He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He already knows.
“You’re a goddamn fool, Nikki Fairchild.” The harshness in his voice makes me turn my head. I look at him, expecting anger or disgust or exasperation. What I see is desire.
“I don’t want an icon. Not on my wall, not in my bed. I want the woman, Nikki. I want you.”
“I—”
He presses a finger over my lips. “Our deal is on. No arguments. No exceptions.”
He eases off the bed and goes to the window, then pulls down one of the drapes. I hear the rattle of the ornate clips that have connected the material to the bar.
“What are you doing?”
“What I want,” he says as he ties the end of the drape to the bedpost. “Raise your arms.”
My pulse quickens, but I comply. Right now, I don’t want to be in charge. I don’t want to control. I want to be swept away, to be taken care of.
Gently, he twists the drape around my wrist, then weaves it through the bedposts before repeating the process with my other wrist. Finally, he ties the loose end off on the other bedpost.
“Damien.”
“Hush.” He kisses the soft skin of my wrist, then trails his lips down my arm, my shoulder, then over the curve of my breast. His mouth closes over my right nipple, and he sucks hard, making the areola pucker and tingle as he twists and strokes my other breast. Hot threads seem to crisscross my body, tracing from my breasts to my clit. My sex is throbbing, and I bring my legs together, trying to quell some of the building pressure.
He lifts his head and grins at me, and his expression is so devilish that I’m certain he knows exactly how I’m suffering. Then he sets off on his trail of kisses once more, moving down my stomach, to my navel, to my pubic bone, and then—oh, yes, oh, please.
But he shifts his attention, sitting up and putting his hands on my knees. “Spread your legs, Nikki.”
I shake my head, and he chuckles, then stands up and rips down another drape.
“What are you doing?”
“You know.”
“Damien, no. Please, no.”
He pauses and looks at me. “Do you know what a safeword is?”
“I—yes. I think so.”
“No doesn’t always mean no. But the safeword always means stop. If I go too far, that’s what you say. Do you understand?”
I nod.
“What do you want your safeword to be?”
My vocabulary has entirely left my mind. I look around the room, as if something will leap out at me, then gaze out at the ocean. “Sunset,” I say finally.
His mouth curves into a smile, he nods, and then he ties the drape to the post at the foot of the bed. I swallow and watch him.
Slowly, he reaches for my right foot, easing my legs apart. He looks at me, and I see the question mark in his eyes.
“Will you hurt me?”
His eyes dart to my scars. “Do you want me to?”
“I—I don’t know.”
“Do you know what passion is?”
I blink, confused.
“Most people think it only means desire. Arousal. Wild abandon. But that’s not all. The word derives from the Latin. It means suffering. Submission. Pain and pleasure, Nikki. Passion.” The flash of heat that burns across his expression is unmistakable. “Do you trust me?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitating.
“Then trust me to take you where you’ve never gone before.”
I nod, and he looks at me with such naked desire that warm satisfaction fills me. Gently, he binds my ankle, then moves on to the other. When he’s done, I’m spread-eagled on the bed, naked and helpless and undeniably turned on.
“You’re mine, Nikki. To touch. To soothe. To pleasure.” He tenderly cups my sex. I’m slick and hot and he groans with desire. “I want you, Nikki. I want to bury myself in you and fuck you hard. I want to hear you scream when you come. Tell me you want it, too.”
“Yes, oh, yes.” I’ve wanted it since he first touched me. Wanted to feel him inside me, filling me, claiming me.
He sits beside me on the bed, still in jeans and T-shirt. He trails his index finger up my stomach to my breasts. Slowly, he circles one, then the other. “Should I make you beg for it?” he teases.
“I will,” I say, utterly shameless.
His expression is devious. “I want you hot, I want you desperate.”
I swallow. “I already am.”
“We’ll see,” he says. Then he reaches for the robe and pulls off the sash. Without his eyes ever leaving mine, he puts it over my eyes.
“Damien?”
“Shhh.”
He ties it behind my head. I think of the word—sunset—but I keep it to myself. I want this. I want to feel, and how much more will I be able to if I can’t see?
The bed shifts, and I realize he’s no longer beside me. I bite my lower lip, but I refuse to call out. He’s playing a delicious game with me, and I fully intend to hold my own. He’s taken me full circle, I realize, from fear and shame, to excitement and arousal. I don’t think anyone but Damien could do that, and whatever he has planned for me now, I trust him.
I jump as something cold and wet hits my breast.
“Ice,” I whisper.
“Mmm.” But he doesn’t speak, because he’s licking the water off, his mouth hot against my nipple. He traces the cube down my belly, and my muscles jump and twitch from the cold and from excitement. His mouth follows, his tongue, his lips. He leaves a hot trail down my body. I tug against the sash that binds my wrists, wanting to touch him, wanting to rip off the blindfold. And yet I don’t want to, either. There’s something exciting about being so totally at his mercy. Of seeing just where this will lead.