"Exactly," I say. And since Damien and I worked through our issues rather thoroughly last night--as my soreness this morning can testify to--I shift the conversation. "This is my last week among the unemployed," I say. "Wanna catch a movie?"
We end up seeing two, because what's the point of being a lazy bum if you don't do it up right, then head back to the apartment in a popcorn-and-soda-induced haze.
Jamie immediately heads to her room to change into pajamas even though it's not yet four. I'm about to do the same when I'm stopped by a sharp knock at the door. "Hang on," I say. If it's Douglas, I'm totally shooing him away. For that matter, Ollie will get shooed, too.
It's neither. It's Edward.
"Ms. Fairchild," he says, and though he keeps his professional face on, I see the smile in his eyes. "Mr. Stark asked me to deliver a personal apology that he wasn't able to spend the day with you in celebration of your new job."
"He did?" I bite back a grin. We'd done a bit of celebrating last night. Celebration sex. Make-up sex. We'd pretty much run the gamut.
"And may I extend my congratulations on your new job as well?" Edward adds.
"Thank you," I say. "But he really didn't need to send you. He already congratulated me when I saw him last night."
"Yes, but I'm to deliver your gift. Or, rather, deliver you to your gift."
I narrow my eyes at him. "What are you talking about?"
"I'm afraid I have very specific instructions that forbid me from actually telling you."
"Oh. Um, okay. Let me just tell my roommate."
"Ms. Archer is invited as well, of course."
"Really?" This was getting interesting. I give a shout toward her room. "Hey, James. Change of plans. We're going ... somewhere."
She pops her head out of the door, while still only half in her T-shirt. She tugs it down, and peers at Edward. "Huh? Where are we going?"
"Edward won't say. But it's a present. From Damien."
"And I'm invited, too?"
"Absolutely," Edward says.
"How fab is that? Well, shit," she says to me, "I'm not turning down a mystery present from a guy with billions. That's just not something I'm programmed to do."
"Fair enough. I guess we're going," I add to Edward.
Jamie switches the pj bottoms out for jeans, and we grab our purses and follow Edward down to the limo. I wonder if Damien requested it, or if Edward decided to drive the limo instead of the Town Car simply to give Jamie a thrill. If so, it worked. She's checking out every seat, poking into the bar, and examining each and every gadget on the console.
"Wine?" she asks, finding a chilled bottle of Chardonnay in a mini-refrigerator. Shows how much I pay attention. I didn't even know the limo had a fridge. Then again, I was a bit distracted each time I took a ride in it....
Edward takes us out onto I-10 and then heads east, which surprises me, as I'd been expecting us to head for the beach. "Where do you think we're going?" I ask Jamie, who's riffling through the CD collection that I've never bothered to look at.
"Who cares?"
I consider that, and decide she has a very good point.
Fifteen minutes later, it's clear we're heading out of Los Angeles, I'm on my second glass of wine, and Madonna is belting out "Like a Virgin."
"So totally retro," Jamie says, half-dancing in her seat. I consider overruling her choice, but it's fun and loud and what the hell.
By the time we pass the windmill farms that mark the desert near Palm Springs, we've played classic rock, classic country, and a varied selection from current artists. We've danced--as much as you can in a limo--and sung and have basically turned the limo into party central. We've laughed so hard we've almost cried, and I think it's the best time Jamie and I have had together since we skipped out of Friday classes our freshman year and drove from Austin to New Orleans.
I am so going to show Damien my gratitude when I see him.
Finally, Edward exits the 10 for a smaller highway, then a regular street, then a caliche road. I'm beginning to think that our destination must be a campsite when I see the sunset glowing against the white stucco of a low building nestled near the foothills of the rising mountains. We pass through a security gate, and I realize that what I thought was one building is a collection of several smaller ones, all surrounded by palm trees reaching up to brush the sky.
Jamie and I are pressed to the windows now, and she sees the sign first. "Holy shit," she says. "We're at the Desert Ranch Spa."
"Seriously?" I don't know why I sound so surprised. The Desert Ranch Spa may be one of those insanely expensive resorts where celebrities go for a little alone time, but it's not like Damien can't afford it.
"Are we staying the night?" Jamie asks. "Or maybe we're just here for dinner? God, I hope we're staying the night. I've never stayed in a place like this."
The limo winds its way to the front entrance, and I gulp down the rest of my wine and slide toward the door, so that I'm ready to go the moment Edward opens it. When he does, there's a woman beside him in pencil-thin trousers and a silk tank top. "Ms. Fairchild, Ms. Archer. Welcome to Desert Ranch," she says, with an accent I recognize only as Eastern European. "I'm Helena. Come. I'll take you to your bungalow."
Bun-ga-low, Jamie mouths with eyes wide. We follow her down a landscaped path, me doing my Worldly Nikki routine--why, of course I get out of limos and go to expensive desert resorts all the time--and Jamie practically bouncing. "For the record," she says as Helena opens the door and we get a glimpse of the inside of the bungalow, "I am totally in love with your boyfriend."
Boyfriend. I grin. I like the sound of that.
The bungalow is small but exceptionally well-appointed, with two bedrooms, a kitchenette, a living room with a comfy couch and chairs, and a fireplace. But the best part is the back porch, which looks out on the mountains without any sign of the resort. "You will have dinner in your room, yes? And then tomorrow we begin at eight."
I almost hesitate to ask, but I break down. "Begin what?"
Helena smiles. "Everything."
We're awakened by gentle alarm clocks at seven-thirty, and it's surprisingly easy to wake up despite having stayed up late sipping wine and talking after the most amazing dinner of Chilean sea bass and some type of risotto. We mainline coffee, sip orange juice, and put on the spa robes that we've been told to wear today.
When our liaisons, Becky and Dana, arrive at our doorstep, we're eager to see what's in store for us. As it turns out, Helena wasn't exaggerating. We start with dips in the mineral waters, then move inside for facials and waxing and--because Becky whispers to me that Mr. Stark requested it--I even submit to a little more intimate wax. Not Brazilian, because ouch, but by the time I leave the waxing room, I have a neat landing strip that looks more professional than the shaving and Nair job I've managed all these years. My legs are smooth, my brows are fabulously shaped, and we move on to our choice of mud baths or seaweed wraps.
I go with the mud, because my mother never allowed me to play in the mud as a kid, and the tubs are outside. Jamie does, too, and so we lay back in our squishy beds of mud with glasses of sparkling water in our hands and cool cucumbers on our eyes. We don't talk--by this time we're both limp and relaxed--but it's amazing just soaking up the luxury. So much so that I almost moan in protest when they help us out, scraping the mud off us with things that look like miniature shower squeegees, and then lead us to another mineral spring, which relaxes us even more and cleans us off.
After that, a cold dip wakes us up again, and then Jamie and I are led inside for a delicious lunch. Afterward we get to sit side by side for manicures and pedicures.
The last official spa treatment for the day is a massage. After that, we're told we can go back to our bungalow or look over the activity list. Everything from hiking to horseback riding to yoga to golf. Fresh clothes will be waiting for us. Linen slacks and tops courtesy of the resort.
We part ways to go to our private massage rooms, and the masseuse, a w
oman with arms so defined I'm sure she must have been a professional athlete at some time, guides me to the table. She picks out an oil with just a hint of spice and I nod agreement. It's unusual, but edgy, and it reminds me of Damien.
Oh yes, he is getting such a thank-you for this surprise.
I strip down and slide under the sheet. The table is the kind with a cutout for your face, and I lay limp, eyes closed, my body more relaxed than it's been in a long time. "Just my back and arms and calves, please," I say. "Not my thighs."
"Of course." She puts on music, and we begin. Her hands are like magic, and as she works the tightness out from along my spine, I'm pretty sure that I've gone to heaven.
Her touch is strong, but not so much as to be uncomfortable, and soon I'm drifting. Not really asleep, but not really there, either. I feel it when she takes her hands off me, then hear the clink of bottles as she gets more oil. I hear another click I can't identify, and I lay still, waiting for her to continue with the massage.
When she puts her hands back on me, they feel different. Larger. Stronger. My body realizes the truth before I do, and my pulse kicks up. Damien.
I smile at the floor but say nothing as his oiled hands glide over me, working the kinks from my body, making me relaxed, making me squirm with desire.
He works my arms, paying attention to each little finger, which turns out to be so desperately erotic that I feel the tug of each stroke between my legs. Then he eases his strong hands down my back and over the towel that covers my ass and thighs. He draws his hands firmly down the back of each leg, then strokes the sole of each foot, and now I do moan with pleasure.
He drives me just a little bit crazy before moving on to each toe and then, finally, turning his attention to my calves. Long, gentle strokes, higher and higher until I feel his fingers grazing the edge of the towel, then easing my legs apart so he can direct his strokes even higher.
I am going completely crazy now, and it's all I can do not to lift and twist my hips. I'm wet and I want him and I'm determined not to say anything but to just lay there and enjoy the moment. But oh, God, I want to feel him inside me.
I'm sure he knows how much he's teasing me, and he pushes the towel up to massage my hips with firm, even strokes. He does the same to my inner thighs, coming so deliciously close to my cunt that I think I'm going to scream with frustration every time he dips near but doesn't touch me.
Then I feel the soft brush of his fingers against my sensitive clit. The firm stroke of his hand over my slick heat. His fingertip dances circles over my clit and I can't help it, I moan with the pleasure of it. And then it's as if the world has slipped away and I'm nothing but this tiny point of sensation concentrated between my thighs, building and building, higher and faster, until I can't take it anymore and I shatter in his hand.
"Damien," I whisper. I am spent. My body is liquid. There's no way I'm ever moving again.
I hear his low chuckle, then feel the press of his lips at the nape of my neck. "I can't begin to tell you how happy I am that you knew it was me."
When I am no longer a limp noodle and can actually compel my limbs to function, I get off the table and back into my robe. Damien and I leave at the same time, and Jamie's door opens as we're passing. She looks between me and Damien, then glances sideways at her masseuse, a tall blond man with large, capable-looking hands.
"You know," Jamie says dryly, "nothing personal, but I don't think I got the same level of service that she did."
To his credit, the masseuse smiles. "Come," he says, gesturing for her to follow.
"That's the problem," she mutters to me as she passes, "I didn't."
Back in the bungalow, I start to change into the linen outfit, but Damien has brought a peasant style skirt and matching blouse for me. I put it on, enjoying the way the loose cut of the material feels over my newly polished and primped skin.
He taps on Jamie's door and tells her that he'll be seeing me back to Los Angeles. She's welcome to stay another night. Edward will be back to fetch her at nine in the morning. Jamie's thank-you is so enthusiastic it borders on embarrassing, but Damien just tells her she's very, very welcome.
"What are we doing?" I ask as we walk the path toward the front parking area.
"Celebrating," he says, and I can tell from his enigmatic smile that I'm not going to get more of an answer than that.
I expect to see his uber-expensive car with the odd name, but apparently Damien wasn't kidding about having three Ferraris. A glossy black one is parked right in front of the reception area.
"I thought you might like to take her for a spin," he says.
I gape at him. "Seriously?"
He nods.
"Seriously?" I repeat, and this time he laughs. He opens the driver's door for me and motions for me to slide in. "Just start slow." His grin turns wicked. "But it's no fun if you keep it slow."
The bucket seat hugs me and I sigh as I wait for Damien to get in on his side. "Is she new?"
"No, why?"
"New-car smell. Um, she's not like some rare classic car that's irreplaceable, is she?"
He reaches over and slides the key into the ignition. "Drive, Nikki."
"Drive. Right." I take a deep breath, punch in the clutch, and fire up the engine.
The motor purrs, and it's a sweet, sweet sound. Slowly and carefully, I move the car into first gear and ease out of the driveway and onto the caliche road leading up to the resort. "Go left when you hit the street," Damien says. "There are no other homes or businesses past the resort. I doubt there will be any traffic at all."
I nod and ease slowly over the caliche. I'm crawling, actually, and I think Damien may be a little frustrated with my snail's pace, but there is no way I'm risking little rocks flying up and chipping the paint on this baby.
And, yeah, I'm freaking nervous.
When I arrive at the intersection, I pause. "You're sure about this?"
"Hell yes," he says.
"What if I strip the gears?"
"I hope you do. I think a striptease would be an appropriate apology for something like that, don't you?"
I squirm, half-wishing he didn't have such an intense and immediate effect on me. "Don't talk like that," I say. "I need to concentrate."
He laughs, then takes my hand and puts it on the stick. "All that power in the palm of your hand," he says, and now I know he's just trying to make me wet.
"Boys and their toys," I retort, then ease the car left onto the street. "Here goes," I say, and accelerate. It takes me a minute to get used to the steering and the speed, but I have to admit it's exhilarating, and soon I'm all the way into seventh gear--seventh!--and the speedometer's hovering over one hundred eighty. The ride is remarkably smooth, and I think I could take it even faster, but the foothills are getting pretty big in the front window and I see the road curving up ahead and I'm still nervous enough that I can't do this on a curve.
I ease up, downshift, and pull over to the side of the road. As soon as the car's off, I peel myself out of the driver's seat and climb over the console until I'm straddling Damien. "That was amazing," I say. "Totally, completely amazing." I kiss him hard and fast, then press his hand to my leg. "Am I trembling? God, I think my body's still vibrating just from the speed of this car."
"Boys and their toys?" he says with raised brows. "I think this qualifies as a girl toy, too."
"Heck yeah, it does." I kiss him again, and he opens his mouth, drawing me in. His hands ease up the front of my blouse to cup my breasts, and I moan and reach down for his fly. He's hard--I can feel him against my leg--but he shakes his head, his grin mischievous. "I don't think so," he says. "I think I'm going to make you wait." I run my teeth over my lower lip, because I don't want to wait. And yet there's something tantalizing about the idea of such sweet torture. To be hot and needy and anticipating his touch.
He slides his hand between my legs and strokes me quickly, just one cruel little tease. I buck up and tighten my grip on his leg. "Oh, baby," he
says, "tell me you liked our toy."
"Oh, yes."
"I have a new game."
"Game?"
He kisses me. "I bet I can make you come without even touching you."
"Let me drive this car a bit longer, and you won't have to do a thing," I say.
He laughs. "I don't want to make myself redundant. Besides, I brought another toy."
I ease back a bit and eye him. His face is lit with both amusement and passion. He's got the devious look of a man with a plan, but I haven't got a clue what it could be. "All right," I say. "I'm curious."
He reaches into his pocket and takes out a cloth pouch, then pulls a metal egg from it.
"What is that?"
"I'll show you," he says. I'm still straddling him, and he slides his hand between my legs, and as I gasp in surprise, he slips the egg easily inside me.
"What the hell?"
He laughs. "You'll see."
"But--"
"How does it feel?"
"I--it's, um, interesting." I feel full. And very aware. And very turned on.
"Interesting?" he asks, and before the word has even left his lips, the thing inside me starts to vibrate, teasing me from the inside and making me gasp.
"Holy fuck," I say, and Damien laughs. Immediately, the vibration stops.
I gape at him. "Remote control," he says casually, then opens the door and eases me off his lap. He gets out and I take his place. I'm quiet, contemplating this strange, exotic, enticing toy he's brought for us. I have to admit, it feels nice. The idea is weird, but the effect? Well, I really can't complain.
He peels back out onto the street with a hell of a lot more aplomb than I did. I'm pretty sure we cross the two-hundred-mile-per-hour mark before we slow down and get back on the interstate. We drive for about twenty minutes, then exit in a small town called Redlands. "There's a restaurant here I love," he says, and he drives me past restored Victorian homes and into the quaint downtown area. It's eight o'clock on a weeknight, and there aren't many people out. The restaurant itself is only half full. It's in a refurbished warehouse, and has an air of elegance set against brick and stone and iron piping.
"I like it," I say.
"The ambience is great, the food even better."