Claim Me

  He slips his hand inside my sarong skirt, his finger dipping under the string of my thong to find me wet.

  I tremble, a small shiver rushing through me, as if a portent of an explosion to come.

  "Why, Ms. Fairchild," he says, "I do believe you want me."

  I bite my lower lip and say nothing; he doesn't need to hear my answer. He already knows he's right.

  Slowly--so painfully slowly--he starts to peel me out of my clothing. The knot of the sarong. The tiny thong panties. The tank he tugs gently over my head. Even the scarf falls into a pile on the floor. I see it there, a lonely bit of pink in a sea of black, and I sigh.

  "Trouble?"

  "I thought you were going to tie me up."

  "Maybe I changed my mind."

  "Oh."

  "Complaining, Ms. Fairchild?"

  "Never with you, Mr. Stark."

  "Good answer. For that, you get a reward." His expression takes on a dangerous edge. "Come with me."

  I follow him to the bedroom, where he lays a blanket on the floor, then opens one of the leather trunks. He pulls out two lengths of rope and slowly twines them between his hands. I can feel my eyes go wide. We've moved a long way from soft pink scarves.

  "What are you going to do?"

  But Damien doesn't answer. He just nods at the floor and tells me to lie down. I hesitate only a moment, and then comply, my head near the foot of the bed and my body stretched out on the blanket.

  "Hands above your head," he says.

  I stretch my arms up, my excitement building along with my curiosity, and he uses the shorter length of rope to tie my wrists together. Then he fastens my bound hands to the center leg of his king-size bedframe.

  "I'm going to please you, Nikki," he says, then strokes his fingertip slowly down my arm. He starts at my wrist, then gently teases the soft flesh of my inner arm, then the bend of my elbow, his fingertip finally trailing along my upper arm to the sensitive flesh of my underarm.

  I bite my lower lip and squirm. The sensation of his finger upon my skin is exquisite. It is feather-soft, almost a tickle, and desperately, wildly erotic.

  "Do you see how you writhe?" he asks. "That movement lets you control the intensity so that you're not overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations. Do you understand?"

  I nod.

  "I'm going to take that away from you," he says as he begins to position me. He moves the soles of my feet together, and then slowly wraps the jute rope around them once, twice. I test the bindings and find that I cannot move my feet at all. I am strangely helpless, and it's unnerving and exciting all at the same time.

  "There will be no writhing," Damien says as he gently spreads my knees and brings my joined feet up higher on the blanket. "No shifting. No place to hide."

  I'm essentially in the butterfly pose from yoga now, my knees spread wide and each only inches off the floor. I'm not particularly athletic, but my mother kept me doing both yoga and ballet long enough that I am sufficiently limber, so that Damien has no trouble positioning me.

  My back is arched, the inside of my thighs tight from the stretch. And, yes, my sex is completely exposed. The position is undeniably erotic, and not only because I am so wide open. As Damien has said, there is nowhere to go. Not now, and certainly not when he finishes what he has started. I will be utterly at his mercy--and that, of course, is the point. Damien has lost so much tonight, but these ropes and my body can give him some of it back.

  But this isn't just about what Damien needs. I want this, too. I want to surrender to him. I want to abdicate my pleasure to Damien's command. I want to float, with only Damien to tether me.

  Damien's eyes meet mine, and when he then trails his gaze down my body, there is so much heat, it is a wonder that he doesn't leave scorch marks on my skin.

  He has used the middle section of the long length of rope to bind my feet, and now he takes one of the free ends and begins to encircle the shin and thigh of my left leg.

  "I'm giving you pleasure, pain, and beauty combined," he says. "I want to look at you like this, open for me, your legs bent, your body like a diamond shining bright and glistening for me."

  He pulls the rope tight so that it both marks my flesh and ensures that my legs stay at the proper angle. Then he ties it off. I am now half-bound--and completely turned on.

  "You're like the portrait," he says. "A vision of erotic beauty. But a portrait isn't flesh, and its beauty can't feel pleasure."

  He closes his mouth over my breast and sucks and I feel a fast, electric trill race from my nipple to my cunt. My sex tightens, as if begging for attention, but Damien is in no hurry, and he suckles and teases, his teeth grazing my tender nipple, his mouth drawing against my flesh until my areola is tight and puckered. His tongue teasing my skin, and he is right--I am desperate to move beneath him, to escape even slightly from the overwhelming sweetness of this onslaught. But I am trapped and the sensual assault continues, edging me high and higher until I am certain I have no choice but to fall.

  Just when I am certain that I will scream if he doesn't relent, he trails kisses down my belly until he reaches my navel. He takes a quick, playful nip, then sits up and returns to the task of tying me down. He takes the rope again, and this time moves to my other leg. Before he does, though, he gently strokes my sex. I'm hot and needy, and a tremble runs through me. I want him to do it again, another stroke, his mouth, his fingers deep inside me. I want that tremble to turn into a full-blown explosion. I want that--and Damien damn well knows it.

  He does nothing about it, though, except focus on my other leg. "You're wet, baby. And every quiver, every sign, every dewy hint of your arousal is on display for me. Tell me you like it, Nikki," he says as he finishes binding me. "Tell me you like being open and ready for me."

  As he speaks, he trails his finger up and down my leg, then traces the rope that binds me. My body trembles and shivers run through me, sparked in the wake of his touch. I can barely breathe, much less talk. I want to tell him everything that's bubbling inside me. That there is an exquisite joy in surrendering to him. In giving myself over for his pleasure and trusting that he will see to mine.

  I want to tell him that "like" doesn't even come close to describing how I feel, and it is certainly a poor measure of the extent of my arousal.

  I want to pour my heart out to him, but I can manage only one simple word: "Yes."

  He has finished binding me, and the ropes are tight. They cut into my skin just past the point of pleasure and into the realm of pain. I close my eyes and draw it in, idly wondering if other women need time to get used to this. I do not. I simply lie back and revel in it. After the night we've had, I want this; I want everything that Damien is willing to give.

  I want the pain and the pleasure and everything that comes between.

  Slowly, methodically, Damien places his hands on my shoulders, then traces his fingertips down my body, over my breasts, along my waist, down my inner thighs.

  I bite my lip, fighting against the painfully sweet sensation, but he's right; bound like this, there is no escaping--and the pleasure crescendos, leading toward the edge of pain.

  When he finally stops touching me, I exhale in a burst, only then realizing that I've been holding my breath. I gasp, my chest rising and falling, my eyes wide open as I watch Damien rise and stand near my own bound feet.

  Slowly, so painfully slowly, he takes off his clothes. His cock is hard and thick and I inhale, my breath shuddering in my chest, the desire pooling in my wide open sex. Then, with slow deliberation, he comes to me and kneels over my bound feet. Gently, he places the pads of his thumbs on each of my inner thighs, then slides his hands upward. I shiver, my body primed to explode, but he still doesn't touch me where I crave him most, and I am left hanging on a precipice.

  "You're a cruel man, Mr. Stark."

  "Am I?" He leans farther in, and those hands that I want so desperately between my legs move up to cup my breasts. I gasp as he pinches my nipples, once again se
nding hot threads of desire all through me. I bite my lower lip and squeeze my eyes shut. I swear if he does that again I really will come, and I silently beg him to do just that.

  Naturally, he doesn't, and I teeter there on my imaginary cliff, so very ready to leap into the chasm, but quite unable to take myself there.

  "Cruel?" he whispers. "Or am I being very, very good to you?"

  "Cruel," I say very firmly, then smile when he laughs.

  He slides his hands off my breasts to curve around my sides. I can feel the fragile bones of my rib cage beneath his strong hands, a reminder once again of how much I am his in this moment. Bound. Helpless. His to tease, to torment, to command.

  Tenderly, he kisses the tiny scar above my pubic bone. I feel the rough brush of his beard stubble against my sensitive skin.

  "Tell me what you want," he says. "I want to hear you say it."

  I open my mouth, but no words come. "You," I finally manage. My voice is rough. "I want you inside me."

  "Why, Ms. Fairchild," he murmurs, his lips grazing my pubis and his voice so low I can barely hear him. "Are you saying you want to be fucked?"

  "God, yes."

  "I like your answer." He gently cups my needy sex. His skin is hot, but not as hot as mine. "But I don't think you're quite ready."

  It is entirely possible that I will die from frustration. I suck in a breath and find my words. "Mr. Stark," I say sternly, "if you can't tell how ready I am, then I'm afraid you're not as skilled a lover as I had thought."

  "On the contrary," he whispers. "I'm an exceptional lover. You just need to be more patient and let me prove it to you, slowly, methodically, and very, very thoroughly."

  I say nothing. Every sensation in my body, every ounce of feeling and desire has rushed between my legs. I feel heavy and swollen and desperate.

  I need him inside me. If he doesn't fuck me soon, I'm one-hundred-percent certain that I will implode. "Damien, please."

  "This?" He slides two fingers inside my vagina, and I gasp as my body tightens hungrily around him. My hips gyrate without me even thinking about it, and it's an odd, amazing sensation with my legs bound open like that, because he is right. Not even the slightest shimmer of my desire can be hidden.

  "Yes," I manage, forcing the word to my lips. "But more. You."

  He adds another finger and begins a slow, sensual in-and-out. I tilt my head back, letting the pleasure build. I'm close, so very close, my muscles constricting to pull him in, harder and deeper. And then, finally, he gives me what I really want. He shifts his body over mine and holds himself up with one hand near my waist. The other he slides under my ass, lifting me just slightly. It feels strange because I cannot help. My knees and feet are not my own, but it's not something I'm particularly worried about--for that matter, I'm no longer worried about anything, because Damien penetrates me now, his hips thrusting forward, his cock hard inside me as he holds my hips with his hands and pulls me toward him to meet his thrusts.

  His movements are steady, even, and the tingling sensation in my body is like electricity building to a thrumming, steady power. But that's the thing about electricity--it can surprise you, and when Damien changes the rhythm, I cry out, my body shuddering as a powerful, unexpected orgasm bursts through me, sending vibrant sensations throughout me like ripples from a rock in a pond.

  Damien doesn't stop. He thrusts again, harder and faster, again and again, until he, too, explodes. And, more than that, I explode again with him.

  "Oh, baby," he says, as his body melts against mine.

  "That was spectacular," I say, surprised that I can actually manage to form words.

  He leans up on his elbow and looks at me. "Are you okay?"

  "Mmm." I moan in satisfaction. "More than okay. But just a little stiff," I add.

  He chuckles, then kisses me softly and tells me to wait. A moment later he is carefully cleaning me, then slowly unbinding me, massaging each place where the rope cut into me, and gently stretching out my limbs.

  He picks me up and carries me to bed, then eases up to spoon behind me, his arms around my waist. I sigh, lost in the pleasure of being so well attended to. I feel spoiled and cherished. More than that, I feel safe.

  For a moment, we are silent, but as my mind drifts back over the evening, I cannot keep my question in any longer.

  "Damien?"

  "Yes?" His voice is tired. Sleep will soon be upon both of us.

  "What was your father talking about? Why do you need to be squeaky clean?"

  He is quiet for so long that I hold my breath.

  "He's yanking my chain," Damien finally says. But that is not the truth, and I'm certain that Damien realizes I know it.

  "Damien--"

  He rolls me over, and something about his eyes tells me that this is it. If I press, he will tell me.

  I swallow. Because this isn't about learning the truth, it's about Damien willingly sharing the truth with me.

  I begin again. "How did you know where to find me tonight?"

  For a moment his expression reveals nothing. Then I see the smile light his eyes, though it does not reach his lips. He cups my head with his hand and looks at me with an expression of such adoration it takes my breath away.

  "Don't you know, Nikki? No matter where you go, I will always find you."

  12

  My legs are deliciously sore when I wake Saturday morning. I roll over, searching for Damien, but he isn't there. I consider staying in bed--after all, at some point he has to come back--but the lure of coffee wins out and I head for the kitchen.

  The man knows me well, because the note he left for me is taped to the coffeepot.

  A few things came up. At the office. Loved last night. The image of you naked and bound, spread wide for me, is burned into my mind. I expect that I will find it difficult to concentrate. I may just have to spank you later for distracting me so ...

  I smile and tuck the note into my purse. Then I shower and change before heading through the door in the back that connects the apartment to the office. When I finish navigating the maze of hallways and find myself in the reception area, Ms. Peters greets me with a smile.

  "Good morning. He and Mr. Maynard are on the phone. Would you like to wait?"

  "That's okay. He's obviously busy." I think about the reporters and what they said about an indictment. If Charles is here, there must be some legal wrangling going on with one of the Stark International divisions.

  Edward isn't working until later, but Ms. Peters arranges another car for me. Only the cat greets me when I come through the door. Jamie, I assume, is with Raine.

  I haven't been alone that much lately, and it's nice to be in my room with my things. Especially since so many of my things now remind me of Damien.

  I look over at the Monet he gave me--haystacks at sunset. It's stunning, and thank God it's insured. I'm still nervous, though, but at the same time, I don't want it anywhere else except the room in which I sleep. Well, the room in which I sleep when I'm not with Damien, anyway.

  I settle in front of my computer and start looking through my image files. I should be doing work stuff, but I so rarely have time to spend on the gift I'm making for Damien--a scrapbook filled with mementos of our time together. A snapshot of the Monet. Dozens of pictures of sunsets, and lots and lots of images of the two of us together. As much as I hate the paparazzi, I have to admit they've captured a few nice candid shots.

  I work on organizing the pictures and writing captions for a few hours, then decide I ought to tackle cleaning the apartment before I shower for tonight. Weirdly, "cleaning" includes making up the bed in our living room.

  As I vacuum, the sound of grunts and moans comes from next door, loud enough to be heard over the machine. I close my eyes, silently thankful that Jamie is not still sleeping with Douglas, our too-loud, too-fucked by too-many women, neighbor. Mostly, I wish she hadn't fucked him in the first place, especially since he's been making hints about wanting her again.

  By
the time Jamie gets home, Douglas's latest fuck buddy has gone and I've moved on to the kitchen counters.

  "Wow," she says. "You're hired."

  I lift a brow. Jamie's idea of cleaning is to let the place get completely trashed, then spend an entire day complaining about how much she hates cleaning. It drives me nuts.

  "Will there be food tonight?" she asks.

  "Appetizers and drinks," I say.

  "Wanna grab a late lunch?"

  I shrug. "Sure. Edward will be here at six to get us, so we want to leave time to come back and change."

  "In the limo?" Jamie perks up.

  "I don't know," I say, tossing her a sponge. "But if you go wipe down the bathroom counters, I'll text Damien and tell him that's what we want."

  And that, I think as she trots off to clean, is how to manage a roommate.

  "Holy architecture, Batman," Jamie says as one of the staff that Damien hired for the party opens the door for us.

  I follow her inside, and stop just over the threshold. Apparently Damien has house elves, because the huge room that was bare just yesterday is now furnished in a manner that is both welcoming and opulent. The white marble tiles, which extend through the entrance hall all the way to the back of the house, gleam, a perfect stage for the equally white furniture that now fills the space, the only color provided by the vibrant artwork decorating the two walls to the left and right. The far wall is glass and is constructed like the door to the third-floor balcony so that the panels can be thrust aside and the room opened to the pool deck and the negative-edge pool that extends beyond. The ceiling extends up all four floors to a glass skylight, giving the room an atrium-like feel.

  The two focal points--the pool outside and the massive marble staircase--complement each other, as if each is beckoning the visitor to come exploring, promising all sorts of delights no matter which direction the guest chooses to go.

  "This place is fabulous," Jamie continues in a stage whisper that probably carries all the way to the third floor.

  "I know," I say as a kind of proprietary pride swells through me. I have had nothing to do with building or decorating this house, and yet there is no denying the simple truth that it feels like home. "Want a tour?"