“They really will,” I say. “Here,” I add, handing her my card. “Call me if you need anything. That’s my cell on the back. And let us know when you’re home.”
“I will.” She hugs me hard, then throws her arms around Jamie. “Thank you both,” she says, her voice raw and breathless. “I’ll text you when I get to Dallas.”
“Do,” I say. Then I give her one last hug and watch as she gets in the back of the SUV. I tip both the drivers ahead of time and tell them to drive straight through. They nod, then get in the car.
And as Jamie and I stand watching, Marcy disappears around the bend in the drive, past the fountain, and out into the Nevada afternoon.
Safe, finally. And that is a very good thing.
Chapter 8
I’m in an exceptional mood when Jamie and I return to the suite after seeing Marcy off in the SUV. Not that having a torrid weekend affair with my husband-lover isn’t deliciously satisfying, but there’s something about knowing that I really made a difference in Marcy’s life that has me flying high.
I part ways with Jamie in the living room of our suite, and she goes off to her bedroom to take a nap. Frankly, I think she’s sexting with Ryan, who took advantage of the fact that he was on site to schedule a meeting with the hotel’s head of security.
I head into my room, and when I see the box on my bed, my mood goes from spectacular to fantabulous, especially when I open it and see the slinky, sexy dress and matching shoes that Damien has bought for me.
There’s a note, too: Looking forward to seeing you in (and out) of this dress - D
I grin. I’m looking forward to that myself.
I spend the next hour getting ready. Since Mission Marcy took up my spa time, I have to do my own hair and makeup, but that’s okay, and I finish with a good fifteen minutes to spare before I’m supposed to meet Damien in front of the restaurant.
I do a last-minute turn in front of the mirror, and have to admit that he picked out an excellent dress. It’s sophisticated, yet comfortable. Sexy, but not slutty. And it’s a wrap style, so there is a high slit over my right thigh, which adds an extra level of sultriness.
Then I’m out the door and hurrying to Periscope, a new seafood restaurant that has opened inside the hotel. It’s located on the second floor of the hotel just over the reception area and across from the spa. What’s intriguing, though, is that the ceiling in the reception area is three stories high. So Periscope is located along two sides of the perimeter, and has viewing screens that allow guests to see what is going on down below. Thus the name.
Damien and I are in a secluded booth right over the main entrance, so our view encompasses the entire lobby and even a bit of the casino. It’s an interesting perspective, and makes you feel a little bit godlike, or at least like royalty. As if you are floating on a throne above the little people.
The booth is shaped like a C, and I am seated right next to Damien, my thigh brushing against his.
“I’ve been looking forward to this for a very long time, Ms. Fairchild,” he says.
“Dinner?” I ask innocently.
“You, next to me. Me, touching you.”
I lick my lips. “It seems to me that you’ve touched me plenty over the last few days.”
“I’ve been looking forward to experiencing the reality, not the fantasy. Because as spectacular as the fantasy of you is, the reality is so much better.”
I start to shift so that I can face him better, but he closes his hand over my thigh, holding me very firmly in place. “No,” he says. “I like you right where you are.”
“Do you? Why’s that?”
He starts to answer, then stops when the waiter comes with our wine and appetizers. And all the while that Damien is using his right hand to lift the wine and taste it, his left is sliding very cleverly through the slit in my dress—and I am trying very hard to breathe normally. To not tremble in anticipation or longing. To not cry out with need.
But I want to do all those things. I have had the feel of his hands upon my skin so firmly burned in my imagination for the last two days that this new reality is shocking, and all I want to do is close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of his fingertips stroking my bare thigh.
“I think I like reality,” I admit as soon as the waiter has gone away.
“Good,” he says. “So do I.”
As I watch, he dips his finger into the wine, then brushes his fingertip along my lower lip. I taste it, light and fruity, and though I haven’t yet had even one sip, I already feel light-headed.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Stark?”
“Of course.”
I raise a brow. “So you can have your way with me?”
“Do you need to be drunk for that?”
“No,” I whisper. “Anytime. Anywhere.”
“I’m very glad you feel that way, Ms. Fairchild. Because I’m thinking here, and I’m thinking now.”
“I—” I’m about to ask just what exactly he has in mind when his hand stroking lightly up my thigh makes his intent sweetly, perfectly clear.
“Damien.”
“Hush. No one will know. No one can see.”
He’s right, of course. Our booth is secluded. But it’s still decadent. Naughty.
And such a delicious turn-on.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
I hesitate, but comply. I expect him to continue his fingers’ inexorable trek up my thigh, but his hand has stopped just inches from the juncture of my thigh and pelvis. I swallow, hyperaware of the pressure of his fingertips against my skin. I’m wet, and I want to squirm. I want to silently urge him to move higher. To stop this tease.