I whimper a bit, and keep my eyes on Damien.
Slowly, he peels the jeans off. They're slung low on his narrow hips, and as I follow that disappearing trail of hair down to where it nestles against the base of his cock, I have to silently curse Damien. I want to touch him. Hell, I want to suck him. But I am trapped. Trapped and turned on and so goddamned needy.
He is naked now and fully erect, hot and huge, and my sex clenches in anticipation. He moves back to the bed, and I feel the mattress shift as he gets on behind me. His hands are warm upon my hips, and when he strokes the tip of his cock down the crack of my rear, I have to bite the comforter in order to anchor myself as bone deep shudders rake through me. Not an orgasm--but close enough that I am teetering on the very edge of desperation.
"That's it, baby," he says as his hands stroke my back, and the hard length of his cock continues to tease my ass.
My skin is hot and blood pounds through me. I can feel my pulse in my throat, in my temples, in my heavy, swollen breasts. Most of all, I can feel the blood surging in my sex. Pounding me, teasing me. Making me want so much more that I wiggle my ass shamelessly and beg Damien to please take me now.
"Not just yet," he whispers, and it is all I can do not to scream with frustration. He leans closer, his voice a low, sensual tease. "Do you remember what you told me once? About how you own a very nice vibrator?"
All the blood that was pounding in my cunt now seems to rush to my cheeks.
Considering everything I've done with Damien--not to mention everything he's done to me--I don't know why the fact that I own a vibrator should raise modesty flags, but it does.
"Nikki?" He rubs his palms over my rear, then slides his hand down to stroke my sex. Slowly, he slips one finger inside me, then another. My body responds greedily, the muscles of my vagina tightening around him, my hips thrusting, my breathing coming fast and shallow. And then, suddenly, his hand is gone, and there is nothing. Just that electrical charge that I always feel when Damien is near. But there is no touch, and I close my eyes and whimper in frustration.
His low chuckle rises from behind me, and I do not doubt that he understands the extent of my discomfiture. "Do you want me to touch you, Nikki? My palm stroking you? My fingers filling your cunt? Do you want me to spread you wide and thrust inside you, our bodies moving together, my hand on your clit stroking and teasing until we both explode?"
I bite my lower lip, determined not to answer aloud. He already damn well knows what I want.
"Then tell me where, baby. Just tell me where."
"Drawer," I manage. "Bedside drawer."
He is back quickly, and he has the small pink vibrator in his hand. He turns it on, and I hear the familiar buzz, then feel the decadent vibration as he trails it over my ass cheeks, along my spine, down the back of my thigh. Slowly he slides the vibrator over my sex, and I close my eyes, letting the pleasure roll through me. "Is this how you use it?" he asks. "Stroking your clit? Making it hard and hot and ready? Or like this?" he asks, slipping it easily into my so-soaked sex. "Or maybe both?" He moves the toy in a slow in-and-out motion, but angles the device so that with each thrust, the shaft brushes my clit, the vibrations enough to send tremors through me, but the sensation not lasting long enough to let me come.
"I--yes," I say, because I'm having a hard time remembering the question.
He slides the vibrator deep inside me, then holds it there. I bite my lower lip as pleasure builds at my core, then starts to roll out in slow, languid waves. "I don't like you saying no to me," he says.
"If this is my punishment, I think I may have to say it more often."
"Mmm." It's not even a word, but it holds all sorts of promises--and punishments--and when I feel his other hand, slippery with lube, slide up between the cheeks of my rear, I can't help the frisson of desire and trepidation that shoots through me.
"Damien," I say. "What are you doing?"
"Fucking you," he says, as he teases the pucker of my ass with his well-lubed thumb. He stretches me even as he keeps up the erotic rhythm of the vibrator inside my sex. I feel the head of his cock pressing against me, then the pressure and bite of exquisite pain as he thrusts inside. He waits, letting my body acclimate to his thickness, to the way he's filling me so deliciously and completely. I am completely exposed to him, completely used by him--and so desperately excited by him.
Slowly, he begins to thrust, matching the strokes of his cock with the motion of the vibe. Deeper and deeper, each stroke filling me, teasing me. His hand brushes my clit as he moves, his other anchoring me with a firm hand on my hip. "You're so hot," he says. "So wet, so goddamned tight around me."
"Harder," I say, wanting him to take me even further--all the way to the edge. "More."
I can tell by his low, animal groan that my words have excited him even more.
And then the power of reason leaves me. He is pounding into me, and my shoulders shift almost painfully on the bedclothes. I can't hold on--can't anchor myself, can't adjust to accommodate my own pleasure. I am Damien's, to use as he wants, and it is that single thought that fills my head when Damien's hand closes tight upon my hip and he slams hard against me, coming so powerfully inside me.
The shudders of his body crash through me and that spins me over the edge. Pleasure and pain and need and hunger slam together at my core, sending me shooting off into space, with Damien's name upon my lips.
When the tremors stop, he gently unties me, then strokes my body, easing tight muscles and setting my skin afire again. Somehow, I end up on my back with Damien hovering over me, his fingers playing upon my skin, his expression one of exquisite tenderness.
I can almost taste his strength and control, and I feel safe and warm and loved, as if there is nothing in the world that can touch us. Nothing that can harm us.
But even as that thought seems to hang in the air, the shrill crash of glass shatters the night--followed by the irate howl of one very pissed off cat.
Chapter Fifteen
The rock that smashed through the curtained window near the front door is painted black with the exception of four white letters that have been stenciled in block letters on the smooth surface:
SLUT
I stand about two feet from the thing, my feet in flip-flops, my entire body trembling. This is not just a piece of paper. This is more. This has crossed a line and as I dig my fingernails into my palms, I am suddenly, acutely aware of just how fragile my grip on control has been.
The rock on the floor seems to goad me, but I am not touching it. Not because I know that the police will want to check it for fingerprints, but because of the vaguely superstitious feeling that if I do, something horrible will be transferred from it to me. As if it is some sort of contaminant that has managed to enter my world, and the best thing I can do is run from it.
That's not what I need to do, of course. What I need to do is fight.
But how the hell do you fight what you can't see?
As if in answer, Damien eases my clenched fist open and twines his fingers with mine. I hold tight, letting his touch calm me. Sticks, stones, gossip--I will weather it all if he is at my side.
Right now, he is on the phone with the head of his security team. The police have already been called, but there's no way that Damien will leave this to them. He finishes the call, hangs up, and turns that laser-like focus on me.
He lifts our joined hands. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," I say, then repeat the word for emphasis. "Yes, I'm fine. Now, I'm fine."
His eyes search mine, as if he's looking for the message under my words. For a moment, I don't understand what it is that's bothering him. Then I realize I am standing in a spread of shattered glass. I close my eyes. I'd been too focused on the rock earlier. And then Damien had taken my hand. But if he hadn't, I know I would have felt that familiar compulsion, and those shards would have been nothing more than glittering temptation.
"I'm fine," I repeat firmly, and squeeze his fingers. "I have you
."
"You do," he says, and though his eyes are soft, his tone is businesslike. "I'll give you the choice of Malibu or downtown, but until we catch whoever is doing this, you are staying with me. And that is not a subject that is open to debate any longer."
Since I'm not an idiot, I nod agreement. I meant what I said earlier, but this has crossed the line into actual danger. And I'm not risking my safety on a point of honor.
"I'd rather stay in Malibu," I admit. "But there's no furniture." The house was barely finished before we left for Germany, and I assume the pieces he'd rented for the party honoring Blaine and the reveal of my portrait have already been returned to whatever warehouse they came from.
He nods toward the bed. "I'll have it brought back," he says. "And I'll have Sylvia arrange to rent enough furniture to make the rest of the house livable." He pulls me close for a soft kiss. "We can decorate slowly, and as we find pieces we like, we'll kick the rented pieces out on their asses."
I roll my eyes, but I can't help but smile. I had almost come undone when Damien had told me that he wanted us to furnish the Malibu house together. I don't want to lose that because some asshole is throwing rocks at me. Damien, of course, understands that without me having to tell him.
"What about Jamie?" he asks. "Is she staying with us, or are we getting her a hotel?"
I slide into his arms, suddenly overwhelmed and grateful and so full of love for this man I'm not sure that I can stand on my own. "Thank you," I whisper. "Knowing Jamie, she'd love to stay at the Malibu house."
"I'll have Sylvia get a key and the security code to her in Arrowhead, and send someone over here to pack some of Jamie's things. She can go straight to Malibu when she returns."
"Thank you," I say again.
"What else do you need?"
I move out of his arms and go sit on my sofa. "Can you arrange to just have all this be over?"
"I wish I could," he says, dropping down beside me.
The truth is, I am scared. But I don't want to show it. I know Damien will feel responsible. He's not, of course. That honor belongs to whatever psychopathic bitch--because I am just certain it's a woman--has decided to paint a bull's-eye on my size eight ass.
"Maybe it's Carmela," I say.
"Not her style," Damien says, then adds, "but I have my people looking anyway."
"You've been keeping me out of the loop." I'm not accusing, simply stating a fact. And to be honest, I haven't really wanted to think about it. But I no longer have the cushion of the Atlantic Ocean and all of Western Europe and the entire staff at the Kempinski to separate me from reality. Now, I know that whoever is harassing me is here to stay, and if I don't focus on it--if I don't wonder and think and watch my own back--then I'm no better than those idiot girls in movies who go up the stairs in scary houses, even though they know damn well the killer is waiting for them.
This is reality, I think. And whether I like it or not, it's forcing its way into our lives.
"I didn't see the point of burying you in this crap if we didn't know anything."
I cock my head. "You're protecting me again."
"I am," he says. "And as I believe I already explained in rather intimate detail, I don't intend to stop. Do you have a problem with that, Ms. Fairchild?"
"Only if you're keeping me out of the loop to do it," I say. "So what haven't you told me?"
"Not much," he says, and I can hear the frustration in his voice that stems from that simple fact.
"Start with the painting. Have you learned anything about who leaked the story that I'm the model? Or that you paid me so much? Because that first letter came about that time, so I don't think it's a stretch to assume it's the same person."
"I happen to agree with you," he says. "And the short answer is no, we haven't found anyone."
"And the longer answer?"
"Will have to wait." He points to the broken window and the two men who are passing in front of it. "My team."
We meet them at the door, but they choose not to come in until after the police arrive. Instead, they go back outside to canvass the area, pull the feed from the newly installed camera, and do whatever it is security guys do when they're on the case.
"The longer answer?" I press as soon as they're gone.
"We have a few leads. Arnold--he's the investigator I keep on retainer--recently got copies of some security footage from an ATM on Fairfax."
I shake my head, clueless.
"That ATM happens to be across the street from a coffee bar where our intrepid reporter has a habit of meeting with his sources."
"Wow," I say, impressed. Damien had identified the original reporter who broadcast the story a while back, but the reporter had refused to reveal his source.
"It's going to take a while. The camera's focus is concentrated on a certain perimeter. But Arnold thinks he has a way to pop the focus on the background activity."
"That will take time," I agree. "Especially since we don't know what day he might have met with the source."
"Unfortunately, you're right," Damien says. "But we have a rough time frame, and at the very least he can start pulling prints and getting them to me. With luck, there will be someone I recognize."
"Shouldn't I look, too?"
"You should," he says. "But the odds are good that whoever is doing this is trying to get to me. I have Ryan's team investigating the players in a few particularly contentious deals I have brewing," he adds, referring to his security guys.
"Distract you by harassing your girlfriend, and maybe you won't be such a hard-ass in negotiations?"
"Something like that."
"It might not be business," I say. "You've slept with a lot of women, Damien. Even if you weren't serious about them, that doesn't mean they weren't serious about you. And one of them might be the jealous type."
"Agreed. And we're pursuing that avenue, as well."
"What about the anonymous letter that came to Stark Tower? Or the text I got in Munich?"
"Nothing yet," Damien says. "But we haven't given up." He glances at his watch, then he pulls out his phone and makes a call. "Anything?" he says, then frowns as the person on the other end speaks. "Good thinking," he finally says. "That just might work out well for us."
"That was Ryan," he says to me after he ends the call. "The cameras at the entrance and the parking garage caught our culprit. Tall, wiry. Completely covered in a black hoodie and sunglasses. Kept his or her head down, but Ethan says the gait looks to be male, and quite possibly a teenager."
"A teenager? But--"
"I'm guessing someone hired him. Our perp loiters around the convenience store, asks a kid if they'd like to earn a few extra bucks."
"Oh." It makes sense.
"Fortunately, there are cameras in strip malls. We might get lucky."
I nod. It's a solid plan, but I'm not holding my breath.
"I'm going to assign someone from my security team to you."
My head snaps up. "The hell you are. I'm not living my life under surveillance."
"It's necessary."
"You don't have the Secret Service following you around." It's one thing to stay with Damien, to take reasonable precautions with my life. It's something else entirely to suddenly live in a glass jar like a politician or a celebrity.
"I have a team available when I need them. But there's no indication I'm in danger."
I start to say that I'm not in danger, either. But considering I'd just agreed to move into Damien's house because of flying rocks, I can't really backtrack now. As much as I don't want some dude in a black suit with an earpiece monitoring my every move, I also don't want to be stupid about this.
"Nikki," he says gently. "Do you think I could survive if something happened to you?"
I draw in a breath because I know how he feels. If something happened to Damien, I am certain that I would shrivel up and die.
"All right," I say. "But not someone who flanks me, and not an obvious tail. But if you want to have som
eone hang out at the office if I end up renting it, I won't object. And I'm guessing you already have access to that tracking device we had installed in the car."
"I could access it," he says. "But not without some trouble. I'd rather install something I can monitor openly."
"Done," I say.
"And your phone," he says.
I frown. "What about my phone?"
"I want to be able to track you with it. There are apps that will allow me to do that. I'm going to install one."
"Just like that? No 'Mother May I'?"
"No," he says and holds his hand out for my phone.
I hand it over.
He downloads the app, fiddles with the settings, then gives it back to me.
The he takes his own phone out of his back pocket and repeats the process. A moment later, my phone buzzes. I glance at it, open the new app, and see a red dot indicating that Damien is right there in my apartment. "So you'll never lose me, either," he says.
"Oh." I hold tight to my phone, still warm from his hand, and suddenly I'm speechless. Maybe it's the stress of the evening, maybe it's hormonal, but for some reason, adding that tracker to my phone is about the most romantic thing I can think of. "Thank you," I whisper.
"I'm never letting you go, Nikki," he says, taking my hand and pulling me close.
"I'd never forgive you if you did."
The next morning I stand transfixed as Lisa spreads her arms wide to indicate the modest office space. "So?" she asks. She's petite, but so poised that she seems to fill the room anyway. "What do you think?"
"I love it," I say. The space comes furnished, and apparently the owner of Granite Investment Strategies has excellent taste. Not only is the desk large enough to spread out half-a-dozen projects, but it's also sleek and modern with enough whimsy to be fun, but not so much that it lacks professionalism. The walls are bare, but that should be easy enough to fix.
The love seat is a bonus. The space is small enough that it would have made sense to only have the two molded plastic guest chairs. But the original tenant had managed to work the space well, and the small sofa that sits against the far wall seems to pull the room together instead of overwhelming the space.