“Very little about this entire day falls into the category of okay.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I rather enjoyed dancing with you.”
“Yes,” he says. “So did I. Come here.” I am already right beside him, but I slide closer and lean against him. His arm is draped over my shoulder and his fingers are idly stroking my arm. I slide down and put my head on his lap. I kick off my shoes and curl my legs up on the seat as Damien strokes my hair. Part of me wants to stay like that forever, warm and safe in Damien’s lap. But another part of me has questions—so many questions. I want to understand what Damien’s father was talking about—why he cares so much whether or not Damien endorses the tennis center. But I don’t want to ask—I want Damien to tell me because he wants me to know.
If you want her to stay, I wouldn’t tell her a thing.
I shiver. I can think of nothing so horrible that I would walk away from Damien. But is that because nothing exists that is so bad it could rip us apart? Or do I simply lack the imagination to think of it?
Damien holds me calmly for the short drive to the Tower apartment.
He remains coolly collected as Edward pulls into the parking garage beneath Stark Tower.
His composure doesn’t break during the ride either to the building lobby or from the lobby to the penthouse fifty-seven floors up that houses his private office on one side and his residential apartment on the other.
It is only once the doors to the apartment slide open and we have entered the residence that Damien’s equilibrium shifts and the facade of calm vanishes. There is something desperate in his eyes, and he grabs both ends of the scarf that is still draped around my neck. “What was it you said about tying you up?”
His words are as rough as the anger that still clings to him. “Yes,” I say, because I know he needs it. He needs to get lost in the passion that is always ready to burst between us. He needs to forget what just happened—the paparazzi, his father, Ollie, and even my own refusal to meet him here tonight.
He needs to do something about that tapestry of his that is coming undone.
He needs to be in complete control—and right then, I want nothing more than to surrender to him.
“Yes,” I repeat, my voice raw. “Yes, please.”
He uses the scarf to shift our position until my back is against the wall, and he is against me, and I am breathing hard, my body quickening with excitement and expectation. With one hand, he holds both ends of the scarf while the other hand strokes slowly down my body, over my breast, down my belly, over my hip. His touch is slow, the movements designed to make me melt. It’s working. My lips are parted, my skin hot and sensitive. If I was not already leaning against a solid structure with Damien keeping me upright, I think I would sink to the floor, my body too limp and malleable to hold myself up.
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.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I rather enjoyed dancing with you.”
“Yes,” he says. “So did I. Come here.” I am already right beside him, but I slide closer and lean against him. His arm is draped over my shoulder and his fingers are idly stroking my arm. I slide down and put my head on his lap. I kick off my shoes and curl my legs up on the seat as Damien strokes my hair. Part of me wants to stay like that forever, warm and safe in Damien’s lap. But another part of me has questions—so many questions. I want to understand what Damien’s father was talking about—why he cares so much whether or not Damien endorses the tennis center. But I don’t want to ask—I want Damien to tell me because he wants me to know.
If you want her to stay, I wouldn’t tell her a thing.
I shiver. I can think of nothing so horrible that I would walk away from Damien. But is that because nothing exists that is so bad it could rip us apart? Or do I simply lack the imagination to think of it?
Damien holds me calmly for the short drive to the Tower apartment.
He remains coolly collected as Edward pulls into the parking garage beneath Stark Tower.
His composure doesn’t break during the ride either to the building lobby or from the lobby to the penthouse fifty-seven floors up that houses his private office on one side and his residential apartment on the other.
It is only once the doors to the apartment slide open and we have entered the residence that Damien’s equilibrium shifts and the facade of calm vanishes. There is something desperate in his eyes, and he grabs both ends of the scarf that is still draped around my neck. “What was it you said about tying you up?”
His words are as rough as the anger that still clings to him. “Yes,” I say, because I know he needs it. He needs to get lost in the passion that is always ready to burst between us. He needs to forget what just happened—the paparazzi, his father, Ollie, and even my own refusal to meet him here tonight.
He needs to do something about that tapestry of his that is coming undone.
He needs to be in complete control—and right then, I want nothing more than to surrender to him.
“Yes,” I repeat, my voice raw. “Yes, please.”
He uses the scarf to shift our position until my back is against the wall, and he is against me, and I am breathing hard, my body quickening with excitement and expectation. With one hand, he holds both ends of the scarf while the other hand strokes slowly down my body, over my breast, down my belly, over my hip. His touch is slow, the movements designed to make me melt. It’s working. My lips are parted, my skin hot and sensitive. If I was not already leaning against a solid structure with Damien keeping me upright, I think I would sink to the floor, my body too limp and malleable to hold myself up.
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.”
