Her eyes are wide when I finish. “Whoa. At least you don’t have to deal with your fruitcake of a mother. You can thank me for taking that burden off you, anyway.”
“You’ve been dealing with my mother? How? Why?” I have no idea what she’s talking about, but since I wouldn’t sic my mother on my worst enemy, I’m already sympathizing with Jamie.
“She called me about a week ago—in a total Elizabeth Fairchild snit, I might add—and told me that since I was your best friend, could I please get you a message. Apparently—her words, not mine—you are emotionally confused, overwhelmed by your rich and bossy new boyfriend, and taking the whole thing out on her by ignoring her calls and emails.”
“Shit,” I say. “Sorry.”
“No, it’s okay. When she called, I was pissed off at my mom for some bullshit thing I don’t even remember now. After talking with your mother, I was practically giddy about my entire family tree.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly. “Now I feel better.”
She just grins. “Anyway, I guess she’s pissed that you sent someone to get all those old pictures of you, but then you ditched her calls. I’d ditch the calls, too, Nik, but why on earth would you tell someone to see your mom for old pictures? Who do you dislike so much you’d send them her way?”
“I didn’t,” I say as a finger of worry trails down the back of my neck, making me shiver.
“It may not be bad,” Jamie says, obviously seeing the concern on my face. “It’s probably just a reporter. Someone putting together the definitive article on the girl who got Damien Stark.”
Somehow, that doesn’t make me feel any better.
She cocks her head and points a finger at me. “As of now, we’re entering a worry free zone. For the rest of the day, nothing but sand and surf and margaritas.” She thrusts out her hand. “Deal?”
“Deal,” I agree, because that sounds pretty damn good to me.
Chapter Eighteen
My margarita-inspired dream is wildly erotic. A hot mouth closed tightly over my breast. Strong hands stroking my splayed legs, moving upward with sweet determination until the two thumbs are close enough to brush over my swollen and eager sex. I open my eyes, but I see no one. There is only the touch of his hands and the brush of his lips and—oh, please—the hard length of his cock inside me.
I cry out for Damien—my voice noiseless in the dream—but he does not appear. There is simply that touch. That pressure. That insistent stroking of flesh against flesh, the rise of heat, and the steady, growing scent of arousal. I am lost in it. Lost in this sensual haze that surrounds me. It is Damien—it is always Damien—but though I reach for him, my arms find only air.
And then there are hands upon my breasts and the hot, hard head of a cock between my legs. I cry out as he thrusts into me, his movements rhythmic but frenzied. Over and over he pounds in a violence that seems to carry us up and up, a wild dance, a dangerous coupling. My heart batters my chest, my body aches deliciously—he is using me, pounding me, and the power of his thrusts are such that I wonder I don’t pass out from the desperate intensity of his fucking.
My body quakes as the force of an orgasm rips through him, and I reach up to pull his body closer to mine, knowing that in this dreamworld he will remain ephemeral and I will clutch only air.
But I am wrong, and my fingers find heated skin and taut muscles.
Damien.
I open my eyes to find him balanced over me, his cock going soft inside me. His eyes are hard on mine, and we are both breathing hard. I feel gloriously alive. Well-fucked and adored. But I also see the storm in his eyes and something that comes dangerously close to regret.
I want to reach out and slap it off his face.
“I used you,” he says, his voice as tight as the muscles of his chest.
“Yes,” I say, then hook an arm around his neck. I lever myself up and capture his mouth in a deeply sensual kiss that has his cock twitching inside me. I pull him down, wanting him pressed hard against me, not balancing above me, and hold him tight. “God, yes.” I hook my feet around his legs, keeping him there, his skin hot against mine, our bodies still connected.
When I look in his eyes again, I see that the storm has faded. I sigh. I do not know what happened between Damien and his father, but I know enough to understand that it ripped him up and it was to me that he came. That it was my body and my touch that helped him work through his demons.
I hold him close, still astounded that we have such power over each other. That we are the balm to each other’s soul. It humbles me. And, yes, it terrifies me. Because how could we ever survive if we lose each other?
I fall asleep in his embrace, but when I awaken, I am alone in the room. I sit up and glance around. Despite all the time I’ve spent in this house, this is the first time I have gone to sleep in the master bedroom. The iron bed upon which I sit used to be in the third floor open area, but Damien had obviously decided on a more traditional approach when he had the bed moved back to his house.
Other than the bed, though, there is no furniture in here. And there is no Damien.
I frown and climb out of bed. It’s still dark, and I grapple in my purse for my phone, then groan when I see that it’s not yet five in the morning.
I consider falling back into bed, but I know that is not possible. I need Damien. And, I think, he needs me, too.
His shirt is on the floor, and I put it on. The house is huge, but I have a plan of attack, and I go first to the library—a mezzanine that essentially floats beneath the third floor, visible from the massive marble staircase, but accessible only by a secret elevator or a set of stairs hidden behind a door off the utility area. The lights are low, casting shadows over the cherrywood shelves and glass cases that display the few things from Damien’s childhood that he values enough to keep. The area is filled with memories, both delicious and bittersweet. Damien, however, is not here.