We're led to a quiet booth in the corner, and I slide in on one side, expecting Damien to sit next to me. He doesn't. He takes a seat across from me. "I want to look at you," he says, but I don't entirely believe him. He has a remote control in his pocket, and I have a feeling that he has plans for this evening.
I lean forward. "Don't you dare. This is a nice restaurant."
But Damien only smirks. And, yeah, he turns it on just long enough for me to jump.
I lick my lips and look around, certain everyone has not only seen me, but knows what we're doing. But there's really no one in our line of sight, and none of the staff are looking our way.
I swallow and shift a bit in the seat. I try to focus on my menu, but it's hard, because any moment Damien might turn that thing on, and I'm both dreading it and anticipating it.
"You're very easy to read, Ms. Fairchild."
I scowl at him and focus on my current conundrum of deciding between a martini and a bourbon, straight up.
The bourbon wins. There's really no contest.
The waitress returns with our drinks and takes our dinner orders--we're both having steak--then leaves us in our little corner.
"You're torturing me, you know," I say.
Damien laughs and holds up his hands as if in self-defense. "Hey, I'm not doing anything."
"Hmmm."
"Anticipation is the better part of pleasure," he says.
"Anticipation is driving me crazy," I retort.
He reaches across the table for my hand, stroking his thumb over mine. "Tell me about the job. What does Bruce have planned for you?"
I eye him suspiciously. "You really don't know?"
He laughs. "I really don't."
I launch greedily into the topic, giving him a rundown of the parameters of my new job. "Bruce seems really cool," I add. "I think I'll learn a lot from him."
"I'm sure you will, but I still don't understand why you don't just dive in and work for yourself. You said you have a product in mind to develop, right?"
"I do," I admit. "Honestly, I think I'm a little scared. I spent five years in school learning all the technical stuff. I trust myself with the science and the engineering. But the business end ..." I trail off with a shrug. "I feel like there should have been a class on how to find investors or how to raise capital or something." I wave my hand, because I'm sure I sound like a total loser. "I just don't want to jump in before I feel competent. I'm afraid if I do all your money will just slip through my fingers."
"It's your money," he says. "Or it will be soon. But if you need help, all you have to do is ask. I've gotten pretty good at this stuff," he adds with a grin.
"Damien, please. I just--I just feel like I need to be the one who does this. On my own, you know?"
"No one survives in business going entirely on their own."
"Damien ..."
"Fine," he concedes. "But let me give you some advice. If you're looking to make a splash in the tech field, the time is now. I don't know what ideas you're developing, but I promise that you aren't the only one. Screw around too long, and someone will hit the market first."
"Like what happened to Carl."
"Exactly." He squeezes my hand. "Will you tell me your idea? I'm curious."
I hesitate only a second. I don't want to work for or with Damien, but I do value his opinion. And I'm proud of my idea and want to share it with this man who now fills my world.
"I have several smartphone apps already out there, and they'll be part of the company, of course. But the marquee product will be a cross-platform note-sharing system for use on the Web."
"I'm intrigued. Explain."
I do, roughing out my idea of a web-based software that allows users to leave virtual sticky notes on webpages that their friends and colleagues can see when they access the same website. "That's just the most obvious use. There are all sorts of permutations. But I think it has real potential."
"So do I," he says. "When you're ready, I'll help."
Maybe it's foolish to feel so proud of myself simply because my idea has the Damien Stark seal of approval, but I do. I beam at him and squeeze his hand. "How about you? How was your trip to San Diego? Did you buy a conglomerate? A country? A chain of gourmet cupcake bakeries?"
I'm being a goof, but his reaction doesn't match my words. His face turns cold, the familiar ice returning, and I wonder what I could possibly have said. He picks up his water glass and takes a long drink. When he sets it down, he keeps his eyes on it for what feels like a very long time, but probably is only seconds. He turns the glass, the condensation making patterns on the polyurethane tabletop. Finally, he looks at me. "I was there to visit my father."
The words come out level. Almost bland. But I realize how much he's telling me. He could have simply told me he had a bad day. I would have believed him. Instead, he's keeping his word. He's giving me another glimpse into himself--and he has to know how much that means to me.
"How long has he lived in San Diego?" I ask. I keep my tone conversational, as if there was nothing monumental about this exchange of words.
"I bought him the house when I was fourteen," he says. He takes another sip of water. "That was the year I fired him and hired a new manager."
"Oh." I had missed that on Wikipedia, but I hadn't really been paying attention to the mentions of the people surrounding Damien. Only Damien himself. "It was nice of you to visit him. I'm guessing you two don't have the best relationship."
He looks at me sharply. "Why do you say that?"
I shrug; it seems obvious to me. "Him taking such tight control of your career. Making you play even when you wanted to quit and go to the science academy."
"Right." He leans back against the booth, and I'm struck by the odd sense that he's relieved, but that doesn't make sense.
"It was nice of you to go see him."
"An unpleasant necessity."
I'm not sure what to say to that, but I'm saved by the arrival of our waitress with the meal. As we eat, our conversation shifts to a rundown of our spa adventure. "It was amazing," I say, telling him in great detail everything we did. "I've never had a mud bath before."
"I'm sorry I missed it."
"Me, too," I say, smiling from the heat in his voice. My body clenches, and I'm reminded of the little silver egg tucked away inside me. I feel sexy and decadent--and a bit on edge, since I have no clue when Damien may pull that trigger.
"Did Jamie have a good time?"
"Are you kidding? She thinks you're the world's greatest humanitarian now. Seriously, it was wonderful of you to invite her. She's been having a tough time of it."
"How so?"
"She's an actress," I say, because that pretty much sums it up in Hollywood.
"Has she gotten any work?"
"A few local commercials and some equity waiver stuff. But considering she's been here for years, she's not exactly making progress. She's frustrated. I think her agent's getting frustrated. And I know finances are a concern. She's not, you know, walking the streets in patent leather, but I think she may have actually slept with a few guys just because she knew they'd feed her well or cover her mortgage for the month."
"And now you're living there."
"Well, that takes the pressure off, sure. But still. She has to find work." I finish my steak and take a sip of wine. "What's so frustrating is that she's genuinely talented, and the camera loves her. If she could just get that break ..." I trail off with a shrug. "Sorry. I'm rambling. But I love her and I feel bad for her."
"You want to help her."
"Yeah."
Beneath the table his leg caresses mine. "I know the feeling."
The softness of his words takes my breath away, but I can't meet his eyes. I concentrate instead on my wine and am grateful when he changes the subject, telling me how he found this restaurant when he decided to spend a weekend exploring small California towns. By the time the coffee and creme brulee arrives for dessert, my melancholy for my roommate has
disappeared. More than that, I'm having such a good time listening to Damien's stories that I've actually forgotten about the decadent little toy--until it starts to vibrate inside me with no warning at all.
I'm holding a spoonful of dessert, and I gasp a little as it slides over my lips. On the other side of the table, Damien smiles innocently at me. "You're glowing again, Ms. Fairchild. Is that for the creme brulee? Or could there be another reason?"
"You're a cruel man, Mr. Stark. And I think it's time we get the check."
We've been in the restaurant for hours and the downtown area is dark and abandoned by the time we leave. His car is in a paid lot a few blocks away, and we turn into an alley as a shortcut. There's no one around, and I step to one side, tugging Damien with me. "What is it?" he asks.
"Just this." I kiss him, hard, and ease backward until my shoulders press against the rough brick of the building. "Turn it on," I demand.
"Oh, baby," he says, but he complies.
I take his hand and slide it up under my skirt, putting his fingers right on me. I'm desperately wet.
"God, Nikki, let's get to the car."
"No," I say and unzip his fly. I have my hand inside his jeans, and his cock is steel against my palm. "Now. Please."
He growls, and I know he's fighting for control.
"Now," I repeat. "Leave the thing on. And don't take it out."
That pushes him over the edge and he shifts his jeans to free himself, then slams me harder against the wall. I gasp and curl one leg up around him. "Please," I say. "Please, Damien. Fuck anticipation. I want you now."
I take his cock and guide the head between my legs. My skirt falls over us, the soft feel of the hem moving against us adding to the frenzy. I'm vibrating inside, and that sensation coupled with his deep, penetrating thrusts is enough to send me over the edge in no time at all, Damien right there with me.
"Holy hell," he whispers, clutching me tight. "That was quite a trip."
"Got your vibe on?"
"You're quite the minx."
"I guess so," I say. "I seem to remember someone saying he doesn't have sex in public."
"That's my rule," he admits. "Anyone who works so very hard to make me break it deserves an equally inventive punishment."
I swallow, my nipples tightening again from his tone. It's low and commanding and I have no doubt that it will be sweet punishment indeed.
"Come on, Ms. Fairchild. I think it's time to get you home."
26
By the time we pull up to my apartment, I am once again liquid with desire. Damien has allowed me to remove the magical vibrating egg, but he makes me sit with my legs spread wide beneath my skirt. That position combined with the thrum of the engine is erotic in and of itself. Knowing that he has a special punishment in store for me is enough to make me almost come every time he taps the brakes or revs the engine.
He parallel-parks expertly and kills the engine. He doesn't, however, get out. I eye him, my teeth scraping over my lower lip. "Are you going to come in?" I'm suddenly afraid that the punishment he has in mind is to not touch me at all.
A predatory spark flares in his eyes. "Oh, I'm coming in, all right."
I exhale in relief, then suck in sharply with confusion as he reaches behind his seat to retrieve a thin leather case, like a briefcase, only smaller. He smiles enigmatically, then exits the car with the case. He's at my side before I can figure out how to work the locking mechanism. He pulls open the door, then takes my hand and helps me out. It's all very proper and polite--and that's making me even more nervous.
What does he have in store for me? What is in that damn case?
My fingers shake as I insert my key in the lock. Damien's proximity and promises have done quite a number on me. I think I'm more aware of my body than I've ever been, and every part of me is taut and tense with excitement, nervousness, and anticipation.
Once we're inside, I stand awkwardly in the room, not quite sure what to do now. It's a strange feeling considering all we've done together, not to mention the fact that he's already seen the apartment. But I feel like a teenager inviting a boy home for the first time.
Jamie is still at the spa, so we have the place to ourselves. Damien shares none of my hesitations; he strides right to the dining table and puts the case down. I look at it, expecting him to open it. He doesn't. He just stands there watching me, his inspection so intense that I feel the urge to fidget.
I don't, though. Instead I stand perfectly still, my chin tilted slightly up. This is part of the game, and right now my role is to wait.
Damien strokes his chin, his head tilted sideways in the manner of a museum patron inspecting a classic work of art. His words, however, lack the sophistication of a museum excursion.
"Take off your skirt." The force and command in his voice is undeniable.
I look down; I don't want him to see my smile.
The skirt has an elastic waistband, and I ease it over my hips, then let it drop to pool around my feet. I step out of it, but I keep my sandals on. Damien hasn't told me to remove those.
"Now the shirt."
I pull the loose blouse over my head and toss it on the table. I'm naked now, illuminated only by the glow of the nightlight burning by the bathroom door.
Damien doesn't shift position at all, but I hear the slow sound of him drawing a breath. And though it may be my imagination, it seems to me that the air between us is heating up. I know that I'm suddenly very, very warm.
"Kick off your shoes, then spread your legs."
I do, then stand still with my legs parted as he walks slowly around me as if I'm some slave girl for sale on a dais. He makes two circles around me, and on the second he pauses behind me. He slides his hand between my legs and cups me from behind. His fingertip brushes my clit, and my flesh quivers in his hand. I bite my lower lip and close my eyes to keep from moaning. It takes every ounce of my willpower for me to remain still.
"Do you want more?" he asks, his finger slowly caressing my sex.
"Yes." The word comes out raw and strangled.
Slowly, he pulls his hand away and circles back to face me. "Go to your room and get on the bed." He leans in close, and his lips brush my ear as he speaks. "No touching. I need your promise, Nikki. And this time I need you to keep it."
I nod. "Okay."
He looks at me, then slowly lifts an eyebrow.
"I mean, yes, sir." I want to ask him when he's coming to the bedroom, too, but I know better. I go, I lie down, and I wait, expecting him to enter with that mysterious case.
I am crazy with need, with longing, with that damned anticipation. I'm flushed and hot and swollen. My breasts and my clit are so sensitive that I think I'll come if the air conditioner kicks on. I want to touch myself with wild desperation, but I remember Damien's words, and I keep my legs spread and my arms wide, afraid that if I don't lay like that I'll be tempted to squeeze my legs together in an attempt to find satisfaction.
The position doesn't help my distress, though. It only makes me hotter. There's something so exciting about being wide open for Damien. My nipples are tight and hard, almost painful. I long to feel his teeth graze them, to feel his hand stroke me, his cock inside me.
Where the hell is he?
And then I hear the television snap on.
I groan aloud, and even though he's all the way in the next room, I'm positive that Damien has heard me--and that he's smiling.
I'm alone, horny as hell, and not allowed to do anything about it. He's out there, undoubtedly feeling smug, flipping channels at random.
This, of course, is my punishment, and by the time he turns the television off half an hour later, I am about out of my mind with the need to be fucked.
Just when I'm starting to fear that he's going to leave, he appears in my doorway and leans casually against the frame. "I like looking at you," he says.
"I like you touching me better." I'm actually pouting. He's reduced me that far. "That wasn't nice."
&nbs
p; He laughs. "Sweetheart, that was nothing."
My pulse picks up again as he bends down and picks up the case. It was out of my field of vision by his feet, but now he brings it and sets it on the bed and opens it. The top opens toward me, so that I can't see the contents. His mouth curves down as if he's considering a variety of options, then he pulls out a jewelry case and sets it on the bed.
I frown, wondering what that could be about.
The next item doesn't make me wonder--I get what it's for right away. It's a whip. The kind with several thin bits of leather attached to a thicker handle.
"A cat-o'-nine-tails," Damien says helpfully.
"Um, uh-huh." I bite my lower lip. The rational part of me is thinking ouch. My sex, however, is throbbing with anticipation.
He sets the whip down and opens the jewelry box. Inside are two silver rings, each with two small metal balls on them. They are connected by a serpentine chain. He picks one of the rings up and pulls it apart so that the two balls separate, leaving a gap in the ring. He slides one side of the jewelry box into that gap and then releases the balls. They spring back, clamping to the cardboard.
My brow furrows. I don't get it.
I can tell that Damien sees my confusion, but he says nothing. He just smiles and puts the rings and their chain on the bedside table. He closes the case and puts it on the floor, then he picks up the cat-o'-nine-tails and runs the thin strands of leather through his fingers. After a moment, he sets it beside me, then reaches down to cup my swollen sex. I arch up, silently begging for his fingers inside me, stroking me.
"You've been very naughty. I don't think I should make you come."
"I really think you're wrong about that," I manage, and am rewarded with his laugh.
"Close your eyes. Can you keep them closed, or should I blindfold you?"
"I'll keep them closed."
"Is that a promise?"
"Yes," I say without hesitation. I've already learned that the punishment for breaking a promise isn't really punishment at all. Even so, I'll try to keep my word.
I feel him moving near me, then he tells me to lift my hips. I do, and he slides a pillow under me.
"Keep your legs spread," he says. "Yes, like that. Oh, baby, you're so beautiful. Beautiful and open for me."
He touches me gently, a finger tracing just below my belly button. My skin tightens, and I arch up with desire. Then his touch disappears and I feel the soft flutter of leather across my breasts, my belly. The cat-o'-nine-tails. He's trailing it over me. And then, snap, he's flicked it softly over my breasts.