I follow Edward up that staircase, and the change when we step onto the third floor landing is astonishing. There is nothing raw or half-complete about this area. The wood floors are polished to a shine, and accented by thick, expensive area rugs. The walls are painted in a pale rose, and I imagine that the space glows at sunset.
The entire room is stunning and inviting. It’s obviously meant for entertaining, despite the fact that the focal point is a giant bed. It’s been put there for my benefit, I’m certain, and I squeeze my thighs together in an attempt to stall the blood that is rushing to my sex.
The room appears to be missing a wall, but I quickly realize that the wall is made of glass partitions that have been pushed aside and hidden, like pocket doors taken to the extreme. I step outside and find myself on a stone balcony that looks out over the ocean. It’s closer than I expected considering how twisting and turning our drive was, and I can actually hear the crash of the waves.
“Mr. Stark will be right with you,” Edward says, and then he bows and leaves, and I’m left to explore on my own.
Part of me wants to stay outside and feel the sea breeze on my hair and listen to the ocean crashing beneath me. But I want to see the room. I go back inside and stand by the bed. It is positioned at an angle to the wide-open wall, and in that area sheer drapes have been hung from the ceiling. They flutter now in the breeze. An easel stands a few feet away, and I know that this area has been staged. For me. I tremble at the thought and run my hand over one of the bedposts. It’s old-fashioned, iron polished to a reflective sheen. Sturdy and yet sensual. Like Damien. Strong. As if this bed has demands of its own.
Oh …
The bed has no spread, only blue-gray sheets, rumpled to give it a slept-in quality. I wonder if Damien has slept here and I move to sit on the side facing the ocean. A gust of wind catches the drapes and they blow in, brushing my arms, bare in the souvenir tank top. I close my eyes and lie back, no longer wondering why Damien isn’t here yet. He wants me lost in my thoughts with this bed and this breeze and the gossamer feel of the silky drapes on my skin.
“I like that view.”
I know that voice, and I don’t move. I stay on the bed, but allow a smile to creep onto my face. “Then why don’t you come enjoy it?”
A moment later, I feel the mattress shift. I keep my eyes closed as his thumb strokes my lips, then traces downward between my breasts to the waistband of my jeans. “I told you not to wear underwear,” he whispers.
“I didn’t,” I say.
In the silence, I think I can hear his smile.
I keep my eyes closed as he unbuttons my fly and unzips my jeans. They fit loose, and his hand glides easily inside. My trimmed pubic hair is already damp, and by the time his fingers slide over my vulva, I’m slick with desire, my hips rising off the bed to meet his touch, my clit throbbing with anticipation.
“Mmm,” he whispers, sliding two fingers inside me, the sensations so surprising and arousing I bite my lip to keep from crying out. “And no more jeans. I want you only in skirts. No underwear. A garter if you want stockings. I want you accessible. Anytime, anywhere.”
My sex clenches around his fingers with excitement, and he moans softly. “God, you’re so responsive.” He pulls his fingers out of me, and I want to whimper from the loss. “Keep your eyes closed,” he says, and then I feel his fingers on my lips. “Suck,” he orders, and I draw his finger inside. It is slick with the taste of me, and I shift on the bed, squeezing my thighs together, sucking hard on him as I try to reach satisfaction.
Slowly, he pulls his fingers free.
“Damien,” I whisper.
“Mine,” he whispers, the word telling me everything I need to know. I’ll come when he’s ready for me to. The knowledge is arousing in itself—and damn frustrating, too.
I feel the press of his mouth against my breast. He sucks me through the tank top, and I arch up to meet him, then cry out when his teeth nip at my tender nipple. My eyes fly open and I find Damien Stark grinning playfully down at me. “Well, hello. I take it you like the bed?”
I sit up, trying to present a prim and calm facade. “Is it yours?”
“No,” he says. “Not the way you mean. It’s for the portrait. And this week. That means it’s yours, I suppose.” His eyes skim over me, and I shiver under his inspection. “Or ours.”
I swallow. “Well, you’ve staged a lovely room. I’m sure the portrait will be wonderful. When is the artist getting here?”
“He’s already here,” Damien says, then laughs when my eyes go wide with horror. “Don’t worry, he’s in the kitchen. I don’t do public sex.” He nips my ear. “I do everything else, though,” he whispers, and I feel my body flush as I wonder just what “everything else” could mean.
“Blaine,” he calls. “Why don’t you bring your coffee in here.”
“Blaine?” I ask. “I thought you didn’t care for his work.”
“On the contrary. I think his skill is exceptional. He conveys an intense eroticism. I simply wasn’t impressed with his models or with the staging. I want that same erotic allure, but without the trappings. I’ll tie you up, Nikki, but I won’t put a picture of it on my wall.”
Tie me up …
I nod stupidly. He keeps knocking me off kilter.
A moment later, Blaine comes in carrying a mug of coffee and I quickly button my jeans and get off the bed. He’s more casual than he was at Evelyn’s party, just Dockers and a black T-shirt. He smiles in a wide, friendly greeting. “Great to see you again, Nikki. Are you nervous?”