He’s teasing me for being aroused, but I can feel his cock twitching against my rear. He’s getting hard again, and I wriggle my butt a little, hoping to speed up that process.
“My, my, Ms. Fairchild. You are a naughty girl.”
“Very,” I say. “Fuck me again, Mr. Stark.”
He bites my earlobe, just hard enough that I squeal. “On your knees.”
I look back at him. “What?”
“On your knees.”
I obey.
“Spread your legs.”
I do. I’ve never had sex like this—who am I kidding, I’ve never had sex like anything I’ve done with Damien. I feel exposed. And, yeah, I like the feeling.
He is behind me, and he runs his palms over my ass, then bends to kiss my cheek. “Sweet,” he says. He slides his fingers between my legs, stroking my sex, the sensation of his touch beyond delicious.
He brings his hand up, and I feel his thumb at my anus. I bite my lower lip. “No,” I whisper.
“No?” he repeats, increasing the pressure and sending a shock of amazing sensations through me. “Not sunset?”
I gasp, and he laughs. “No,” he repeats. “You’re right. Not now. Not yet.” He slides his finger between my ass cheeks, and I draw in air, overwhelmed by the sensations. “But soon, Nikki,” he says. “Because there is no part of you that isn’t mine.” Swiftly, he thrusts two fingers into my vagina even as the pad of his thumb presses against my ass. My muscles contract, wanting to draw him in, and there’s no denying the intensity of my arousal. Even if I admit it only to myself, I want to experience everything with Damien. Every last thing.
“Put your arms down,” he says, “so you’re resting on your elbows. That’s right.”
I’m on the mattress, my head low, my ass high. Yeah, exposed is right. But I don’t have time to think about my position, because Damien’s touch grows more intense. He’s leaning over me, one hand stroking my nipple as the other plays with my cunt, dipping in and out, in and out. “You make me so hard,” he says.
I hear the rip of a condom packet, and then, a moment later, the pressure of his cock against me. This time, he does fuck me hard and, dammit, I don’t want it to end. The pressure of his thrusts moves us across the bed, and I reach out, grabbing hold of the iron bedframe to hold myself in position, meeting him thrust for thrust, losing myself in the sensation and the sound of our bodies meeting.
I feel when he gets close, and as he does, his hand returns to my clit, stroking and teasing and bringing me closer and closer. “Come with me,” he demands. “I’m coming, baby, I want you to come with me, too.” He explodes inside me, and that’s all it takes to bring me over the edge with him, the universe showering stars down on the two of us.
Spent, we collapse together on the bed, a tangle of arms and legs.
When my body is functioning again, I prop myself up on an elbow and brush his cheek. He looks rumpled and sexy and very well-fucked, and I get a nice little knot of satisfaction in my belly.
He looks at me and smiles.
I grin flirtatiously. “That was nice,” I say. “Can we do it again?”
21
“Nice?” he repeats. I can tell he’s trying to sound offended, but the crinkling around his eyes gives away his mirth. “That wasn’t just nice. That was rocket ship to the moon. That was fucking amazing. Guinness World Records quality. Hell, that fuck was a thousand times better than those shoes you were wearing the night we met.”
“I wasn’t sure you remembered.”
He runs his fingers through my hair and sighs. “I remember everything about you.”
Considering how well he knew the details of my education, he may not be exaggerating. “You didn’t remember the pageant.”
“The Dallas Convention Center. You wore a fire engine red ball gown and a turquoise bathing suit. You were also about ten pounds lighter, and you were eyeing the mini-cheesecakes with the kind of lust that makes a man hard.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I probably was.”
He strokes my breasts and my hips. “The curves are an improvement.”
“I think so, too. But my mother about had a heart attack when I told her I wasn’t going to count carbs or calories anymore.” I grin at him. “I can’t believe you really remember all of that.”
“You were the only contestant who seemed alive to me, and that was despite the fact that everything you were doing was a lie. Or maybe because of it.”
“A lie?” I prop myself up on my elbow, fascinated. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I told you at the time. You didn’t want to be there. You felt like a kindred spirit.”
“You were right. That was my last pageant. After that one, I finally managed to get free.” I frown. “Kindred spirit? You said that because you wanted out of tennis, didn’t you?”
His expression darkens. “Hell yes.”
I hope he can’t see my sadness. I remember the emcee introducing him at the pageant, announcing that Damien Stark had just won the US Open. He had so much talent, and the joy had been ripped away from him. I’m certain there’s more to it than the story he told me, and I wonder if he’ll ever tell me the full truth.
He strokes my cheek, and I smile. “We both got out,” I say, forcing myself away from melancholy. “And now we’re both free to explore other options.”
His expression turns devious as his hand creeps down. “Let me show you what I want to explore.”
I gasp as he slides his fingers inside me.
“Too sore?”
I am, but I don’t want to admit it. “No,” I whisper.
“I’m very glad to hear it.” He lays me back, then eases his body on top of mine. His weight feels delicious, the pressure safe. Like he’s holding me close and protecting me. His mouth brushes mine in a flurry of soft kisses that start at my lips and then trail down my neck before he eases back up to press a kiss to my ear. “I thought we’d try something new,” he says. “Or, rather, something old.”
“Old?”
“Plain, old-fashioned missionary position. Spread your legs, baby,” he says, then groans in satisfaction when I do. The wide head of his cock presses against me, but he doesn’t enter. Instead he moves just slightly, teasing us both.
My breath comes in fluttering gasps, and just as I’m about to break down and beg, he thrusts inside me. I gasp, arching back, grimacing from both pain and pleasure.
“I think someone broke the rules,” he murmurs as he finds his rhythm and eases in and out of me. “I think you lied when you said you weren’t sore.”
I grin up at him, mischievous. “Maybe I did. Maybe it was worth it.”
“I’ll go nice and easy,” he says, and he does, moving so slow and deep that it’s almost like torture as the crescendo builds, higher and higher until I finally explode in his arms, limp and open to him. His orgasm follows quickly, and he clutches me, slamming hard into me, then collapsing against me.
“There’s something to be said for traditional,” I murmur, and beside me, Damien laughs.
For a few minutes, we just lay in the dark listening to the ocean. Then Damien takes my hand. “Let’s get cleaned up and eat.”
“My, my, Ms. Fairchild. You are a naughty girl.”
“Very,” I say. “Fuck me again, Mr. Stark.”
He bites my earlobe, just hard enough that I squeal. “On your knees.”
I look back at him. “What?”
“On your knees.”
I obey.
“Spread your legs.”
I do. I’ve never had sex like this—who am I kidding, I’ve never had sex like anything I’ve done with Damien. I feel exposed. And, yeah, I like the feeling.
He is behind me, and he runs his palms over my ass, then bends to kiss my cheek. “Sweet,” he says. He slides his fingers between my legs, stroking my sex, the sensation of his touch beyond delicious.
He brings his hand up, and I feel his thumb at my anus. I bite my lower lip. “No,” I whisper.
“No?” he repeats, increasing the pressure and sending a shock of amazing sensations through me. “Not sunset?”
I gasp, and he laughs. “No,” he repeats. “You’re right. Not now. Not yet.” He slides his finger between my ass cheeks, and I draw in air, overwhelmed by the sensations. “But soon, Nikki,” he says. “Because there is no part of you that isn’t mine.” Swiftly, he thrusts two fingers into my vagina even as the pad of his thumb presses against my ass. My muscles contract, wanting to draw him in, and there’s no denying the intensity of my arousal. Even if I admit it only to myself, I want to experience everything with Damien. Every last thing.
“Put your arms down,” he says, “so you’re resting on your elbows. That’s right.”
I’m on the mattress, my head low, my ass high. Yeah, exposed is right. But I don’t have time to think about my position, because Damien’s touch grows more intense. He’s leaning over me, one hand stroking my nipple as the other plays with my cunt, dipping in and out, in and out. “You make me so hard,” he says.
I hear the rip of a condom packet, and then, a moment later, the pressure of his cock against me. This time, he does fuck me hard and, dammit, I don’t want it to end. The pressure of his thrusts moves us across the bed, and I reach out, grabbing hold of the iron bedframe to hold myself in position, meeting him thrust for thrust, losing myself in the sensation and the sound of our bodies meeting.
I feel when he gets close, and as he does, his hand returns to my clit, stroking and teasing and bringing me closer and closer. “Come with me,” he demands. “I’m coming, baby, I want you to come with me, too.” He explodes inside me, and that’s all it takes to bring me over the edge with him, the universe showering stars down on the two of us.
Spent, we collapse together on the bed, a tangle of arms and legs.
When my body is functioning again, I prop myself up on an elbow and brush his cheek. He looks rumpled and sexy and very well-fucked, and I get a nice little knot of satisfaction in my belly.
He looks at me and smiles.
I grin flirtatiously. “That was nice,” I say. “Can we do it again?”
21
“Nice?” he repeats. I can tell he’s trying to sound offended, but the crinkling around his eyes gives away his mirth. “That wasn’t just nice. That was rocket ship to the moon. That was fucking amazing. Guinness World Records quality. Hell, that fuck was a thousand times better than those shoes you were wearing the night we met.”
“I wasn’t sure you remembered.”
He runs his fingers through my hair and sighs. “I remember everything about you.”
Considering how well he knew the details of my education, he may not be exaggerating. “You didn’t remember the pageant.”
“The Dallas Convention Center. You wore a fire engine red ball gown and a turquoise bathing suit. You were also about ten pounds lighter, and you were eyeing the mini-cheesecakes with the kind of lust that makes a man hard.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I probably was.”
He strokes my breasts and my hips. “The curves are an improvement.”
“I think so, too. But my mother about had a heart attack when I told her I wasn’t going to count carbs or calories anymore.” I grin at him. “I can’t believe you really remember all of that.”
“You were the only contestant who seemed alive to me, and that was despite the fact that everything you were doing was a lie. Or maybe because of it.”
“A lie?” I prop myself up on my elbow, fascinated. “What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I told you at the time. You didn’t want to be there. You felt like a kindred spirit.”
“You were right. That was my last pageant. After that one, I finally managed to get free.” I frown. “Kindred spirit? You said that because you wanted out of tennis, didn’t you?”
His expression darkens. “Hell yes.”
I hope he can’t see my sadness. I remember the emcee introducing him at the pageant, announcing that Damien Stark had just won the US Open. He had so much talent, and the joy had been ripped away from him. I’m certain there’s more to it than the story he told me, and I wonder if he’ll ever tell me the full truth.
He strokes my cheek, and I smile. “We both got out,” I say, forcing myself away from melancholy. “And now we’re both free to explore other options.”
His expression turns devious as his hand creeps down. “Let me show you what I want to explore.”
I gasp as he slides his fingers inside me.
“Too sore?”
I am, but I don’t want to admit it. “No,” I whisper.
“I’m very glad to hear it.” He lays me back, then eases his body on top of mine. His weight feels delicious, the pressure safe. Like he’s holding me close and protecting me. His mouth brushes mine in a flurry of soft kisses that start at my lips and then trail down my neck before he eases back up to press a kiss to my ear. “I thought we’d try something new,” he says. “Or, rather, something old.”
“Old?”
“Plain, old-fashioned missionary position. Spread your legs, baby,” he says, then groans in satisfaction when I do. The wide head of his cock presses against me, but he doesn’t enter. Instead he moves just slightly, teasing us both.
My breath comes in fluttering gasps, and just as I’m about to break down and beg, he thrusts inside me. I gasp, arching back, grimacing from both pain and pleasure.
“I think someone broke the rules,” he murmurs as he finds his rhythm and eases in and out of me. “I think you lied when you said you weren’t sore.”
I grin up at him, mischievous. “Maybe I did. Maybe it was worth it.”
“I’ll go nice and easy,” he says, and he does, moving so slow and deep that it’s almost like torture as the crescendo builds, higher and higher until I finally explode in his arms, limp and open to him. His orgasm follows quickly, and he clutches me, slamming hard into me, then collapsing against me.
“There’s something to be said for traditional,” I murmur, and beside me, Damien laughs.
For a few minutes, we just lay in the dark listening to the ocean. Then Damien takes my hand. “Let’s get cleaned up and eat.”
