"Aha!" I aim a stern finger at him.
He laughs. "Fortunately, your massive consumption of Scotch saved me the trouble. You're not playing your best, Ms. Fairchild."
I raise my brows. "Have you considered that I'm just setting you up?"
"Are you? Well, that's interesting information." He nods at the cards I hold in my hands. "Let's see what you've got."
I lay my cards down, feeling smug. "A pair of kings, ace high."
"Not bad," he says. "Too bad I have the other three aces."
"You do not," I say, but he lays the cards down and, sure enough, two red and one back ace wink up at me.
"Off with it," he says.
I reach for the clasp at the front of my bra.
"Oh, no," he says, then makes a twirling motion with his finger. "The skirt. I'll get the zipper for you."
I scowl, but comply, turning around to give him access. He presses his palm against my skin, his hand curved to cup my waist. With the other hand, he slowly tugs down the zipper. "Up," he says, and I rise to my knees, then close my eyes and try not to tremble as his slowly eases the skirt down, his fingers grazing oh so softly on each bit of bare skin that he reveals during the process. "There you go," he says, as I twist around to sit back down, pulling my legs free from the skirt as I do.
I'm dressed now only in the tiny bra and even tinier panties. It's cool in the room--we've opened the door to the private patio--but my skin is burning. "Deal," I say, trying to control my breathing, because with each breath my breasts rise and fall, and with each motion my nipples brush the lace. The sensation is driving me crazy. It's rough and teasing and I can't help but imagine the light nip of Damien's teeth, the soft pressure of his mouth as he suckles me, the warmth of his hands as he cups my breasts. And the insistent press of his cock as he presses his body full against mine.
"Nikki."
"What?" I jerk my head up, reality returning. Considering the way Damien is looking at me, I think he knows exactly what I was thinking.
"Your cards."
I glance down and realize he's already dealt. "Oh. Right." I see the corner of his mouth twitch. "What?" I demand.
"I didn't say a thing," he says. "But if I had, I probably would have told you to move."
I tilt my head. "To move?" I'm sitting on my heels, my knees and thighs together.
"On your bottom," he says. "Your legs crossed."
"I--why?"
"Because I want to see you," he says.
I raise my brows. "Is that part of the game, Mr. Stark?"
"It is now. I want to see how wet you are. I want to know how much it turns you on sitting here across from me, slowly losing bits of your clothing, becoming more and more open to me. And all the while knowing that soon--very soon--I'm going to bury myself in you."
"Oh." My heart stutters in my chest, and I'm certain he can see the beat of my pulse in my neck.
"Now, Nikki," he says. "You know the rules."
"Is that a command, Mr. Stark?" My sex feels swollen and I am desperately wet. He must know it, but soon he will also see it.
"It most definitely is."
"So if I don't, I'll be punished?"
His lips twitch. "I don't think you'll like the punishment I'd render tonight."
"No? Why? What would you do?" I can imagine the sting of his hand upon my ass. The thrill of a cat-o'-nine-tails upon my sex. I try to imagine what naughty treat he could have in mind, but my mind isn't working particularly well at the moment. I am needy and hot, and not just because of the Scotch or because I'm half naked. It's because of Damien. Because he does this to me. Because I want him right now. "What would you do?" I repeat.
"It's what I wouldn't do," he says, and that's when I get it. Disobey, and he won't touch me at all.
"That punishes us both," I say.
"Rules are rules," he says. "And I can be very strong when I want to. But if you think I'm bluffing . . . " he adds, glancing at the cards as if in illustration.
I get the message. I've been losing at poker all night. Do I really want to lose at this, too?
I don't. I shift my position so that my legs are in front of me. Slowly, I draw in my feet and spread my legs until I'm sitting cross-legged in front of him, my sex wide open. I can hide nothing now, and the truth is that I don't want to.
I follow the line of Damien's gaze to the damp spot on my thong. The telltale sign of just how wet--just how incredibly soaked with desire--that I am for him. Slowly, I lift my eyes to his. I see the heat, and feel a corresponding power. He may be the one making the rules, but I'm the one making him a little crazy.
I arch back a bit, my hands behind me for support.
"I like the view," Damien says. "I like seeing how much you want me. How wet you are for me."
"Am I?" I say innocently. I shift my weight to one arm, then lift my other hand. I trail my fingers up my own thigh, then trace it lightly over the silk of the thong.
"Jesus, Nikki," Damien says, his voice ragged. But I show no pity. I run my fingertip along the side of the thong. I tilt my head up and meet Damien's eyes. And then, slowly and deliberately, I slide my finger under the scrap of material and into my very wet, very swollen cunt. I gasp from the rush of pleasure as a shudder runs through my body, as if it's a preview of an explosion to come.
And then, with Damien's eyes still on me, I draw my finger up to my mouth and taste my own arousal. "Yes," I murmur. "You're right. I'm very, very wet for you."
"Fuck poker," Damien growls, sweeping his arm over the bedclothes and knocking the cards to the ground even as he grabs my thighs and tugs me toward him. The motion counterbalances me, and I fall backward so that I end up flat on my back, my legs spread, and Damien between them.
"Are you conceding the game, Mr. Stark?" I ask, my voice full of laughter.
"I am," he says.
I raise myself upon my elbows. "I guess that means you lose."
"No," he says as he eases himself up over my body, then uses two fingers to flip open the clasp of my bra. "I assure you it means that I win."
His mouth closes over my breast even as his hand slides down to stroke my clit through the soaking wet silk. The sensations coursing through me are incredible, a flurry of sparks originating from his hand and from his mouth, and I arch up, lost in the violent storm that Damien is creating inside me.
"You're wrong, Mr. Stark," I say, struggling to form words while I still have the power. "Tonight, we both win."
I wake to a perfect morning. The man beside me. The sunshine streaming through the open door that leads to the master bedroom's private patio. The light breeze blowing in from over the lake. The smell of pine and--
I frown and draw in another deep breath. The smell of what?
"Damien, wake up." I shake his shoulder. "Either we really set the sheets on fire, or something out there is burning."
He is up immediately, grabbing a pair of jeans off the floor and heading toward the door. I pull on a robe and follow him so closely that I almost slam into him when he stops in the now-open doorway. "It's not a fire," he says. Now that I can smell it better, I agree. It's an almost sickly sweet smell, like Christmas fudge that has burned to the bottom of the pan.
"I think I know what it is," I say, then lead the way to the kitchen, where Jamie is frantically flipping pancakes on a griddle. She looks up at us, her expression a little bit wild, a little bit contrite.
"Sorry! I thought I'd make breakfast, but--" She indicates the stove and nearby counter as if that's all she needs to say.
I force myself not to laugh. "I don't think that pancakes are supposed to be served blackened," I say, deadpan.
She tosses a dish towel at me. "I had a little trouble incorporating the chocolate chips."
Damien pours himself a cup of coffee and leans against the counter. "As they say, it's the thought that counts. So I hope you don't mind if I just think about eating those."
Jamie smirks and looks between the two of us. "Great. I'm trapped i
n the mountains with a couple of comedians."
"Your choice," Damien says in his corporate-problem-solving voice. "We either clean up and start over, or I'll take you ladies out to breakfast."
"You're out of chocolate chips," Jamie says. She grabs up the plate of burnt discs that bear no resemblance to pancakes and tosses them in the trash. "Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change."
It actually takes us thirty to get out the door, because Damien makes the mistake of telling us that the restaurant not only makes fabulous waffles, but is also located in Arrowhead Village, an outdoor shopping center with both regular stores and high end outlets. And, obviously, neither Jamie nor I can properly shop if we're not properly dressed.
Damien, of course, is ready in five minutes, decked out in faded jeans and a short-sleeved linen shirt over a plain cotton tee. His hair is vaguely mussed, as if he's been standing in the wind. He looks sexy as hell--like a guy who just stepped off the pages of an ad for men's cologne.
"He cleans up well," Jamie says, with a deliberately lascivious gleam in her eye.
"He does," I say, moving between them and hooking my arms through theirs. "And he's mine."
As the crow flies, it isn't far to the village. Since we are not crows, however, we have to deal with the twisty, turny, tiny streets, and it takes about half an hour. I don't mind. The area is charming, filled with A-frame houses tucked into the mountainside and spectacular views that take your breath away. The village is located on the lake, so technically we could have taken one of the boats moored at Damien's dock. The restaurant itself--The Belgian Waffle Works--sits right on the water, with a huge patio of outdoor seating. I catch a whiff of batter cooked to a crispy golden brown as we approach, and breathe in deep.
"That's more what I was going for," Jamie admits. "But, hey, you can still thank me. If I hadn't completely trashed breakfast, we wouldn't have a shopping morning."
"We're deeply grateful," Damien says, sliding his arm around my waist.
Thirty minutes later, I'm even more grateful, because we're not only seated on the patio with a view of the water, but we each have a plate overflowing with a giant waffle, eggs, and enough bacon to feed a small army.
"I'm going to fall into a food coma," I protest.
"We'll work it off by walking the shops," Jamie announces. She turns to Damien, her smile wide. "You really are awesome, you know. Thanks for inviting me. I was having a shit week."
"Anytime," he says, then leans over to give her a light kiss on her cheek.
She fans her face, making me laugh.
"Hang on, you two." I pull out my iPhone and motion for them to scoot their chairs closer together, then take a couple of snaps. "I'd take some of the view, too, but the phone won't do it justice."
"I think I can assure you we'll be back," Damien says.
"Or you can just buy a new camera," Jamie says. "For that matter, get one for each of his houses. That should ensure that Leica never goes out of business, right?"
"Not a bad idea," Damien says, with a playful gleam in his eye. "I like the idea of spreading you around all my properties. Hell, I like the idea of you naked in all my properties."
My face heats, and I widen my eyes and shoot a glance at Jamie, who has leaned back in her chair with a whoop.
"Don't you guys ever give it a rest?" she asks.
"Not really," Damien says, surprising me by pulling me to him and planting a bone-melting kiss.
"God," Jamie says. "I am so freaking jealous. Do you have a brother?"
"Afraid not."
"Figures," Jamie says as Damien slides his chair closer to mine and hooks his arm around me. I lean against him, wishing things could always be this calm, this happy.
"It sounds sappy as shit, but you two know how lucky you are, right?"
"Yes," Damien says sincerely. "We know."
"Good," she says, then sighs deeply. "Damn, but I needed this."
"Why didn't you tell me about getting fired from the commercial?" I ask.
She shrugs, looking embarrassed. "You were a little preoccupied, and it's not like there was anything you could do, especially not from Germany." Jamie had recently been cast in a national commercial, but before shooting began she started dating her co-star, an up-and-comer named Bryan Raine. When that ended badly, Raine apparently decided that Jamie's commercial career needed to, as well.
"There's something I can do," Damien says.
She shakes her head firmly. "No, you helped me get the job in the first place. That was more than enough. They paid me for the gig anyway--they had to the way the contract was written--so I'm good. I just need to think about how I'm going to get my shit together."
"You will," Damien says.
Jamie reaches across the table and takes both our hands. "Thanks. Really."
"You're welcome," I say. "And you know I love you, right?"
"What's not to love?" Jamie asks with the kind of shit-eating grin that tells me that the morning melancholy has passed.
She tightens her grip on my hand before letting go. "You know people are staring at us, right?"
I glance around and see that she's right. Not everybody, but there are more than a few people sharing the patio with us who look guiltily away when my gaze sweeps over them. "It comes with the territory," I say, cocking my head toward Damien.
"Well, it'll be my first time in the tabloids," she says. "Guess that means I've finally made it despite the stupid commercial."
"What are you talking about?"
"Damien Stark in a threesome, of course. It'll be all over the Internet by morning, don't you think?"
I do a face-palm. "Jesus, Jamie, do you think you could say that a little louder? Or better yet, not at all?"
"I'm joking," she says, and I know her well enough to know that it's true. I catch Damien's eye and see the tiniest shake of his head. I get the message--he's telling me to keep my mouth shut. Jamie may think that she's joking, but she hasn't lived with the paparazzi like Damien has. Or, for that matter, like I have. Depending on who has seen the three of us together, the bullshit story that she just suggested isn't outside the realm of possibility.
Well, great. I take a deep breath and tell myself not to worry about it.
"I want another coffee," I say, both because it's true and because I want to change the subject. "And then I think it's time to shop."
Chapter Thirteen
"I like the cyan one," I tell Jamie, who is debating between a traditional tan leather backpack and one dyed the color of the sky.
"Not too loud?"
"For you? Nothing's too loud."
She smirks, but puts back the tan one. "Okay. I shouldn't, but I'm going for it. I mean, I did just get paid. And I ought to get at least one nice thing out of that damn commercial."
Since I agree, I don't try to talk her out of it. I've known Jamie a long time, and with her, retail therapy goes a long way.
We're inside a specialty leather goods store, and although Damien started out by teasing me about all the sensual possibilities inherent in the collection of belts hanging on the men's side of the store, he has since stepped outside to take a call. I head out to find him, signaling to Jamie who is at the counter waiting her turn to pay.
It takes a minute to spot him, but I finally see him on a bench near a grassy area where some weary parents have settled on the lawn with their kids. He holds up a finger when he sees me, then points to his earpiece. I nod, then sit quietly beside him, enjoying the late summer afternoon.
"No," Damien's saying, "you need to understand me. This is my top priority. I want the entire thing gone over with a microscope. Whatever there is to learn, you learn it. You follow every thread, you go down every rabbit hole. Are we clear? Good. Call me in a few hours with an update. Yes, a few hours. Fine. That's one thing settled then. What about the gate? Can we speed up the timetable on that? Well, that's good news at least. Get that wrapped up today and make sure everyone has access. All right. Yes. I'll speak to you l
ater."
He ends the call and looks at me, his mouth curving into an automatic smile. If I didn't know him so well, I'd believe that everything was business as usual. But I do know him well, and I can see the hint of worry in his eyes.
"Something wrong?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "Just the ins and outs of running the universe. I've been somewhat absent for the last few weeks. A few things have slipped through the cracks."
"I don't see how," I quip. "You had Stark Central set up in the hotel."
"It's nothing," he repeats, but I know better.
"You're worried," I say.
I can almost see the denial rise on his lips, and I wonder if I need to remind him of the talk we had on the jet. But then he seems to think better of it. "I am."
"Then I know it's not business. You don't worry about business," I add in response to his querying look. "You just take charge."
"I didn't realize I was so transparent."
"Only to me," I say. "So what is it, Damien? Is it Sofia? Is it that motion to release the photos? Has something happened?"
He leans back against the bench and tilts his face up to the sky. After a moment, he plucks his sunglasses from where they are hooked on the collar of his T-shirt and puts them on. "There are just a few things I need to follow up on," he says, turning his head so that he is facing me. "Business about which I'm not worried, but which does require my attention."
"I see," I say, though what I should do is call him out for bullshit.
"And, yes," he adds gently. "I'm still worried about Sofia."
This time, I know that it is the truth. I also know that it's an apology.
"You'll find her. Will you tell me as soon as you learn something new?"
His answer comes immediately. "Of course."
My chest feels tight and I am suddenly aware that I've been holding my breath. It's only then I realize how much had been riding on that one simple question.
Can't you tell me what's going on? I'd begged him in Germany. Can't you talk to me? No, he'd answered.
Today, he'd said yes.
Relieved, I lean against him, sighing gently as his arm goes around me and basking in the relief and the knowledge that at least for now, I feel safe and connected.
Soon, Jamie joins us, a shopping bag dangling from her arm. "Y'all worn out already?"
"I'm afraid I need to head back to the house," Damien says. "But you two can continue shopping."