“I’m surprised,” I say. “After what you said, I didn’t think you’d free me.”
“Who says I am?” His voice is low and sensual. It surrounds and strokes me. “I’m taking care of you, Nikki. Wholly and completely.”
I close my eyes in sweet anticipation. Behind me, he finishes unraveling the knots. I sigh and rub my wrists, which have gone a little numb from being in one position for so long. I try to guess what Damien has planned, but it’s no use. I am clueless, and I watch helplessly as he moves across the room to the section of the closet that boasts a wider selection of designer tops than the Neiman Marcus back home in Dallas. He chooses a sleeveless black sweater with a cowl neck. Then he returns to my side.
“I’m going to dress you now,” he says. “Arms up.”
I obey. The knit is soft yet snug, and I can’t deny that it fits perfectly. I lift my hand to my neck, enjoying the freedom of movement, and am happy to realize that the high, loose neck covers the cord that still hangs between my breasts under the shirt.
He holds out a tiny leather miniskirt next, and I dutifully step into it, careful not to trip over the cord that still hangs in front of me, and that Damien makes sure remains hidden inside the garment.
“Damien,” I say, and though I try to sound harsh, there is no hiding the excitement that laces those three simple syllables.
“Hush,” he replies. He moves behind me, presumably to zip up the skirt. Instead, he reaches between my legs for the dangling cord and tugs it toward him. Once again, I tingle from the enticing feel of the silk against my oh-so-sensitive flesh. He pulls it up, threading it under the skirt so that a tiny bit peeks out from the waistband. Then he zips me up tight.
“I don’t think that adds much to the outfit,” I say, looking over my shoulder at the flash of red that resembles an exotic zipper pull.
“I beg to differ,” he retorts, and underscores his words with a slow, yet firm tug on the cord. I cry out in pleasure and surprise, the simultaneous stroking of my sex and ass almost more than I can handle.
“You still need shoes,” he says gently, this time crossing to a section of shoe cubbies. He grabs a pair of strappy black sandals with three-inch fuck-me heels. “These will do,” he says. “And as much as I like you in stockings, I think we’ll skip that tonight.”
I can only nod, then sit on the white leather bench to which he leads me. As I sit, the cord tightens, and I am quite certain that Damien intended it that way.
He crouches in front of me and lifts my foot. My knees are apart, and as he slides on the shoe and fastens the tiny buckle around my ankle, his eyes flicker up to meet mine, and then down to the shadow between my parted legs. Unless a red silk cord constitutes underwear, I am naked beneath the skirt. Naked and wet and so needful that I want to slide my hips forward in a silent demand that he touch me. That he take me.
With Damien, however, I don’t have to beg. As soon as he has fastened the other shoe, he puts my feet on the ground. Because of the heels, my knees now rise above the bench, which means my skirt has lifted a bit as well, giving the man in front of me an even more intimate view.
Gently, he presses his palm against my bare knee. Then he leans in and brushes his lips over the sensitive skin on the inside of my right thigh. I shiver from the contact, the pressure from the cord making the sensation that much more erotic.
“You’re like a drug to me.” Damien’s voice is low and his breath upon my skin is so tantalizing that I have to close my eyes and clutch the bench even tighter. “I wasn’t going to touch you—not yet. But I don’t have the strength to deny myself the taste of you.”
“Yes.” It is the only word I can manage, but right then it is the only word that matters.
His hands ease up my legs as he presses gentle kisses along the insides of my thighs.
“Up,” he says, as he pushes at the skirt. I rise off the bench and he lifts the skirt over my rear so that when I sit back down, my bare ass is against the warm leather bench. His hands are still on my hips, and his thumb gently strokes the worst of my scars. The one where I’d cut too deep and been too scared to go to the ER. I’d fixed myself up with duct tape and superglue. I’d survived, but the scar now acts as a hideous reminder of the emotional damage that had put it there in the first place.
Between my legs, Damien’s lips brush over another angry scar. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs. “Strong and beautiful, and mine.”
I tremble and blink back tears. I desperately hope that he is right, but I still fear that my strength is like a rubber band. Stretch me too far, and I will snap.
I can’t worry about that now, though. I can’t think about anything except the brush of Damien’s lips against my skin and the pressure of his hands upon my legs.
Gently, he urges my thighs farther apart and I comply willingly, almost desperately. I need him now—need to lose myself in his touch—and Damien does not disappoint. I feel his breath upon my sex, and my own breath comes faster, my breasts rising and falling, my nipples tight against the knit sweater.
He teases me, his tongue gently stroking the tender flesh between my legs and my vulva. I squeeze my eyes tight and try not to squirm. I cannot help it, though, and when I do, that wonderful, damnable cord slides over my dripping sex. I am so wet, so turned on, and just that tiny bit of friction is enough to shoot electricity all through me. I curl my toes in the shoes, shifting them so that only the points touch the ground and my knees raise even higher. I want more—so help me, I need more—and then, thank God, his tongue flicks gently over my clit and that is all it takes. I shatter, leaning back, my hands gripping the bench so hard I’m afraid I might dent the frame.
He holds me in thrall, his mouth pleasuring me so fully, his tongue dipping intimately inside me. The orgasm that is racking my body seems to go on forever, and I squeeze my legs shut, trapping Damien, not certain if I am trying to ensure that he never stops, or trying to make him stop because I cannot possibly survive such an onslaught of pleasure.
I feel the stubble of his beard against my thigh and gasp, then realize that I have been holding my breath. I lean forward, my senses returning, and twine my fingers in his hair. I don’t want him to stop, and yet right then, I need his arms around me. I need to hold him close and kiss him, and I roughly pull him up. I claim his mouth with my own, kissing him fiercely and relishing the taste of me upon his lips.
“Take me to bed,” I plead moments later. I’ve had only a taste of Damien, and like a long-starved refugee, I am nowhere close to having my fill. “Please, take me to bed,” I repeat.
“Not yet,” Damien says, and his eyes are dark with promise. “First, I’m going to take you out.”
I shift on the soft, leather passenger seat as Damien maneuvers the sleek and speedy Bugatti Veyron onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Damien has not actually said as much, but I think that of all his cars, this one is his favorite. It’s certainly the one we use the most, and I have even managed—finally—to memorize the make and model. Now it’s “the Bugatti,” not “that unpronounceable car.”
He’s smiling, obviously enjoying putting the car through its paces, leading us away from Malibu to God knows where. He hasn’t told me, and I haven’t asked. Wherever we’re going, I trust that it will be fabulous, and I am happily lost in the pleasure of watching him. Damien Stark, my playful, sexy billionaire. I smile even broader. Mine, I think. That is what he said about me. That I am his.
“Who says I am?” His voice is low and sensual. It surrounds and strokes me. “I’m taking care of you, Nikki. Wholly and completely.”
I close my eyes in sweet anticipation. Behind me, he finishes unraveling the knots. I sigh and rub my wrists, which have gone a little numb from being in one position for so long. I try to guess what Damien has planned, but it’s no use. I am clueless, and I watch helplessly as he moves across the room to the section of the closet that boasts a wider selection of designer tops than the Neiman Marcus back home in Dallas. He chooses a sleeveless black sweater with a cowl neck. Then he returns to my side.
“I’m going to dress you now,” he says. “Arms up.”
I obey. The knit is soft yet snug, and I can’t deny that it fits perfectly. I lift my hand to my neck, enjoying the freedom of movement, and am happy to realize that the high, loose neck covers the cord that still hangs between my breasts under the shirt.
He holds out a tiny leather miniskirt next, and I dutifully step into it, careful not to trip over the cord that still hangs in front of me, and that Damien makes sure remains hidden inside the garment.
“Damien,” I say, and though I try to sound harsh, there is no hiding the excitement that laces those three simple syllables.
“Hush,” he replies. He moves behind me, presumably to zip up the skirt. Instead, he reaches between my legs for the dangling cord and tugs it toward him. Once again, I tingle from the enticing feel of the silk against my oh-so-sensitive flesh. He pulls it up, threading it under the skirt so that a tiny bit peeks out from the waistband. Then he zips me up tight.
“I don’t think that adds much to the outfit,” I say, looking over my shoulder at the flash of red that resembles an exotic zipper pull.
“I beg to differ,” he retorts, and underscores his words with a slow, yet firm tug on the cord. I cry out in pleasure and surprise, the simultaneous stroking of my sex and ass almost more than I can handle.
“You still need shoes,” he says gently, this time crossing to a section of shoe cubbies. He grabs a pair of strappy black sandals with three-inch fuck-me heels. “These will do,” he says. “And as much as I like you in stockings, I think we’ll skip that tonight.”
I can only nod, then sit on the white leather bench to which he leads me. As I sit, the cord tightens, and I am quite certain that Damien intended it that way.
He crouches in front of me and lifts my foot. My knees are apart, and as he slides on the shoe and fastens the tiny buckle around my ankle, his eyes flicker up to meet mine, and then down to the shadow between my parted legs. Unless a red silk cord constitutes underwear, I am naked beneath the skirt. Naked and wet and so needful that I want to slide my hips forward in a silent demand that he touch me. That he take me.
With Damien, however, I don’t have to beg. As soon as he has fastened the other shoe, he puts my feet on the ground. Because of the heels, my knees now rise above the bench, which means my skirt has lifted a bit as well, giving the man in front of me an even more intimate view.
Gently, he presses his palm against my bare knee. Then he leans in and brushes his lips over the sensitive skin on the inside of my right thigh. I shiver from the contact, the pressure from the cord making the sensation that much more erotic.
“You’re like a drug to me.” Damien’s voice is low and his breath upon my skin is so tantalizing that I have to close my eyes and clutch the bench even tighter. “I wasn’t going to touch you—not yet. But I don’t have the strength to deny myself the taste of you.”
“Yes.” It is the only word I can manage, but right then it is the only word that matters.
His hands ease up my legs as he presses gentle kisses along the insides of my thighs.
“Up,” he says, as he pushes at the skirt. I rise off the bench and he lifts the skirt over my rear so that when I sit back down, my bare ass is against the warm leather bench. His hands are still on my hips, and his thumb gently strokes the worst of my scars. The one where I’d cut too deep and been too scared to go to the ER. I’d fixed myself up with duct tape and superglue. I’d survived, but the scar now acts as a hideous reminder of the emotional damage that had put it there in the first place.
Between my legs, Damien’s lips brush over another angry scar. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs. “Strong and beautiful, and mine.”
I tremble and blink back tears. I desperately hope that he is right, but I still fear that my strength is like a rubber band. Stretch me too far, and I will snap.
I can’t worry about that now, though. I can’t think about anything except the brush of Damien’s lips against my skin and the pressure of his hands upon my legs.
Gently, he urges my thighs farther apart and I comply willingly, almost desperately. I need him now—need to lose myself in his touch—and Damien does not disappoint. I feel his breath upon my sex, and my own breath comes faster, my breasts rising and falling, my nipples tight against the knit sweater.
He teases me, his tongue gently stroking the tender flesh between my legs and my vulva. I squeeze my eyes tight and try not to squirm. I cannot help it, though, and when I do, that wonderful, damnable cord slides over my dripping sex. I am so wet, so turned on, and just that tiny bit of friction is enough to shoot electricity all through me. I curl my toes in the shoes, shifting them so that only the points touch the ground and my knees raise even higher. I want more—so help me, I need more—and then, thank God, his tongue flicks gently over my clit and that is all it takes. I shatter, leaning back, my hands gripping the bench so hard I’m afraid I might dent the frame.
He holds me in thrall, his mouth pleasuring me so fully, his tongue dipping intimately inside me. The orgasm that is racking my body seems to go on forever, and I squeeze my legs shut, trapping Damien, not certain if I am trying to ensure that he never stops, or trying to make him stop because I cannot possibly survive such an onslaught of pleasure.
I feel the stubble of his beard against my thigh and gasp, then realize that I have been holding my breath. I lean forward, my senses returning, and twine my fingers in his hair. I don’t want him to stop, and yet right then, I need his arms around me. I need to hold him close and kiss him, and I roughly pull him up. I claim his mouth with my own, kissing him fiercely and relishing the taste of me upon his lips.
“Take me to bed,” I plead moments later. I’ve had only a taste of Damien, and like a long-starved refugee, I am nowhere close to having my fill. “Please, take me to bed,” I repeat.
“Not yet,” Damien says, and his eyes are dark with promise. “First, I’m going to take you out.”
I shift on the soft, leather passenger seat as Damien maneuvers the sleek and speedy Bugatti Veyron onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Damien has not actually said as much, but I think that of all his cars, this one is his favorite. It’s certainly the one we use the most, and I have even managed—finally—to memorize the make and model. Now it’s “the Bugatti,” not “that unpronounceable car.”
He’s smiling, obviously enjoying putting the car through its paces, leading us away from Malibu to God knows where. He hasn’t told me, and I haven’t asked. Wherever we’re going, I trust that it will be fabulous, and I am happily lost in the pleasure of watching him. Damien Stark, my playful, sexy billionaire. I smile even broader. Mine, I think. That is what he said about me. That I am his.
