighter, and you were eyeing the mini-cheesecakes with the kind of lust that makes a man hard."
I laugh. "Yeah, I probably was."
He strokes my breasts and my hips. "The curves are an improvement."
"I think so, too. But my mother about had a heart attack when I told her I wasn't going to count carbs or calories anymore." I grin at him. "I can't believe you really remember all of that."
"You were the only contestant who seemed alive to me, and that was despite the fact that everything you were doing was a lie. Or maybe because of it."
"A lie?" I prop myself up on my elbow, fascinated. "What do you mean?"
"Exactly what I told you at the time. You didn't want to be there. You felt like a kindred spirit."
"You were right. That was my last pageant. After that one, I finally managed to get free." I frown. "Kindred spirit? You said that because you wanted out of tennis, didn't you?"
His expression darkens. "Hell yes."
I hope he can't see my sadness. I remember the emcee introducing him at the pageant, announcing that Damien Stark had just won the US Open. He had so much talent, and the joy had been ripped away from him. I'm certain there's more to it than the story he told me, and I wonder if he'll ever tell me the full truth.
He strokes my cheek, and I smile. "We both got out," I say, forcing myself away from melancholy. "And now we're both free to explore other options."
His expression turns devious as his hand creeps down. "Let me show you what I want to explore."
I gasp as he slides his fingers inside me.
"Too sore?"
I am, but I don't want to admit it. "No," I whisper.
"I'm very glad to hear it." He lays me back, then eases his body on top of mine. His weight feels delicious, the pressure safe. Like he's holding me close and protecting me. His mouth brushes mine in a flurry of soft kisses that start at my lips and then trail down my neck before he eases back up to press a kiss to my ear. "I thought we'd try something new," he says. "Or, rather, something old."
"Old?"
"Plain, old-fashioned missionary position. Spread your legs, baby," he says, then groans in satisfaction when I do. The wide head of his cock presses against me, but he doesn't enter. Instead he moves just slightly, teasing us both.
My breath comes in fluttering gasps, and just as I'm about to break down and beg, he thrusts inside me. I gasp, arching back, grimacing from both pain and pleasure.
"I think someone broke the rules," he murmurs as he finds his rhythm and eases in and out of me. "I think you lied when you said you weren't sore."
I grin up at him, mischievous. "Maybe I did. Maybe it was worth it."
"I'll go nice and easy," he says, and he does, moving so slow and deep that it's almost like torture as the crescendo builds, higher and higher until I finally explode in his arms, limp and open to him. His orgasm follows quickly, and he clutches me, slamming hard into me, then collapsing against me.
"There's something to be said for traditional," I murmur, and beside me, Damien laughs.
For a few minutes, we just lay in the dark listening to the ocean. Then Damien takes my hand. "Let's get cleaned up and eat."
I'm not about to argue with either of those, so I slide back into the robe and follow the stunning view of a naked Damien past the fireplace to
the rest of the third floor. It's also been finished out, and there's a tricked-out, restaurant-sized kitchen--"just a small one for parties"--a still unfurnished bedroom, and the most amazing bathroom I've ever seen. It's at least twice the size of Jamie's condo. The ceiling is over thirteen feet high, and it's made entirely of glass. Right now, it's a dark void, but if Damien were to turn off the lights, I imagine that the stars would twinkle above us.
One wall is lined with a granite countertop that has two huge sinks. On either side of each is a vanity area. An electric razor is at the far sink. Along with a toothbrush and a bottle of aftershave. On the closer sink, there is another toothbrush, still in plastic. There's also a small box. Curious, I open it, and find foundation, powder, and a variety of eye shadows and liners, all in my favorite colors.
"How did you know to get all of this?"
"I'm a man of many resources," he says.
I frown. Why didn't he just ask me what brand and colors I wore? I'm feeling a bit under a microscope, with nothing quite my own. It's the way my mother always made me feel, but Damien is not Elizabeth Fairchild, and I'm afraid that I'm overreacting.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing." I don't quite manage a smile.
"Your makeup preferences and shoe size are in the Macy's gift registry," he says gently.
"Oh." I shake my head, feeling like a fool. "I forgot. I did that for last year's birthday." I take a deep breath and look him in the eye. "Thank you."
"You're very welcome."
I run my finger over the cool countertop. "I can't believe how amazing this floor is. The house isn't even finished yet."
"I made sure to complete the areas that mattered for this week."
"Oh. When did you do that?"
"After you agreed. It's remarkable how fast things can be accomplished when the price is right."
"You didn't have to do this for me."
"I didn't want to bring you to a construction site." He reaches out his hand and I take it. He leads me to the back of the bathroom, past the shower with at least a dozen showerheads and a tub the size of a swimming pool.
There's only one closet, but it's huge. We step inside and I see that it's been divided down the middle with something that resembles a kitchen island, but has bureau-style drawers on either side. There's a remote control on top of the island. He picks it up and presses a button. I hear water start to run in the tub.
The right side has a few white shirts, some jeans, some slacks, and something in a garment bag. A tux, I presume. On the whole, it's pretty thin. In contrast, the left side of the closet is packed full. Robes. Dresses. Skirts. Blouses. And shoes. Hundreds of shoes. "Mine again?" I ask, raising a brow.
"I think you'll find it all fits."
"You know, shopping is part of the fun."
"And I've already promised you a spree. In the meantime, you have plenty to choose from."
I roll my eyes. "What's in the island? Underwear?"
"No." His mouth twitches. "I thought we were clear that underwear isn't needed."
"But when I'm home--I mean, I'm going to have job interviews this week, I hope."
"No underwear," he repeats. "Not this week. Not unless I specifically tell you to."
I consider arguing, but I don't. It would be for form only. The truth is, the idea excites me. Being naked beneath my dress. Knowing that it's because it pleases Damien. Thinking of him every time a breeze caresses my sex.
"Bra?" I ask.
He eyes the curve of my breasts under the red robe. "No," he says, and my nipples peak with arousal. He notices, and I see the answering excitement in his eyes.
"People will be able to tell," I say.
"Let them," he says. "Come on." I follow him to the tub. "Too hot?" he asks.
I dip my hand in. It's hot, but not unbearable. "Not even close."
"Really?" He looks intrigued, and turns down the cold water tap until it is only a trickle.
"Is that bubble bath?" I ask, pointing to a built-in dispenser. "Go ahead."
I press the button, and a floral-scented gel squirts into the water right beneath the tap. Bubbles immediately form. "Now that's a bath," I say, laughing. "Can I get in?"
"Of course."
I drop the robe and climb in. Already conveniently nude, Damien follows. He eases his back against the side and then settles me in between his legs. I feel his cock, soft now, against my rear. I shimmy a little, and it twitches.
"Tease," he murmurs. He squirts some liquid soap into his hands and begins to bathe me, caressing my arms with suds, then my breasts, then dipping down to stroke between my thighs. I close my eyes and lean back, feeling him get hard against me, feeling my body opening for him again. I just had him--and now I really am a little sore--but I still want. Dear God, how I want.
His fingers tease me, gently making circles around my clit, making me squirm. "I'm not going to fuck you again," he whispers. "And I'm not going to make you come."
I shift position, silently protesting.
"Tomorrow," he says. "Anticipation. It's a good thing."
"You're mean," I say.
"Baby, you ain't seen nothing." He grips me at the waist and eases me around, so that I'm kneeling on his lap in the tub. Considering he's just told me he's not going to fuck me, it's one hell of an interesting position since the length of his cock is hard between us. I slip my hand down and stroke him. Soft, teasing. He feels like velvet on steel, and I want him inside me. Boldly, desperately, I want him. "You're not going to fuck me," I say softly. "But that doesn't mean I can't fuck you."
As I ease my hips up, I see the look of heated surprise on his face.
"Oh, no," he warns.
"Oh, yes," I say, positioning his cock beneath me, then lowering myself onto him, fast and hard. I clutch his shoulders, arch my head back, and ride him.
"Jesus, Nikki." His voice is a desperate groan and he grabs my hips, taking over the work of pistoning us together. I'm learning his body, and I can see how fast he's building. I move harder, faster, pushing him along. "Oh, Christ, I'm going to come."
He explodes inside me, then pulls me close as he breathes hard, his entire body going limp. "That was ... unexpected," he says. "And pretty damned amazing," he adds, making me feel hot and sexy and powerful.
He strokes my cheek. "You didn't use a condom."
I look away, weirdly shy. "I assumed you were clean. You are, right?"
"I am," he says. "But that's not the only issue."
"I'm on the pill," I admit. I don't tell him that it's more for cramps than for birth control.
"Good," he says. "In fact, that's excellent."
I ease off him, and curl up beside him in the rapidly cooling water. He holds me close, then shifts our position and stands, reaching to pull me up. I let him help me out and dry me off with the kind of thick towel I've only seen in spas. Then he holds the robe for me and ties the sash around my waist. He dries himself off next and pulls on a simple cotton robe. "Come," he says, then leads me to the bed.
He opens a trunk and pulls out two pillows and a light comforter, which he spreads over the sheets. He holds the sheet open in an obvious invitation, so I start to slide in. "Take the robe off," he says, and I do, untying the sash and then letting the soft material fall off my shoulders to pool at my feet.
"Don't fall asleep on me," he says, after he's tucked me in. "I'll be right back."
I roll over and look out at the ocean. The windows are still open, and the cool night air is blowing in, but it's warm under the comforter. The sky is black, and the ambient light is minimal enough that I can actually see the stars twinkling above.
After a moment, I feel the mattress shift as Damien sits beside me. He has a tray with wine, cheese, and grapes. I grin and ease myself up to a sitting position, the pillow propped against the cool metal of the bedframe.
"Open your mouth," he says, then feeds me a grape when I comply. "You're beautiful, Nikki," he says. "Do you believe me?"
"When
you say it, I do."
My legs are under the covers, but he rests his hand on them. "How long?"
I don't pretend to misunderstand. "I was sixteen when I started," I say. "My sister got married and moved out. And Mother kicked the pageant stuff into overdrive. It sounds petty, I know, but Ashley was the only person who kept me centered. Without her around, I got so frustrated I'd take the crowns out of the trophy case and bend them. Not so much that Mother noticed. Just enough so that they weren't perfect anymore." I shrug. "I guess I graduated from crowns to my own skin."
"Why cutting?"
"I don't really know. It's a compulsion; it just felt like that was what I needed. Either cut or float off into some black hell. I felt so disconnected, like my life didn't belong to me. The pain gave me an anchor. Now, I think it was something my mother couldn't touch. Then, I just knew it helped. It's hard to explain." I shrug. I want him to understand, but I don't really understand myself, and I don't like talking about it.
"I get it," he says.
I look at him, wondering if he's just being polite, but I see genuine comprehension in his face.
"Sixteen," he says thoughtfully. "But when I saw you compete at eighteen, there were no scars."
"My hips," I say. "I kept all the cuts on my hips at first. Easy enough to hide, even in a pageant dressing room."
"What changed?" He's holding my hand, gently stroking my fingers.
"Ashley," I admit. "When I was eighteen, she committed suicide. Her husband had left her--my mother had been appalled. Said Ashley must have done something to drive him away. I guess Ashley thought so, too, because her suicide note said she was a failure." I swallow, appreciating the way he's squeezing my hand in support. "That was the first time I realized how much I hated my mother. But I still didn't have the courage to tell her to fuck the pageants. So I sliced up my thighs." My smile is ironic. "That's a lot harder to hide."
"Did she get you help?"
"No. First she went on and on about how I screwed up her plans and embarrassed her. Then she told me I was a selfish bitch because I was throwing away all that prize money and scholarships and probably even a husband."
Damien says nothing, but I can see the burn of temper in his eyes and the tightness across his body. He's holding in an explosion, and the fact that his wrath is on my behalf gives me the strength to continue.
"She told me I destroyed all her hard work, and she didn't know why she'd spent years bothering with a ridiculous little fool like me. She said I'd ruined my body and my future. I guess part of me believed her, because even once I was in Austin at school, I still cut."