"A simple wooden kitchen spoon," Damien says, as if in answer. "Who knew it could be so tantalizing?"
I feel a rush of cool air when he removes the spoon, but it is gone almost immediately, replaced by the sting of wood against flesh. I cry out, my ass stinging, then immediately soothed by the firm press of Damien's hand against my rear. All too soon, his hand is gone, and he swats me again--not too hard, but hard enough that it feels as though a million pinpricks of pleasure are rushing to the spot.
I squirm a bit, wanting more. Wanting the pain to center me--and wanting Damien to launch me off into the stars.
"That's it, baby," he says. "You're glowing, but your ass is on fire."
I can't speak. I just want more. But I'm not expecting the next blow--not on my ass, but on my sex. One light, upward thrust with the back of the spoon, barely brushing my clit. But it sets off little sparks inside me. Then another spank, this one firmer, and I cry out as I come closer to the edge. I bite my lip, wanting another--just one more. One more to take me over.
But instead of the thwack of wood against my sex, there are Damien's fingers inside me, Damien tugging the pearls. I arch up and cry out in surprise and release as he draws the pearls out of me, each tiny round bead rubbing against my sensitive clit. Each pearl heightening the sensation. Each millimeter sending me spiraling off until a cry is ripped from my throat and my body bucks and quakes, unable to withstand the force of the ecstasy that is spinning out of control inside me.
"Oh, yes, baby. Yes--"
And then I hear the soft thud as the pearls fall to the floor. I hear the brush of material against flesh as Damien steps of out his jeans. I feel his hands stroke my hips, my ass. Then his fingers are inside me, opening me, readying me--though that's hardly necessary at this point.
I suck in a breath and moan with pleasure as the head of his cock presses against my folds. He thrusts forward, entering me, going deep, so deep that it feels as though this will never end, that we will tumble off into each other.
His hands release my hips and he leans forward to cup a breast with one hand, the pressure of his fingers on my nipple as he moves my body back to his in time with his thrusts, so that it is as if we are wrapped in a web of current, sizzling and alive.
His other hand reaches around, finding my overly sensitive clit. He strokes me ever so lightly until all I know is a bone deep pleasure, so consuming that I lose all sense of where the sensations come from, but know only that they are there. That I am pleasure. That I am electricity. That I am Damien's.
The second orgasm hits me just as fast. It's an explosion, and I cry out, my body contracting around him, the touch of his finger against my clit now so intense it borders on pain. He doesn't relent, though. Instead he draws it out and out and out, until his own release comes even as my body is still quivering and shaking--and if I weren't tied to the pillar, I would surely be collapsed on the ground.
"Damien." It's all I can say. It's enough.
"Shhhh." He unties my hands, but doesn't remove my blindfold. Gently, he carries me into the bedroom and lays me on the bed.
"I want to see you," I say, as he begins to trail slow kisses up my body.
"You see me better than anyone," he says, then gently removes my blindfold. I open my eyes to find Damien smiling down at me, and all of my own emotions are reflected there on his face. He kisses me, deeply and gently, his mouth claiming mine.
"I think I'm destroyed," I say with a smile. "I don't know that I can ever move again."
"No? That's too bad." He moves down my body gently stroking my skin with his fingers, his lips. When he reaches the scars on my inner thighs, he traces a fingertip over the worst of them then lifts his head to look at me. I draw in a shuddering breath, done in by everything I see reflected in his eyes. Love, desire, respect.
"Destroyed or not," he says, "I have to have you again."
"Take me," I say, reaching for him and tugging him up my body, spreading my legs and lifting my hips in invitation at the same time. He enters me slowly, filling me, and we move together in a sensual rhythm that makes me want to cry out with pleasure as he fills me.
I arch up and draw his mouth to mine, connecting myself fully to this man. "Turn over," I beg when I break the kiss. "I want to see you under me."
He raises a brow but complies, and I shift my hips as I straddle him, taking him even deeper as I rock slowly, then ease myself up and down to tease his steel-hard cock. My eyes are open and I'm watching his face, his beautiful face that I have seen through so many emotions--humor and ecstasy, anger and frustration, and on and on and on. Right now, though, he just looks happy, and something I think might be pride swells within me. Damien Stark is a complicated man. And yet I am what he needs.
Despite my bliss, Carmela's words come back to me, and I cannot help but be struck by how they mirror my earlier dark thoughts. That once reality pokes its head in, things start spiraling out of control.
"What is it?" Damien asks, his eyes intent upon my face.
I do not want to bring a dark cloud between us, but I also don't want to hide my fears from Damien. Not when I know that he is the only one capable of soothing them.
"Stupid stuff," I say. "I was thinking about what Carmela said. About reality."
"Carmela's a cold bitch. And the only reality I know is you. Don't tell me you doubt that."
"I don't," I say emphatically. "But, Damien, all the noise outside of us. I don't want to feel like we're living in a fantasy bubble, but sometimes I think that we are, and that reality keeps trying to break through. The trial. Stalker mail and texts. The press. And now your old girlfriends."
"Fuck them," he says.
"Damien, I'm serious."
"So am I," he says, his expression as intense as I have ever seen it. "At the end of the day, it's just you and me. We make our own reality, Nikki. And no one can take it from us."
Chapter Nine
As we head down in the elevator the next morning with the bellman and a cart full of luggage, I keep glancing back, unable to shake the feeling that I've forgotten something.
"I keep that room on a permanent lease," Damien says. "If you left something behind, the hotel will ship it to us."
"You own the room?" I don't know why I'm surprised; after all, he owns much of the known universe. And I was already aware that he keeps a permanent suite at the Century Plaza hotel for clients who travel to Los Angeles.
"Enough clients visit the Stark International office here to justify the expense." He speaks casually, as if it's no big deal that he leases one of the most expensive rooms at one of the most expensive hotels in Europe for three hundred sixty-five days out of the year. "If the maids find anything, the concierge will call our corporate liaison. Don't worry."
I nod, hoping there is no call--and then do a mental head-thwap as I realize what I've forgotten. "My phone," I say. "We do need to go back." I try to picture where I left it, but nothing comes to mind. Maybe it's charging on the bar?
"I still have it," Damien says, then pulls it from the leather messenger bag that is doubling for a briefcase.
"Oh." My stomach churns unpleasantly. I'd completely forgotten about my stalker text from last night, and I'm not overly thrilled with the reminder. "Were you able to learn anything?"
"Not yet. I forwarded it to my team. Hopefully they'll have news by the time we arrive back in the States. In the meantime, don't delete it."
"Okay," I say, although I'm not really keen on seeing that number pop up every time I open my text messages.
Since Damien had powered the phone down, I hit the button to wake it back up so that I can check my texts, emails, and voice messages. I don't expect there to be much--Ollie is here and knows I'm traveling--but Jamie or Evelyn or Blaine might have buzzed me, especially once they heard the news that Damien's case was dismissed.
Sure enough, I have an emoticon-filled text from Jamie consisting of balloons, confetti, and about a dozen smiley faces followed by CWTSY and another
round of balloons. I roll my eyes at her goofiness, but the truth is that I'm smiling. I text back that I can't wait to see her, either.
Evelyn and Blaine left an actual voice message telling me how much they're looking forward to our return, and that I should give Damien a hug from each of them. "And feel free to plant a kiss on him from me," Evelyn adds.
I also have two emails. The first is from my mother, and just seeing it makes me cringe. I have finally reached a point in my life where I don't feel the constant pressure of being under her thumb, and I know that I should simply delete the email and declare a victory for sanity. That, however, is one baby step too far. Instead, I move it unread to an archived folder. Someday I'll either delete it or read it; the only victory I can claim today is simply that I dealt with it.
The second email is much more pleasant. It's from Lisa, a woman I recently met, but who I'm hoping is going to land firmly on the "friend" side of the equation. I skim the message, and can't help but smile.
"Good news?" Damien asks.
"Maybe. It's from Lisa." I'm about to continue, but we've reached the lobby, and as we step out of the car into the open area, I see Ollie leaning against a wall, deep in an animated conversation with a lithe brunette. I tense, immediately wary. Ollie is finally engaged to his on-again-off-again girlfriend, Courtney, but he's not the most devoted fiance, as evidenced by his recent romp between the sheets with Jamie.
I relax a little when the girl shifts and I see her face; she's one of the associates at Bender, Twain & McGuire, and I crossed paths with her a few times during the whole trial prep period. I tell myself that she and Ollie are just friendly colleagues, then let out a barely audible, "Well, shit," when she reaches out and rubs his arm intimately before turning away from Ollie and heading toward the elevator bank.
"Talk with him later," Damien says, and I realize he's been watching me watching Ollie. "You'll want to cool down first."
I start to tell him that I don't want to cool down at all. What I want to do is chew out my horndog of a friend. But I know Damien is right; now is not the time, and I continue at Damien's side, following in the wake of the bellman and our luggage.
It's Ollie who changes the plan. Ollie, who must not realize what I saw when he hurries up to us. "Nikki," he says and pulls me into a hug. "You heading out today?"
"We are," I say. My voice is tight, and I know damn well that Ollie will pick up on that. He knows me too well.
"Right." He shoves his hands into his pockets. "So I'll see you on the flip side?"
"Sure," I say. "We'll do drinks."
"Hell, yeah, we will."
Silence hangs between us, awkward and full of ghosts from the past. I can't help but remember a time not too long ago when we couldn't stop talking once we got together. And God forbid we should go out for drinks. Invariably we'd lose track of the time and end up getting kicked out when the staff needed to shut the place down.
But those memories are shrouded and soft. Nothing like the sharp, dangerous reality that now fills the space between us.
I reach for Damien, and he squeezes my hand, giving me strength even before I have to ask for it.
I see something that might be regret flicker in Ollie's eyes before he turns his attention to Damien. "Congrats again, man. I'm really happy it worked out for you."
"I appreciate it," Damien says. "And thank you for all your hard work." There's tension in his voice, but sincerity, too, and for that I am glad. I don't expect miracles, but I also know that if Damien and Ollie can't find a way to coexist, then my friendship with Ollie will have no chance to heal.
We say our goodbyes and continue outside to the valet stand. "Maybe I was imagining it?" I say to Damien once we're safe outside. I'm talking about the girl, of course, and it's obvious that Damien has followed my thinking. I want to believe that it was all innocent, but there was a definite flirt vibe going on, and I have a feeling that if I'd gone to meet Ollie for a drink in his room one night, the odds were good I wouldn't have found him alone.
"You weren't," Damien says, "and it's going to bite him in the ass. Maybe not because of this girl, but because he's living in a fantasy world, and eventually reality is going to catch up to him."
"I know," I say. "Ollie's always been a master of denial."
The limo arrives and the valet holds the door open while the bellman moves to the end of the car to load the trunk with our luggage. Damien lingers to tip the staff, but I go ahead and get in, my mind still on what he said about reality. Because he's right. Eventually reality catches up with everyone. The only question is, can you survive when it does?
The moment Damien gets into the limo, I can tell that he knows what I'm thinking. His expression softens, and he settles in next to me, silently taking my hand. He doesn't say anything until we are off of the city streets and on the A9 heading toward the airport. The gap in the conversation doesn't matter, though. I understand exactly what he's talking about when he turns to me and says simply, "Different realities, Nikki. You and I are together, and we can withstand whatever the world throws at us."
I draw in a deep breath, forcing myself not to ask the question that seems lodged in my throat, begging for release: Are you sure? Can we survive? Can we really make it after the bubble bursts?
Damien goes on, either unaware of or ignoring my unspoken words that seem to me like such an elephant in the room. "Ollie has the chance to have what we have. To be part of something special. But he's scared and now he's sabotaging his own happiness." He reaches out and strokes my cheek with the back of his hand, the gesture so sweet I am certain that I will cry. "I'm not scared," he says. "Not about that. And neither are you."
I nod, because he's right. There are still a lot of things that I am afraid of, but being with Damien is not one of them.
"What did Lisa have to say?" Damien asks, and I have to once again marvel at how perceptive this man is. I am not afraid of being with Damien, but I still have sharp bouts of fear with regard to running my own business. And as a business consultant, Lisa is not only a friend, but also a potential colleague.
"She says one of her clients is moving to Boston and wants to sublet a space in Sherman Oaks at a pretty steep discount."
"That's excellent news," Damien says.
"Maybe," I say. "I'm still not sure I need it." My start-up business has been a frequent topic of conversation between Damien and me throughout our time in Germany. Not only did I legitimately want his thoughts--after all, who better to take business advice from than a self-made billionaire?--but talking about my entrepreneurial adventures kept the focus off the trial.
Damien is convinced that I should go ahead and set up shop somewhere and hire myself out as an app designer for small businesses while I work on larger projects. I see his point, but that doesn't mean I'm not nervous.
"At the very least, you should meet with her and talk about the possibility. She's sharp and has a good reputation and a solid client base. She can help you."
I make a face, but I know he's right. I know, because we already had this argument after he told me that he had his office run a background check on Lisa, just to make sure she was legit. I'd aimed a few choice curses in his direction and told him that I'd handle my own goddamned due diligence. He told me to say thank you for taking that burden off my shoulders.
The night had ended in a bath with candles, but that didn't mean I hadn't been irritated.
The bottom line, though, is that I like Lisa. The times we've talked, we've hit it off. And I'm new enough to Los Angeles to crave the addition of a few more friends to the small circle I've gathered since I've moved to LA. Resolved, I email back that I'd love to meet with her. Then I drop my phone in my purse and try not to hyperventilate.
Beside me, Damien laughs. "You did good," he says. "I'll even take you out to lunch to celebrate. How do you feel about fish and chips?"
"Fish and chips?"
"I need to make a stop in London."
"All right. Sofia?"
>
"Do you mind?"
"Of course not." I don't know much about Sofia other than that she had a rocky childhood, and that she and Damien and his friend Alaine were tight during his tennis days. I know that she's been in and out of trouble recently, and that Damien has been frustrated by her inability to get her shit together, as he puts it.
I also know that she was the first woman he slept with, but they've been only friends for a long time.
"Is she okay?" I ask.
"I don't know," he says, then runs his fingers through his hair. "She's missing again." He looks ripped, but he reaches for my hand, and I squeeze it tight.
"Whatever you need," I say. "Anytime, anyplace."
I have never been to London, and I can't say that I'm seeing much of it on this journey. We went straight from Damien's jet to his limo to his office. During the course of that ride, I saw traffic and people and buildings that are significantly older than any we have in either Texas or Los Angeles. But I didn't see the Tower Bridge or Buckingham Palace or even a British pop star. In a way, I'm glad. This is hardly a vacation stop. On the other hand, who knows when I'll be back this way again?
Now we're at the London office of Stark International. It's located in the Canary Wharf business district, and Damien's office takes up one half of the thirty-eighth floor. The building is ultra modern, as is the furniture. Damien spent most of the short plane ride at my side, organizing a plan for locating Sofia while I made some notes about a smartphone app I've been pondering and sent Jamie and Evelyn both emails telling them we were on our way home and mentioning that I am--gasp--seriously considering leasing office space.
Now, I'm alone. I stand idly by the window and stare out into this dreary, overcast day. I have a view of the Thames, but not much else, and even that famous river doesn't really draw my attention. My thoughts are twisting and turning when Damien comes back to his office, flanked by two efficient-looking women carrying electronic tablets and taking diligent notes.
He dismisses the one on the left and continues the conversation with the remaining woman. She's in her late fifties, tall and slim and with the look of someone very capable. He introduced me to her earlier as Ms. Ives, his permanent London assistant. As far as I can tell, one of her primary duties is acting as the liaison between Sofia's residential treatment facility and Damien.