I think the last part, but I don’t say it out loud. Instead, I shrug, a little embarrassed, because I have just spilled so many things. I feel vulnerable and fragile, and I do not like feeling that way. And so I wait for him to say something to calm me.
It takes a moment for those words to come, and when they do, they surprise me. “Come with me,” he says with an enigmatic smile. He holds out his hand, then leads me to a reading area tucked away against the east wall. It’s the most private area of the mezzanine, and there is no line of sight to the third floor. It is dark here, the only illumination coming from the twinkling lights upon the railing.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he pulls me to the wall, then flips a switch. Immediately, soft light fills the long, glass-topped display case in front of us. There are only two things inside, as if this case is meant for treasures, and only two have been located.
They are battered copies of Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles, both by Ray Bradbury. I’m confused, but I trust that Damien has a purpose.
“Bradbury’s one of my favorite writers,” he begins.
“I know.” He’s told me about his love of science fiction as a child. In a way, it was his weapon against his father, his coach, and his life. I understand; how can I not when I’d relied on weapons of my own?
“He lived in Los Angeles, and one day I heard that he was going to be signing books at a store in the Valley. I begged my father to take me, but he’d scheduled an additional practice with my coach, and neither one of them was willing to cut me a break.”
“What did you do?”
His grin is slow and wide. “I went to the signing anyway.”
“How old were you?”
“Eleven,” he says.
“But how did you get there? Didn’t you live in Inglewood?”
“I told my dad I was going to the courts, hopped on my bike, and headed for Studio City.”
“At eleven? In Los Angeles? It’s a miracle you survived.”
“Trust me,” he says dryly. “The trip was much less dangerous than my father when he learned what I’d been up to.”
“But that’s an insane distance. You rode all that way?”
“It’s only about sixteen miles. But with the hills and the traffic,it took me longer than I thought it would. So when I realized that I’d be late, I hitched a ride.”
My chest is tight, my mother’s warning to avoid strangers and never, ever, ever pick up hitchhikers ringing in my ears. I am terrified for the boy he was, taking horrible chances because the father that he was supporting was too much of a shit to grant him the one small request that could make him so happy.
“It was close,” he says. “But I made it on time.”
Obviously I already know that he survived the journey, but even so, my shoulders sag with relief. “And you got the books,” I say, with a nod to the case.
“Unfortunately, no. I got there during the scheduled time for the signing, but they were all out of books. I decided to ask Bradbury to sign a bookmark instead, so I told him my story and he told me he could do better than a bookmark. Next thing I know, his driver is putting my bike in the trunk of his car and we’re off to his house. I spent three hours chatting with the man in his living room, then he let me pick two books off his shelf, signed them, and had his driver take me home.”
I feel ridiculously weepy at this story and blink back the threatening tears. “And your dad?”
“Never told him. He was pissed as hell, but all I confessed to was taking my bike and riding along the beach. I paid for it,” he adds darkly, “but I had the books. I still have the books,” he adds, nodding toward the case.
“You do,” I say. “Bradbury sounds like a really nice man.”
“He was.”
“This is a wonderful story,” I say, and I mean it. These are the kinds of tidbits from his life that I want inside me. Bits of Damien, to fill me up. “But I’m not sure why you’re telling it to me now.”
“Because the things in this house mean something to me. Not the props I had brought in for the party, but the real things. There’s not much yet, but it’s all precious to me. The art. Each knickknack. Even the furniture.” He looks at me, and I see passion in his eyes. Not sexual, though. This is deeper. “You are no exception, Nikki. I brought you to this house because I want you here, just as I wanted your portrait.”
I lick my lips. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I don’t think you could have made me happier than to say you felt jealous watching Giselle act as hostess of the party. But let’s be clear. She’s not the hostess in this house, and she never could be. Do you understand?”
I nod awkwardly. I am breathless. I am overwhelmed. And I want desperately to be in the circle of his arms.
The air between us crackles as Damien moves forward. He is close, so close, and yet he is not touching me. Not yet. It is as if he is punishing both of us. As if he is reminding us of why we should never be apart—because the coming together is just too damned explosive.
“Damien,” I say. That is all that I can manage.
Slowly, he strokes his fingertips down my arm. I bite my lower lip and close my eyes. “No,” he says. “Look at me.”
I do, my eyes meeting his as his fingers slide farther down, lower and lower until his hand is over mine, both resting lightly on my thigh over the hem of my dress. His palm is flat, his hand completely covers mine. Slowly, he slides our joined hands up so that I am lifting my skirt until it is at the juncture of my thighs and my ass. “You belong here,” he says. “Wherever I am, you belong. You’re mine. Say it.”
“I am. I am yours.” My breath is coming harder as his hand eases off mine, then begins to creep even higher, slowly, slowly, so goddamned slowly.
“I need you.” His raw voice sends ripples of desire through me. My sex clenches, and it takes all my self control not to grab my own damned hem and yank my skirt up around my waist. “I need you now.”
“God, yes,” I manage, forcing out the words. “Damien, oh, please.”
Roughly, he pushes me backward until I am wedged into the corner. The glass case is beside me, and I reach out, clutching the polished wood for support as his mouth closes over mine. Our kiss is wild, fevered. I am starved for him and I take greedily everything he has to give.
His fingers continue their upward climb as I hungrily take his mouth with mine, my tongue thrusting against his, my teeth grazing his lip. And then, suddenly, his fingers stroke my sex and I cry out, my sound of pleasure muffled only by the renewed assault of his lips against my own.
“No panties,” he says, sliding a finger deep inside me. “You said—”
“I lied,” I admit, though I am not certain how I am able to form words. “Shut up and kiss me.”
“Kiss you? Ms. Fairchild, I’m going to do more than that.”
“The party?”
“Fuck the party,” he growls.
“If someone comes down—”
“They won’t.”
“But if—”
“Nikki?”
“Yes?”
“Hush.”
It takes a moment for those words to come, and when they do, they surprise me. “Come with me,” he says with an enigmatic smile. He holds out his hand, then leads me to a reading area tucked away against the east wall. It’s the most private area of the mezzanine, and there is no line of sight to the third floor. It is dark here, the only illumination coming from the twinkling lights upon the railing.
“What are you doing?” I ask as he pulls me to the wall, then flips a switch. Immediately, soft light fills the long, glass-topped display case in front of us. There are only two things inside, as if this case is meant for treasures, and only two have been located.
They are battered copies of Fahrenheit 451 and The Martian Chronicles, both by Ray Bradbury. I’m confused, but I trust that Damien has a purpose.
“Bradbury’s one of my favorite writers,” he begins.
“I know.” He’s told me about his love of science fiction as a child. In a way, it was his weapon against his father, his coach, and his life. I understand; how can I not when I’d relied on weapons of my own?
“He lived in Los Angeles, and one day I heard that he was going to be signing books at a store in the Valley. I begged my father to take me, but he’d scheduled an additional practice with my coach, and neither one of them was willing to cut me a break.”
“What did you do?”
His grin is slow and wide. “I went to the signing anyway.”
“How old were you?”
“Eleven,” he says.
“But how did you get there? Didn’t you live in Inglewood?”
“I told my dad I was going to the courts, hopped on my bike, and headed for Studio City.”
“At eleven? In Los Angeles? It’s a miracle you survived.”
“Trust me,” he says dryly. “The trip was much less dangerous than my father when he learned what I’d been up to.”
“But that’s an insane distance. You rode all that way?”
“It’s only about sixteen miles. But with the hills and the traffic,it took me longer than I thought it would. So when I realized that I’d be late, I hitched a ride.”
My chest is tight, my mother’s warning to avoid strangers and never, ever, ever pick up hitchhikers ringing in my ears. I am terrified for the boy he was, taking horrible chances because the father that he was supporting was too much of a shit to grant him the one small request that could make him so happy.
“It was close,” he says. “But I made it on time.”
Obviously I already know that he survived the journey, but even so, my shoulders sag with relief. “And you got the books,” I say, with a nod to the case.
“Unfortunately, no. I got there during the scheduled time for the signing, but they were all out of books. I decided to ask Bradbury to sign a bookmark instead, so I told him my story and he told me he could do better than a bookmark. Next thing I know, his driver is putting my bike in the trunk of his car and we’re off to his house. I spent three hours chatting with the man in his living room, then he let me pick two books off his shelf, signed them, and had his driver take me home.”
I feel ridiculously weepy at this story and blink back the threatening tears. “And your dad?”
“Never told him. He was pissed as hell, but all I confessed to was taking my bike and riding along the beach. I paid for it,” he adds darkly, “but I had the books. I still have the books,” he adds, nodding toward the case.
“You do,” I say. “Bradbury sounds like a really nice man.”
“He was.”
“This is a wonderful story,” I say, and I mean it. These are the kinds of tidbits from his life that I want inside me. Bits of Damien, to fill me up. “But I’m not sure why you’re telling it to me now.”
“Because the things in this house mean something to me. Not the props I had brought in for the party, but the real things. There’s not much yet, but it’s all precious to me. The art. Each knickknack. Even the furniture.” He looks at me, and I see passion in his eyes. Not sexual, though. This is deeper. “You are no exception, Nikki. I brought you to this house because I want you here, just as I wanted your portrait.”
I lick my lips. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I don’t think you could have made me happier than to say you felt jealous watching Giselle act as hostess of the party. But let’s be clear. She’s not the hostess in this house, and she never could be. Do you understand?”
I nod awkwardly. I am breathless. I am overwhelmed. And I want desperately to be in the circle of his arms.
The air between us crackles as Damien moves forward. He is close, so close, and yet he is not touching me. Not yet. It is as if he is punishing both of us. As if he is reminding us of why we should never be apart—because the coming together is just too damned explosive.
“Damien,” I say. That is all that I can manage.
Slowly, he strokes his fingertips down my arm. I bite my lower lip and close my eyes. “No,” he says. “Look at me.”
I do, my eyes meeting his as his fingers slide farther down, lower and lower until his hand is over mine, both resting lightly on my thigh over the hem of my dress. His palm is flat, his hand completely covers mine. Slowly, he slides our joined hands up so that I am lifting my skirt until it is at the juncture of my thighs and my ass. “You belong here,” he says. “Wherever I am, you belong. You’re mine. Say it.”
“I am. I am yours.” My breath is coming harder as his hand eases off mine, then begins to creep even higher, slowly, slowly, so goddamned slowly.
“I need you.” His raw voice sends ripples of desire through me. My sex clenches, and it takes all my self control not to grab my own damned hem and yank my skirt up around my waist. “I need you now.”
“God, yes,” I manage, forcing out the words. “Damien, oh, please.”
Roughly, he pushes me backward until I am wedged into the corner. The glass case is beside me, and I reach out, clutching the polished wood for support as his mouth closes over mine. Our kiss is wild, fevered. I am starved for him and I take greedily everything he has to give.
His fingers continue their upward climb as I hungrily take his mouth with mine, my tongue thrusting against his, my teeth grazing his lip. And then, suddenly, his fingers stroke my sex and I cry out, my sound of pleasure muffled only by the renewed assault of his lips against my own.
“No panties,” he says, sliding a finger deep inside me. “You said—”
“I lied,” I admit, though I am not certain how I am able to form words. “Shut up and kiss me.”
“Kiss you? Ms. Fairchild, I’m going to do more than that.”
“The party?”
“Fuck the party,” he growls.
“If someone comes down—”
“They won’t.”
“But if—”
“Nikki?”
“Yes?”
“Hush.”
