Complete Me

  I force my expression to remain as bland as his. "Unless I was imagining all that just happened, I think it's fair to say that these panties don't fetter in the least."

  I step back, then run the tip of my forefinger lightly over the soft skin between my pubis and my thigh, tracing gently along the edge of that minute triangle of material. I aim my most sultry look at him. "Besides, what's the point of having rules if you don't break them on occasion?"

  "You make an interesting point." He looks me up and down, the slow inspection making my body tingle again. Then he moves to the far side of the dressing room and squats down to look at the contents of the canvas shopping basket. His back is to me, but he is at an angle, so I can see his muscular legs straining against the now-tight denim of his jeans. The material curves the cup of his rear, too, and I imagine that I have moved behind him. That I am lowering myself until my lips are pressed to the back of his neck, the short bit of hair that brushes his collar teasing my lips. I close my hands gently and let my fingertips graze my own palms as I imagine my hands cupping his rear, not just to balance myself, but because I am compelled to touch him. And because I want to turn him on.

  I swallow, lost in the fantasy, but not yet ready to move to him and make it reality. I am enjoying the anticipation too much, not to mention the decadent pleasure of watching Damien's body straining against that lucky, lucky denim.

  He lifts his hand, a lacy thong dangling from his finger like an enticement. "Interesting," he says, then repeats the process, pulling out the expensive scraps of silk and satin that constitute underwear and bras in all shapes and sizes. Some barely there. Some that create more cleavage than the law should allow. Some that would have my breasts spilling out over the tops. Some that, if the gleam in Damien's eye is any indication, are very intriguing indeed.

  He stands, a red thong and matching red push-up bra hanging from two extended fingers. "I think perhaps it's time to amend our deal, Ms. Fairchild. As much as I appreciate the possibilities associated with complete access, there is something to be said for the pleasure of the journey." He extends his empty hand to me. "Come here," he says, and I comply obediently.

  "I'll go with you anywhere," I whisper. "I'll do anything for you. You know that, right?"

  With a violence I'm not expecting, he tugs me to him, capturing me within the circle of his arms. We are tight together, my breasts against his chest, my nipples hard. I feel the press of his erection hot and hard against my very scantily clad body, and that rush of tactile pleasure is accompanied by an even greater one. The pleasure of knowing that I am his and that he is mine.

  He tilts his head so that his forehead presses gently against mine, then sighs deeply. "I thought you'd gone."

  I blink, confused, and ease backward, then wait a single heartbeat for him to lift his head and meet my eyes.

  "I woke up and you weren't there," he says in explanation. "I talked to Charles and he told me you'd come by. That he'd told you about the photos and videos." He shakes his head and laughs without humor. "I thought you were so disgusted by them that you'd left me."

  I look at him hard. "I wasn't the one who went away," I say, my voice level and firm. "You're the one who left. I stayed." I swallow and blink back tears. "I stayed because I knew you would come back to me."

  "I will always come back," he says, and in those simple words I hear both understanding and apology.

  I nod, then clutch his hand. "I didn't see the photos," I say. "But no matter what is in them, I would never have left you. I just thought you needed sleep." I look away, not meeting his eyes. Because the words that I am biting back are just too damn selfish. I didn't think you needed me.

  "I wanted you, Nikki," he says, as if in answer to my thoughts. "I wanted to pull you close and strip you naked. I wanted to tie you up and run my fingers over every inch of you. I wanted to bury my face between your legs and bring you to the brink over and over again, never quite letting you come."

  I swallow. I am suddenly very, very warm.

  "I wanted every sensation you experienced--every spark of pleasure, every hint of pain--to come from me. I wanted to fuck you until you begged me to stop and then I wanted to fuck you some more. Everything you felt, everything you wanted, everything you desired--I wanted it to be wrapped up in my touch, in my bed. I wanted to fuck you until there was nothing left but you and me. Until the whole goddamn world was erased."

  "Why didn't you?" My mouth is dry and I have to force the words out.

  He doesn't answer.

  I take a step closer, pushing through the thick, charged air that fills the space between us. "Whatever you need from me, all you have to do is take it. You know that."

  "I couldn't," he says, and his voice is harsh. "I couldn't bear to have you in my arms when those images were in my head."

  "I--oh." I am not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing. Just settle my cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat and the steady rhythm of his breath.

  After a moment, he continues, his voice eerily steady. "Those images are like scenes from a horror movie. They show what Richter did, and how he did it. They show degradation and they show pain, and I will never, ever put those images in your hands. I won't let you look at even one of them. Imagine what you want, but I don't want the reality of my past haunting your present the way they haunt mine."

  "All right," I say, because I don't want to see them any more than he wants to show them. I stand a bit straighter. "But, Damien, if it will help you, then show them to me. I can handle it."

  "No," he says with a slow shake of his head. "I don't want you to have to handle it. That's the horror of my past. But you . . . you're the reality of my present. You're the proof that I survived. The prize in the cereal box," he adds with an impudent grin, but it quickly fades. "Hopefully you won't see them anyway."

  "Why would I?"

  "Whoever sent that evidence to the court must still have copies." It is the bland, unemotional quality of his voice that tells me how much he hates that simple truism.

  "But surely that person will protect them, right? I mean, those pictures have existed for almost two decades. They only surfaced when you were in trouble."

  "In my experience," Damien says, "unearthed things have a tendency to remain unearthed."

  I have no counter to that. "Do you have any ideas who it was?"

  "No." The answer comes a little too quick.

  "There can't be that many people who know about--" I cut off my words. Though we are talking all around his abuse, I don't want to voice it. "Your father, maybe? He was desperate to keep you from being tried." Jeremiah Stark wasn't concerned about Damien's neck, but his own well-being. The end result, however, was the same.

  "It's possible," Damien says. It's clear he doesn't want to talk about this.

  "I just want it to be over for you," I say, more than happy to drop this topic for the time being. "You deserve happiness, Damien."

  "So do you," he says, looking at me with such intensity that it almost seems like he is imagining each of my scars in turn.

  "Then it's lucky we found each other," I say, because I don't want to think about the past that I have worked so long to leave behind. I'm only interested in the future with Damien.

  His hands slide over my back, then up under the flimsy outfit to caress my bare skin. Slow, heated caresses that go on and on until I just want to rip the damn nightgown off and feel his hands over every inch of me.

  "Do you know what I want right now?" he murmurs.

  "Probably the same thing I do," I say, then skip back out of the circle of his arms. "But we're still in a dressing room."

  He steps closer, his eyes darkening. "I believe I explained how much privacy a thousand euros can buy."

  "You explained very well," I concede. "But we have a lot of celebrating to do. And you deserve more than a fast fuck in a dressing room."

  "As it happens, it's not a fast fuck that I want."

  "Oh?" I ask innocently hooking
my arms around his neck. I press my hips against him and move in a lazy grinding motion. "What exactly do you want?"

  His hands slide slowly down over my ass, stilling me, but also pressing me up hard against him. I feel his erection straining against his jeans, hot and demanding. "You," he says simply. "I want you naked, Nikki. Naked and hot and wet for me. I want to hear you moan. Hell, I want to hear you beg. And I promise you, baby, there will be nothing fast about it."

  Chapter Six

  "There," he says, as soon as we are back in our suite. He is pointing to the area in front of the window, and I go without hesitation. The drapes are open, and the window of our fifth floor suite overlooks the Maximilianstrasse. "That's it," he says. "I want to watch as the sky darkens and the city lights rise behind you. I want to see the sunset reflected on your skin and the glitter of the nightlife shining in your hair."

  He strides toward me, all strength and power and a confidence that borders on arrogance. This is not the man who spent weeks at the mercy of the German court system only to have his freedom lobbed at him by a stranger. No, this is the man who built an empire. A man with strength enough to beat back the demons I saw this afternoon.

  I look at him and feel no chill lingering from the nightmarish shadows that obscured him from me. There is only Damien now. The man that I know--the man that I crave.

  This is the Damien who takes charge--who simply takes.

  Tonight, all I want is for him to take me.

  My body trembles as he approaches, his eyes never leaving mine. He reaches out, and his fingertips brush my neck, flicking lightly over the pearl necklace that I still wear. It is the slightest of contact, but it reverberates through me like an explosion.

  I suck in air and tilt my head to the side, elongating my neck for him. My breath is ragged, my skin on fire. He leaves a trail of goose bumps on my neck before his fingertips gently graze the weave of my dress along my shoulder, and then once again stroke my sensitive skin to travel down my bare arm.

  He breaks contact and steps away, and I want to weep from the loss.

  "Yes," he says, as if in answer to some question of his own. "This is how I want to see you, standing naked before the world. I want to look at you and know that you are mine."

  "You know I am." My words are soft, barely a whisper.

  "Say it," he says.

  "I'm yours," I say, because I mean it. More than that, I understand why he wants to hear it. He's taking back the control that had been wrenched from him--and he's taking it back through me.

  He moves his hand to the zipper at the back of my dress, then slowly tugs it down. Slowly, he brushes the dress off my shoulders. It falls to the floor, the circle of yellow like the petals of a flower. I am left in my newly purchased underwear. A demi-cup bra in a deep purple and matching thong panties. Damien looks me up and down, and there is no mistaking the heat in his eyes.

  "Come with me." He takes my hand and leads me a few steps farther to the window. It's not floor to ceiling, but it's close. We are right up against it. Another step and the window ledge would hit me just above the knees. Damien is behind me, his hands on my shoulders and the denim of his jeans rough and cool against my bare ass. In front of us, Munich is spread wide.

  Slowly, Damien reaches around and unfastens the front clasp of my bra then eases the straps off my arms. He drops the garment to the floor as I instinctively try to cover myself. "No," he says simply as he slides his arms down along mine, then holds me firmly at the wrists, my arms now at my sides.

  "But the window," I say, looking out at the stores and offices that rise around us. "The other buildings."

  "No one is watching. The glass is tinted, and there are no lights in here. No one can see."

  I relax infinitesimally.

  "But even if they could . . . " His voice trails off as he releases my wrists. His hands stroke my body, one trailing up until he finds my breast and the tight, puckered skin of my areola. The pad of his thumb flicks roughly over my nipple, and I gasp from the deep, decadent pleasure. His other hand slides down until his fingers sneak under the band of the thong to brush over my damp, trimmed pubic hair. He teases me, his fingers forming a V as he glides over my folds, coming so tantalizingly close to my clit that I want to cry out in frustration and beg him to please, just touch me.

  "What if that's what I wanted?" he whispers. He presses his lips to the back of my neck then lowers himself to trail kisses down my spine, leaving me shivering in the wake of his touch. The sun has dipped below the horizon, and the world outside is fast darkening, turning our window into a mirror. I meet my own eyes in reflection, and see my features soft with desire.

  "What if I want you naked before the world, your legs parted, your cunt wet for me?" He is behind me, his hands stroking the curve of my hips. His breath teases the small of my back as much as his decadent words tease my imagination. I have never fantasized about exhibitionism, but right now, I am having a hard time thinking of anything but Damien touching me, Damien fucking me. I don't give a damn about the windows, tinted or not. I don't care who sees, I only want to surrender to Damien's touch. His hands on me, his tongue stroking me, his cock deep inside me.

  "Damien--" The word feels wrenched from me.

  "Does it excite you?" he asks as he slowly stands, his body sliding against mine as he rises, the brush of his clothing rough against my skin. "Not knowing who might be watching, but knowing that I want you like this? That I want the whole goddamned universe to look down on us and know that no matter what, you belong to me?" He rests his left hand on my hip, his thumb hooked in the thong's band. The other hand brushes over my belly, then eases down under the triangle of silk again.

  I'm desperately wet, almost painfully turned on, and I silently pray for his touch, but once again it doesn't come. Instead, I hear only his words. "I want you to tell me, Nikki. Does it turn you on?"

  God yes. I have to fight to speak. "Keep going," I manage. "Touch me and see for yourself."

  I hear his smile reflected in his chuckle. His fingers brush my skin, but he's not going south. "Not unless I hear you say it."

  "Yes," I breathe.

  His lips are in my hair, and I feel the reverberation of his words as he whispers, "Me, too."

  I close my eyes, expecting his touch. Craving it. But still it doesn't come. Instead, I feel the brush of his fingers over the band of this brand-new thong--and then the pressure as he rips it at the back seam. I gasp--surprised, yes, but also aroused by the violence of the action and by the rush of cool air against my damp sex as he pulls the panties away.

  "What are you--?"

  "Shhh," he says. "Lean forward, hands on the window. No, don't argue. Beautiful," he adds when I comply, then punctuates his words by stroking my now completely bare ass. "Now spread your legs for me. Oh, God, Nikki," he groans. "Do you have any idea how much I want you?"

  "You have me."

  He slides his hands up over my hips, trailing up the curve of my waist. He presses his body against mine, his torso against my back and his hands upon my breasts. "I do," he says. "But I'm not taking you. Not yet."

  A tremor runs through me, part frustration, part anticipation. I am so hot, so ready, and I do not know what to expect or where he is taking this. I only know that I want to find out.

  He stands upright again, then circles me, finally stopping near my right hand, still splayed out against the window. "I like this," he says, reaching out to run his finger along the pearl necklace that is the only thing I still wear. "It is said that oysters are a potent aphrodisiac, but I think that pearls are equally enticing. It's rumored that Cleopatra crushed one and drank it in wine in order to render herself irresistible to Mark Antony. But I think I prefer them as an adornment. For that matter, I can think of a few other adornments that I would like to see."

  "Damien--" I stop myself because I don't know what I want to say other than to beg.

  "Stay put," he says. "Don't touch yourself. Don't put your legs together. You'll
come when I let you, Nikki, but not before. Break my rules, and I promise you won't like the punishment."

  I swallow and nod. "But where are you going?" I call as he disappears into the bedroom. I get no answer, and I close my eyes in frustration, hyperaware of every inch of my body. Of the dampness at the back of my neck along my hairline. Of the tiny hairs upon my skin, standing up as if electrified, caught up in this storm that is Damien. Mostly, I am aware of the aching in my cunt.

  I do not touch, though I desperately want to, and I am aware of every movement of my body, every brush of air. I can feel my pulse beating in my sex, and my muscles clenching with longing. I am need personified--and what I need is Damien.

  He is only gone for minutes, but it seems like I am waiting for hours, lost with my own reflection. A nude woman against a shiny surface, a dream world of city lights blazing behind her. I am like a woman from one of Blaine's paintings, forever captured by his brush in a state of arousal, never quite able to reach satisfaction.

  No, I think. Please don't let Damien be teasing me like that.

  When he returns, he has something in his hand. He sets it on the table behind me. I can't see what it is, but I think I hear the clink of metal upon metal.

  "Damien?" I ask, my voice wary. "What are you doing?"

  He comes around in front of me, then gently takes my hands off the glass, easing me back up straight. A slow grin lights his face, and I see both amusement and heat in those beautiful eyes. I expect his answer before he says it--"What I want, Nikki. Always, what I want."

  I lick my lips. "And what is that?"

  "To give you pleasure." He moves behind me, to the table, then returns with something in his hand. "Do you remember this?"

  He opens his hand to reveal a silver serpentine chain connected by two rings, each with two small metal balls on them. The balls pull apart, creating an opening, then snap back together when the pressure is released. They are nipple clamps, and I shiver from the memory of that exquisite bite of pain mixed with pleasure.

  He brushes his thumb over my now painfully erect nipple. "Oh, yes," he says. "I think you remember just fine."

  I moan as he slowly caresses my breast. "How did those get here?"

  His chuckle seems to roll over me. "It's been almost a month, Nikki. I had Gregory pack and ship a few things. Including the small leather case I keep in my closet."