After a moment, he takes the last step toward me and sits next to me on the bed. He gently takes my hand and uses his fingertip to trace lightly upon my skin. He says nothing, though, and the silence hangs heavy between us, full of both questions and hope.
I remember my thought as we took off—that we are either going to keep moving forward, or we are going to crash. Finally, I can take it no longer. I reach for him, then stroke my hand down the side of his cheek. “I love you,” I say, though the words seem too big for my throat.
“Nikki.” My name sounds as though it was wrenched from him, and when he pulls me close and holds me tight, I close my eyes, wanting—no, needing—to hear the words back. He has not said that he loves me since my first week in Germany. Not since the trial prep began in earnest and the attorneys warned him that he was risking jail and his future if he didn’t testify.
I need to hear it now, though. I desperately need him to say those three little words. Not because I doubt that Damien loves me, but because I cannot shake the fear that we are on a collision course with the real world, and that those words are our only shield once our shiny, protective bubble shatters.
He says nothing, though. He simply holds me, his arms closing tight around me as if that is all the protection I need.
When he does speak, his words surprise me. “The press has been going hot and heavy suggesting that I bribed someone to get the charges dropped.”
I stiffen and pull back so that I can see his face. “Those fucking bastards.”
The corner of his mouth lifts. “I agree completely with your assessment, but the truth is I’ve been accused of worse.” I search his face and see nothing of my own anger. Whatever is bothering him, it isn’t this ridiculous accusation. That’s just one part of the story.
“Okay,” I say. “Go on.”
“Apparently the prosecutors and judges weren’t thrilled with the allegations. The prosecution released an official statement that the charges against me were dropped after additional evidence was brought to the court’s attention.”
Considering that’s exactly what happened, I’m still not seeing the problem. But I say nothing, content to wait.
“Now the press is pushing to see the evidence.”
Oh . . .
I squeeze his hand tight. “Damien, that’s—” I cut myself off, because I don’t know what to say. Horrible? I think of how wrecked he was after the dismissal and try to magnify that a million-fold if those photos are released to the whole goddamned world. My chest constricts and my skin feels prickly merely from the thought. I can’t even imagine how Damien must feel—or how brutally the release of those photos will rip him apart.
I suck in air and try again. “Surely they won’t. The evidence is sealed, right? What did Maynard say?” I’m babbling, but I know nothing about the law, and even less than that about the law in Germany. Does the press have a right to see the evidence? Will the court or the prosecution turn the photos over to save its own reputation?
“Vogel is on it, and Charles is staying in Munich to work with him. He’s optimistic, but it’s too early for me to have any real sense of the outcome.”
“I see.” I want to tell him that it will be okay, but I can’t quite bring the lie to my lips. Because if those photos are released, it will rip him apart. And, yes, Damien is strong, and I know that he will heal. But like the cuts on my thighs, that wound will never go away. Part of him will have died, and nothing will be the same again.
“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he says as he brushes the pad of his thumb across my lips.
I open my mouth, drawing him in, then close my eyes and savor the taste of him. “Aren’t you the one who told me that pain and passion go hand in hand?” I murmur when I finally release him.
I watch as his eyes darken, then gasp as he pushes me back onto the narrow bed. Desire—hot and heavy—slams through me with such force and power it makes me dizzy. I need him—I need his hands upon my breasts and his body against mine. I need his tongue in my mouth and his cock deep inside me.
I need to feel the connection between us. I need to revel in it, to bathe in it.
I need to feel what I already know—that Damien is mine, and that I am and always will be his.
His hands are holding fast to my wrists, keeping my arms stretched above my head. He holds me tight, and I wince from the pain of my skin twisting in his grip, then cry out again when he violently kneads my breasts through my thin cotton shirt. “Do you like that?” he asks.
“Yes, oh, God, yes.”
He lowers his mouth to my breast, suckling through my shirt before shoving it up, then tugging my breast free from my bra. He is straddling me at the hips, and I am breathing hard, unable to move as his hands hold me down and his mouth closes over my now bare breast. He draws the nipple in between his lips, sucking so intensely that I arch up, then cry out when he bites down, his teeth drawing tighter than the little silver rings from the night before.
He pulls away, tugging the nipple with him, and I arch up, wanting more—wanting that sensual bite, that seductive sting.
“Tell me what you need,” he demands.
“You,” I say. “I need you.”
“Goddammit, Nikki,” he growls, “that’s not what I mean. Tell me what you need.”
And that’s when I realize—of course he saw the flute. Of course he knew what I was thinking. Damien knows; hell, he always knows.
“I need you,” I repeat hoarsely. “That’s all I need. I wasn’t going to do it, I swear. I thought about it, but I wasn’t going to do it.”