But, of course, that is the whole point.
Damien will make me suffer—and that will make my ultimate satisfaction that much sweeter.
In the meantime, of course, I am silently cursing him.
“Open,” he says, brushing something oily over my mouth. I part my lips, and he feeds me a piece of bread dipped in oil. Then a bit of shrimp cocktail. And then an olive from the antipasto plate. All delicious. All fire to my senses.
None are the touch I truly want.
“Damien.”
That’s all I say, but I sense the shift in him immediately. I have broken. I have begged.
And now I will get my reward.
That hand that has been so patiently waiting on my thigh, burning a hole in my skin, now slides up, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
He hasn’t touched me yet, but I tremble, the anticipation almost as powerful as the touch that I expect.
And when his fingers do slip over my bare skin, I hear his groan of surprise and satisfaction. “No underwear,” he says. “Naughty girl.”
“Is that what you like? Bad girls?”
“That depends how bad. Look at me,” he says, and I open my eyes. The depth of passion I see in his eyes makes me gasp, as does the finger he slides inside me. My body contracts around him, wanting this. Wanting a hell of a lot more than this, but right now, in this restaurant, this is all I’m going to get. But when he slides another finger in, then teases my clit with his thumb, I have to bite my lower lip so that I don’t cry out. And I have to clutch tight to the edge of the table so that I don’t grind myself hard against his hand.
“That’s it, baby. I want you to come.”
I want to protest that we are in a restaurant, but right at the moment, I really don’t care. I’m not caring about much, actually, except the way that he is making me feel. That, and trying to be at least a little bit modest. Not screaming would be good, but Christ, the way that the sensations are rising inside me, I’m really not sure that it’s possible.
I look away, focusing on the lobby so as to maybe slow this down, maybe make it last, or perhaps get some control so I can keep myself from losing it completely.
And that’s when I see her.
Marcy.
Jay is right beside her, and they are heading toward the main doors with their hand luggage.
Marcy looks utterly defeated.
And every ounce of blood and sensation fizzle from my body, leaving me cold and lost and frustrated in all the wrong ways.
“Nikki?”
There is concern in his voice, and I realize that I’m frowning.
“What’s wrong?”
“I—” I swallow. I want so badly to say nothing. To pretend like everything is fine and slide back into the fantasy of this night with the Damien who has seduced me.
But I can’t. Dammit, I know that I can’t. And if I want to help Marcy, I need the man I married.
I reach beneath the table and take his hand, tugging it away from my core even as I slide sideways so that I can look at him directly. And as I do, I feel the warmth of his wedding ring against my palm. And in that moment, I know that I have to tell him. Because no matter what games we may play, when you get right down to it, Damien is my husband, and he will always be there for me.
He will always love me.
I take his hand, and slowly stroke the titanium band. Then I look up into his eyes. “Damien,” I say, “I really need your help.”
Two minutes later, we are hurrying down the staff staircase to reach the service area behind the reception desk. “Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“I only just learned today. And if I’d told you, then I would have been pulling my husband into the mix. And that meant the fantasy would end. I liked the fantasy,” I admit softly. “And I thought I could handle it myself. But I was wrong. I don’t know why she came back after I sent her away, but she did. And now I think she’s in trouble.”
“All right,” he says in the kind of confident tone that suggests that nothing can go wrong in his world. “I’ll take care of it.”
And right then, I am certain that no matter what else happens, Marcy will be okay.
Chapter 9
“What are you going to do now?” I ask as we reach the suite of offices behind the reception desk.
On the walk down, Damien had made two calls. The first to the valet stand, letting them know that if they valued their jobs, they would delay bringing up Mr. Jay Monroe’s vehicle until Damien said otherwise.
Then he called Ryan, who’d been in the casino gambling with Jamie. “Everything you can find about this guy,” he’d said. “I want it in the next fifteen minutes.”
But I have absolutely no clue what he intends to do next.
“I’m willing to help this woman because you believe her,” he says. “But, Nikki, I don’t know her. I’ve never met her. And she came back to the hotel of her own free will.”
I wince at that, because I cannot imagine why she returned, but I cannot deny the truth of what he says.
“So we’re going to get her away from Jay. And we’re going to hear her say on her own and without prompting that she wants your help. If she does that, then she has whatever she needs. Fair enough?”
I nod. Because I certainly can’t ask more than that. “Except she already tried to leave once, and he must know it. He’s never going to let her out of his sight.”
“Oh, I think we can work something out. Come on.”
The hotel has a private reception lounge just past the main entrance where VIP guests can check in and receive concierge services with an elevated amount of pomp, circumstance, and pampering. We go inside, and I pace while Damien issues a series of instructions. Then he takes my arm and we both step behind the counter where one of the clerks is checking in a new guest. Hidden from the guests’ view are a series of monitors, including several showing the driveway and valet stand in front of the hotel. It’s a customer-service feature that allows VIP guests to rest inside in comfort, confident that one of the clerks will inform them when the valet pulls up with their car or when their limo has arrived.