My eyes are closed, my breasts are heavy. I am so wet and I feel so full. He has three, no, four fingers inside me now, and my hips are gyrating, wanting him harder, faster, deeper.
“Tell me,” he repeats.
“I want you to fuck me,” I say. “I want your hands on my tits and your cock deep inside me. I want you, Damien. Please, please, I want you so badly.”
His fingers slide out of me, and he traces slow circles over my clit while his palm rubs lightly at my sex. I can smell my arousal, and I am shameless, shifting this way and that so that the feeling grows. I’m close, so close, and I want to come in his arms. I don’t care that we’re in his garage, that I’m bent half in and half out of his car. All I want is Damien. All I want is for him to take me where I want to go.
“Thank you,” he whispers as he pulls his hand away.
“Damien,” I moan. “Dammit, Damien, please.”
“Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?”
“You know I am.”
“Good.” The satisfaction in his voice makes me smile despite my state of abject frustration. “Now, into the car.”
I do as he says, then sit with my legs pressed tightly together in the hopes that the pressure will quell some of my rising, desperate need.
He circles the car and gets in beside me, then looks over, his amusement obvious. “Legs apart, Ms. Fairchild. You don’t get off until I say you get off.”
I shoot him a sour glance, but I comply.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
As I sit, lost in a haze of sexual frustration, he starts the car and maneuvers it out of its slot. I expect him to go back the way we came in, but he continues in the direction we were walking, which seems odd to me as all I see is a wall. As we get close, though, he presses a button on the dash and a section of the wall slides away.
Suddenly, we are in a dark tunnel lined with endless arcs of light that provide illumination all the way down, each arc lighting only as we approach it, giving the illusion that we are heading off toward infinity. I feel a bit like a Bond girl chasing down the bad guys. “Where are we going?”
“Just wait,” he says. In front of us, no lights appear and for a moment I’m afraid that something has gone wrong with Damien’s billionaire escape route. But it turns out that we’ve simply reached the end of the hill. We’ve emerged onto a private road—Damien’s, of course—and after following it for a while we turn onto a twisting Malibu road and maneuver the hills until, finally, we reach the Pacific Coast Highway.
“You’re really not going to tell me?” I ask. I am still sweetly on edge. The car is low to the ground and powerful, and I can feel the thrum of the engine against my ass, and the vibration is more than a little enticing. My breasts feel heavy and swollen and though chiffon is soft, my nipples are so stimulated that they are painfully erect.
Damien stays quiet, but he eyes me sideways, and I see the amused smile playing at his mouth.
“Are we going into LA? It’s almost eleven.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to keep you up past your bedtime, Ms. Fairchild.”
I could protest, but it would be for show only. So I settle back in the soft leather and watch the ocean go by on my right. I feel Damien’s eyes on me, though, and I turn to him, my expression stern. “Eyes on the road, Mr. Stark.”
“I’d rather watch you,” he says, but he turns back to focus on the road ahead. He reaches up and adjusts the rearview mirror. “That’s better,” he says, and his mouth tugs into a lazy grin.
“Like the view?” I ask. My legs are apart as he’d instructed, the hem of my dress hitting about mid-thigh.
“I’ll like it even better in a minute.”
I glance sideways at him, suddenly suspicious. “Oh?”
“I saw the way you were admiring Blaine’s work,” he says conversationally.
“He’s very talented.”
“The way he can portray arousal, shame, sexual longing. There are some at the gallery that show a woman in the throes of an orgasm. Spectacular, really.”
“I haven’t seen those,” I say.
“Which one was your favorite this evening?”
“I liked them all,” I say.
“Did you? I thought I saw a note of particular interest on your face when you looked at the woman on the chaise. Do you know the one I mean?”
“Yes,” I say. My pulse has picked up its tempo. I’m remembering the painting … and I’m anticipating where Damien is going.
“What was she doing?” he asks.
“Touching herself,” I whisper.
“Her lover off to one side. Her legs bound open.”
“Yes.” I have to force the word out.
“Take your shoes off,” he says, and I bend down to tackle the small buckles. “Lift your skirt up around your waist. I want you bare against the leather. Oh, God, Nikki, yes,” he says as I comply. The leather is smooth and cool against my red-hot skin. The vibrations beneath me seem even more erotic and I feel wanton and wild.
“Spread your legs, baby. Just like the woman in the painting.”
His words—along with all they portend—are as erotic as his touch, and my already hyperaware body kicks into overdrive. I’m aware of every movement, every brush of air against my skin, every beat of my heart, every tiny drop of perspiration that beads between my breasts. I work to control my breathing as I lift one leg and wedge it between the door and the dashboard. Then I take the other and hook my ankle over the gearshift box. I’m spread as wide as possible, and when I reach down to recline the seat, the motion shifts my hips up a bit. I make a small, strangled sound. My entire body tingles, but I am most aware of the heavy throbbing between my legs.
“She lies there, silently begging for her lover. Her cunt is slick, her breasts tender, her nipples begging to be sucked.”
“Damien, please …”
“He doesn’t touch her, though,” Damien continues, and I bite back a frustrated moan. “He leaves her like that, a breeze blowing on her aching cunt.”
He leans over and adjusts the air conditioner so that a stream of cool air blows right between my legs. It’s soft and decadent and it makes me ache.
“If he were kind, he’d let her touch herself, but if you look closely at the painting, you see that her hand is in the air, wanting, but not reaching. Did you notice that, Nikki?”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m certain she was touching herself.”
“Are you? Well, that’s the thing about art. It’s different for everybody. Shall I tell you what I see?”
I swallow and nod.
“I see the man who is not in the portrait. The woman means everything to him. And nothing can please him more than to bring her pleasure. And not just a quick fuck and a fast orgasm, Nikki. No, he wants to create their own nirvana. To build pleasure upon pleasure until the lines cross and neither is sure if it’s torment or delight.”
I lick my lips, my mouth dry. I’m hyperaware of my body. Of the motion of the car. Of my breasts, so tender now beneath the thin material.
“He wants his lover to trust him. To surrender herself to him completely. To let him orchestrate the pleasures of her body. But he leaves the ultimate choice up to her. He lets her have one hand free, and that is the moment Blaine captured on the canvas.”
“Tell me,” he repeats.
“I want you to fuck me,” I say. “I want your hands on my tits and your cock deep inside me. I want you, Damien. Please, please, I want you so badly.”
His fingers slide out of me, and he traces slow circles over my clit while his palm rubs lightly at my sex. I can smell my arousal, and I am shameless, shifting this way and that so that the feeling grows. I’m close, so close, and I want to come in his arms. I don’t care that we’re in his garage, that I’m bent half in and half out of his car. All I want is Damien. All I want is for him to take me where I want to go.
“Thank you,” he whispers as he pulls his hand away.
“Damien,” I moan. “Dammit, Damien, please.”
“Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?”
“You know I am.”
“Good.” The satisfaction in his voice makes me smile despite my state of abject frustration. “Now, into the car.”
I do as he says, then sit with my legs pressed tightly together in the hopes that the pressure will quell some of my rising, desperate need.
He circles the car and gets in beside me, then looks over, his amusement obvious. “Legs apart, Ms. Fairchild. You don’t get off until I say you get off.”
I shoot him a sour glance, but I comply.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good girl.”
As I sit, lost in a haze of sexual frustration, he starts the car and maneuvers it out of its slot. I expect him to go back the way we came in, but he continues in the direction we were walking, which seems odd to me as all I see is a wall. As we get close, though, he presses a button on the dash and a section of the wall slides away.
Suddenly, we are in a dark tunnel lined with endless arcs of light that provide illumination all the way down, each arc lighting only as we approach it, giving the illusion that we are heading off toward infinity. I feel a bit like a Bond girl chasing down the bad guys. “Where are we going?”
“Just wait,” he says. In front of us, no lights appear and for a moment I’m afraid that something has gone wrong with Damien’s billionaire escape route. But it turns out that we’ve simply reached the end of the hill. We’ve emerged onto a private road—Damien’s, of course—and after following it for a while we turn onto a twisting Malibu road and maneuver the hills until, finally, we reach the Pacific Coast Highway.
“You’re really not going to tell me?” I ask. I am still sweetly on edge. The car is low to the ground and powerful, and I can feel the thrum of the engine against my ass, and the vibration is more than a little enticing. My breasts feel heavy and swollen and though chiffon is soft, my nipples are so stimulated that they are painfully erect.
Damien stays quiet, but he eyes me sideways, and I see the amused smile playing at his mouth.
“Are we going into LA? It’s almost eleven.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to keep you up past your bedtime, Ms. Fairchild.”
I could protest, but it would be for show only. So I settle back in the soft leather and watch the ocean go by on my right. I feel Damien’s eyes on me, though, and I turn to him, my expression stern. “Eyes on the road, Mr. Stark.”
“I’d rather watch you,” he says, but he turns back to focus on the road ahead. He reaches up and adjusts the rearview mirror. “That’s better,” he says, and his mouth tugs into a lazy grin.
“Like the view?” I ask. My legs are apart as he’d instructed, the hem of my dress hitting about mid-thigh.
“I’ll like it even better in a minute.”
I glance sideways at him, suddenly suspicious. “Oh?”
“I saw the way you were admiring Blaine’s work,” he says conversationally.
“He’s very talented.”
“The way he can portray arousal, shame, sexual longing. There are some at the gallery that show a woman in the throes of an orgasm. Spectacular, really.”
“I haven’t seen those,” I say.
“Which one was your favorite this evening?”
“I liked them all,” I say.
“Did you? I thought I saw a note of particular interest on your face when you looked at the woman on the chaise. Do you know the one I mean?”
“Yes,” I say. My pulse has picked up its tempo. I’m remembering the painting … and I’m anticipating where Damien is going.
“What was she doing?” he asks.
“Touching herself,” I whisper.
“Her lover off to one side. Her legs bound open.”
“Yes.” I have to force the word out.
“Take your shoes off,” he says, and I bend down to tackle the small buckles. “Lift your skirt up around your waist. I want you bare against the leather. Oh, God, Nikki, yes,” he says as I comply. The leather is smooth and cool against my red-hot skin. The vibrations beneath me seem even more erotic and I feel wanton and wild.
“Spread your legs, baby. Just like the woman in the painting.”
His words—along with all they portend—are as erotic as his touch, and my already hyperaware body kicks into overdrive. I’m aware of every movement, every brush of air against my skin, every beat of my heart, every tiny drop of perspiration that beads between my breasts. I work to control my breathing as I lift one leg and wedge it between the door and the dashboard. Then I take the other and hook my ankle over the gearshift box. I’m spread as wide as possible, and when I reach down to recline the seat, the motion shifts my hips up a bit. I make a small, strangled sound. My entire body tingles, but I am most aware of the heavy throbbing between my legs.
“She lies there, silently begging for her lover. Her cunt is slick, her breasts tender, her nipples begging to be sucked.”
“Damien, please …”
“He doesn’t touch her, though,” Damien continues, and I bite back a frustrated moan. “He leaves her like that, a breeze blowing on her aching cunt.”
He leans over and adjusts the air conditioner so that a stream of cool air blows right between my legs. It’s soft and decadent and it makes me ache.
“If he were kind, he’d let her touch herself, but if you look closely at the painting, you see that her hand is in the air, wanting, but not reaching. Did you notice that, Nikki?”
“No,” I say firmly. “I’m certain she was touching herself.”
“Are you? Well, that’s the thing about art. It’s different for everybody. Shall I tell you what I see?”
I swallow and nod.
“I see the man who is not in the portrait. The woman means everything to him. And nothing can please him more than to bring her pleasure. And not just a quick fuck and a fast orgasm, Nikki. No, he wants to create their own nirvana. To build pleasure upon pleasure until the lines cross and neither is sure if it’s torment or delight.”
I lick my lips, my mouth dry. I’m hyperaware of my body. Of the motion of the car. Of my breasts, so tender now beneath the thin material.
“He wants his lover to trust him. To surrender herself to him completely. To let him orchestrate the pleasures of her body. But he leaves the ultimate choice up to her. He lets her have one hand free, and that is the moment Blaine captured on the canvas.”
