“In that case, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, with a boyish grin that makes this all worthwhile, “I suggest you hold on tight.”
Chapter Two
Even at almost midnight on a Sunday, traffic seems to spill out over the narrow Munich streets. The Lamborghini’s engine revs and purrs, the power pent-up and antsy, as if it is as frustrated by its inability to break free and fly as I am by my inability to make things right for Damien.
I am nestled in the red-leather bucket seat, my body turned slightly to the left so that I can watch him. Despite the snarl of traffic that I would find exasperating, Damien is calm and in complete control. His right hand rests loosely on the gear stick, his fingers curved slightly. I draw a slow breath, imagining his touch against my bare knee. Since I’ve met Damien, I’ve done a lot of fantasizing. Honestly, I can’t say that I mind.
His left hand grips the steering wheel, and despite the shitstorm in which we now live, he looks relaxed and confident. From my perspective, I am looking at his profile—that sculpted jaw, his deep-set eyes, his glorious mouth now curved into just the hint of a smile.
His unshaved jaw and finger-mussed hair combine with the low-interior light of the car to give him the look of a dangerous rebel. It’s true, I think. Damien is as rebellious as they come. He lives his life by nobody’s rules but his own. It is one of the qualities that I most love about him, which is why it makes it that much harder knowing that if he simply played the game like a good little defendant, everything could turn around.
We are standing still at an intersection, and now the light in front of us changes to green. He accelerates, then switches lanes so sharply I reach up to grab the handhold so that I don’t list to one side. He turns to look at me, and I see nothing but pure pleasure in his eyes. I meet his smile eagerly, and for that moment, there is nothing in the world that can harm us. There is only freedom and joy, and I wish that it could continue like this. That we could drive on and on and never stop, just the two of us soaring off into eternity.
I may be lost in the fantasy of getting lost, but Damien exists entirely in the moment. I can see the tenseness in his muscles, the power and the control as he puts the car through her paces, testing her limits as he lets the power of that incredible engine build and build before we hit the autobahn, where he will finally let her explode onto the open road.
I swallow and shift a little in the seat. I thought I’d been teasing when I’d said this drive would be like sex. Apparently, I was wrong.
“You’re smiling,” he says, without turning to look at me.
“I am,” I admit. “Because you’re happy.”
“I’m with you,” he replies. “Why wouldn’t I be happy?”
“Keep talking,” I say. “Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“I certainly hope so.” His voice is barely a murmur, but it is more than sufficient to make my body respond. My skin heats and beads of perspiration rise on the back of my neck at my hairline. My breasts feel heavy, as if I need the support of Damien’s hands upon them, and my now-hard nipples press enticingly against the silk of my sheath dress.
His comment may be simple and straightforward, but it holds a world of meaning. After all, he and I both know that there’s nowhere Damien can take me that I won’t be willing to go.
“We’re here,” Damien says, and I jump a little at the odd juxtaposition of his words to my thought. I gather myself, quickly realizing that he means that we’ve reached the A9. He accelerates onto the entrance ramp, the force pushing me back against the seat. I suck in air, invigorated by the speed and by the man beside me. “Do you have a plan?” he asks as he shifts gears.
I glance over and see that the speedometer is already approaching 175 kilometers per hour. “A plan?”
His brow quirks up with amusement. “This was your idea, remember? I thought you might have had something specific in mind.”
“No plan,” I admit as I toe off my shoes and put my feet up on the seat. “Nothing more than just cutting loose with you.”
“I like that plan,” he says. “And I know exactly where I want to get off.” He glances at me as he says the last, the deliciously devious gleam in his eyes so exaggerated that I can’t help but laugh.
“Perv,” I say.
“Only for you,” he retorts. I am hugging my knees, and he reaches over and traces his fingertip over the platinum and emerald ankle bracelet that was a gift from him, a physical reminder that I am his. As if I could ever forget.
His hand moves from the bracelet to the back of my thigh, the touch light and sensual. It’s nothing more than a simple caress, but my reaction to it is all sorts of complicated. Taut ribbons of heat shoot through me to pool between my legs, to tug at my nipples. How simple it is to fall into a pattern of touch and pleasure, of need and desire. It is as if I am in a constant state of starvation, and he is the sweetest ambrosia.
All too soon, though, the pressure is gone as he moves his hand to the radio, rolling through the stations until he settles on something with a heavy techno beat that fills the car. He shifts again and the engine hums as Damien weaves in and out of the minimal traffic. I settle back and let the rhythm pound through me as I watch this man who loves me. This man who I love, too. Who belongs entirely to me.
The thought comes unbidden, and I find myself frowning because it isn’t true. If he were truly my private property—mine, and mine alone—I could take him away from here. I could save him. I could make all of this legal horribleness go away.