“And if I don’t?”
“You studied science, Ms. Fairchild. Surely you’re aware that every action has an equal and opposite reaction.”
“Oh.” I slide my finger over my sensitive clit, then gasp, not expecting the fast, hard tremor that shoots through me in release.
“You like that, Ms. Fairchild?” he asks.
My cheeks flame. I’m not sure if he means his terms or my orgasm. I draw myself up. “What if I don’t agree?”
“Then I don’t get my painting, and you don’t get your million.”
“Why make me agree? I’ve already said I’ll pose.”
“Because I can. Because I want you. Because I don’t want to court my way up to our first fuck. And because I don’t want to play games.”
“Isn’t a game exactly what you’re playing?”
“A fair point, Ms. Fairchild. But I want this on my terms.”
“You say you want me, but you don’t. You say you want my portrait, but you won’t.”
For a moment, I hear nothing. Damien Stark is trying to figure out my angle. “You’re wrong,” he finally says.
“I don’t think so. And that’s why my terms are important. You call it off—the painting, this game—and I still get my money.”
“Is that an agreement?”
“It’s a condition.”
“Very well. I accept your condition.”
“And we don’t start now. We start at the first session with the artist.”
“You’re a tough negotiator, Ms. Fairchild. But I accept your proposed commencement date.”
I roll my eyes. He’s getting weary of my tweaks to his deal. Well, too bad. “And it’s not open-ended,” I add. “For all I know, you’re paying the artist by the hour, and he’ll take a year to complete it. One week, Mr. Stark.”
“One week?” He doesn’t sound happy.
“That’s my best offer. And, of course, you’ll have to work around my day job. But my evenings and the weekend are yours.”
“Very well. One week. Now, do we have a deal?”
I want to say yes. Instead, I say, “What—what exactly do you want to do with me?”
“So many things, but mostly I want to fuck you. Hard and fast and very thoroughly.”
Oh my.
“I—will it be kinky?”
He chuckles. “Would you like it to be?”
I don’t know. “I’m not—I mean, I haven’t ever.” I feel my cheeks start to burn furiously. I’ve been out on a horrible number of first dates, courtesy of my mother, but have had only two real boyfriends. The first was more experienced than I was, and by that I mean that he’d dated a college girl even though we were in high school. But unless a fast fuck on top of his parents’ pool table counts, there was nothing remotely kinky about our relationship. As for the second, there was definitely pain with Kurt, but only the emotional kind.
All in all, the types of things Damien might be talking about are outside my realm of experience.
Stark seems to understand my hesitation. “I want to give you pleasure,” he says. “That’s all I want to do. Will we do things that are kinky? You may think so. But I also think you’ll like it.”
I tremble, surprised by how much I want to know what things he wants to do with me. Under my tank top, my nipples are hard. Between my legs, my sex throbs. I think you’ll like it. Yeah, I think so, too. Assuming we get that far. Assuming he doesn’t call off the deal once he sees me naked.
I close my eyes wishing things were different. Wishing I was different.
“Take a chance, Nikki,” he says softly. “Let me show you how far I can take you.”
I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. I remember our game in the limo. “Yes, sir,” I finally say.
He sucks in air sharply. I’ve surprised him, and the thought thrills me. “Good girl,” he says. Then, “Dear God, I want you now.”
Me, too. “The first session, Mr. Stark,” I say, but the tremble in my voice gives me away.
“Of course, Ms. Fairchild. I’ll send a car for you tomorrow evening. I’ll text you when it’s on the way. Stay in tonight and relax. I want you refreshed. And open your door. There’s something for you on the mat.”
On my mat?
“Sweet dreams, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, then clicks off before I can ask what he’s talking about.
I hurry from my bedroom, passing Jamie who’s still napping on the couch. I open the door to find a small box wrapped in silver paper.
I don’t even bother taking it into the apartment, just tear off the paper and lift the lid. There’s a stunning ankle bracelet inside. Diamonds and emeralds set in platinum and strung on a delicate chain. It sparkles in my palm, the weight negligible.
Beneath the bracelet, I find a handwritten note. For our week. Wear this. D.S.
Our week? He must have just written this. Must have just been here, outside the apartment.
The realization sends a shiver up my spine. I unclasp the latch, bend down, and hook it around my ankle. Then I stand up and look defiantly out toward the street.
I see a car, red and sporty and obviously expensive. I can’t see through the tinted windows, but that doesn’t matter. I am certain that it’s Damien.
I watch, silently daring him to come to me. Or maybe I’m begging? I honestly don’t know. But the car door doesn’t open. The car doesn’t move.
Our time hasn’t begun.
Finally, I have reached my limit. I turn and go back into the apartment. I close the door and sag against it, feeling warm and edgy. But I’m smiling. Because out there in the world, Damien Stark is waiting for me.