“Nikki, I—”
“You what? You didn’t know she would be here?”
“You know I didn’t.” His voice is hard. Firm.
“Do you think I’m going to be jealous, knowing that there was a time when she had free run of this suite?” I ask, making my voice even harder. I have a point to make, and I’m damn well going to make it. I cock my head, considering. “Just how many hotels around Europe is she intimately familiar with?”
“Goddammit, Nikki.”
“One? Three? Five?”
He stalks toward me and I take a corresponding step back, then another until my back is against one of the pillars that divides the sitting area from the kitchen and dining area. “Did you take her here? Like this? Hard against a wall?”
“What the fuck are you doing?” Anger curls in his voice and I know that I’ve almost pushed him too far.
“What do you think I’m doing?”
“Pissing me off,” he says, then kisses me hard, the force of his lips upon mine knocking my head back. I open my mouth to draw him in even as I hook one leg around him and curl my arms around his neck. I want him hard against me. I want to feel him—to feel our connection. Because nothing—not Carmela, not anybody—can break that.
Roughly, he wrenches his mouth off mine. I hold him tight though, so that I feel his breath upon my face when he speaks. “You’re the only woman in my life now, Nikki.”
I am breathing hard, my eyes never leaving his. “Don’t you think I know that, too?”
I see the exact moment when he realizes that I have been playing him.
“Unless I find you in bed with one,” I say, “don’t you even think of apologizing for another woman. Believe it or not, Damien Stark, I was not under the impression that you’d taken a vow of chastity before sleeping with me.”
He looks me up and down, his eyes filled with a dangerous kind of heat.
“What?” My voice is wary.
“I think, my very dear Ms. Fairchild, that you are in for a much-deserved punishment.”
“Oh.” I feel the tightening in my body simply from the thought of his hand smacking hard against my ass. Still, though . . .
I try to take a step backward, but am blocked by the pillar. “Why? Because I pushed your buttons? That doesn’t seem quite fair.”
“No,” he says, “it doesn’t. And not because of that.”
“What then?”
“Do you really think it’s in the realm of possibility that you would ever find another woman in our bed?”
“No,” I say.
“Well, there you go.”
I cross my arms over my chest. “But you know I don’t believe it and didn’t mean it.”
“I do,” he says. “But I’ll tell you a little secret. It’s the best excuse I have for bending you over and feeling the sting on my palm.”
I lick my lips. The room turns suddenly warm, and I feel beads of moisture at the back of my neck and between my thighs. I reach back, holding on to that pillar to steady myself. “Is that something you want?” I keep my voice low and even; it’s damn sure something I want.
“Right now,” Damien says, “I want it more than anything.”
He uses the pad of his thumb to trace lightly along my jawline. I close my eyes and draw in a breath, suddenly unable to concentrate.
“Why?”
“You know me better than anyone, Nikki. You know why.”
I do know. He needs me like I used to need a blade—like I now need him. In a day when he’s been blindsided by horrific pictures of his past and bitchy ex-girlfriends, he needs to know that I will surrender utterly to him. That it is Damien who controls my pleasure even by controlling my pain. He needs to know that he can take me to that limit. And he needs to know that I want him to.
And I do.
Everything has spun out of control. Not just Carmela’s appearance in our room, but the whole day. Ollie’s appearance in Germany. The horrible photos. Damien’s reaction to the dismissal of the murder charge against him.
Too much noise, and it all bubbled up inside of me, so much so that when it knocked Damien flat, I’d craved the feel of a blade in my hand. I’d fought it, though. I’d fought and I’d won. I didn’t need to cut, but I still needed Damien. Do need Damien. I need to feel his hands upon me and the rise of pleasure accompanied by the sharp sting of pain. I need the release to keep me anchored. A safety valve preventing me from exploding.
I need it—and so does Damien.
“Take off your skirt.” His voice is tight.
“I—”
He cuts me off with a quick shake of his head. I get it; we’re through talking. We’re moving on. We’re leaving the trial and Carmela and the photographs behind. We’re saying fuck you to the real world and sliding back into our bubble, which is just where I want to be.
“Your skirt,” he repeats, his tone broaching no argument.
“Yes, sir,” I say, and his slow, approving smile slides over me as intimately as his hand upon my sex.
Slowly, I reach behind my back and unzip my skirt. I wriggle my hips and use my hands to ease it down until it falls in a circle at my feet.
“Step out of it,” Damien says.
I do.
“Now the top. Pull it off. Toss it over there.”
Once again, I comply. I feel the rush of air against my newly exposed skin, the sensation even more enticing considering how sensitive my nipples are from the clamps and how heavy my breasts feel simply from the minimal weight of the silver chain. I shiver, not from the chill of the air, but from the anticipation of what is to come. I do not know exactly what Damien has in mind. I only know that I want it, and that it will be spectacular.