I lean against the car door as I read the message, but I don’t feel the least bit guilty. Instead, his words heat my already sensitive skin, and just the pressure of my jeans against my clit is making me a little crazy.
Are you touching yourself now?
I shake my head as I quickly reply: No.
But you want to.
Oh, god, how I want to.
I don’t text a reply, but it doesn’t matter. He knows me well.
Hell, he knows me intimately.
Naughty girl, he says.
Maybe I like naughty.
I imagine his cocky smile. Maybe I like it, too. Soon, baby. I’ll be there soon. Until then, imagine me, touching you.
I draw in a ragged breath as I wonder how much time I have left. I can’t be sure, and I want to be ready, so I grab my shopping bags from the backseat and hurry into the house. It’s empty, but clean and fresh. The caretaker and his wife live on the property, and although they’ve gone to Victorville to visit their daughter for the holidays, they aired out the house and even set up a huge Christmas tree in the vaulted living room. It’s lit, but there are no other decorations on it. That is something that Damien and I will do with our friends.
I take a quick look around and put Damien’s present under the tree, but otherwise I don’t waste any time. He may want me naked, but I have other plans, and I hurry to the bedroom with my bags—one from Marilyn’s Lounge and another from the Target I popped into during my drive.
By the time I hear the telltale beep that signals the front door opening, I’m on the sofa in the great room. The sun is setting outside, and I can see the glow of the sunset on the hills through the glass doors. The white lights on the tree twinkle, and it’s magical. I’m looking forward to seeing it decked out with presents and ornaments tomorrow night.
Right now, though, it’s not the tree I’m thinking about. Instead, I lean back against the cushions and close my eyes. There are two glasses of wine on the coffee table. Mine is already half empty, and I can feel the warmth of the alcohol flowing through me, heating my already overheated body even more.
I hear his footsteps, and like Pavlov’s dog, I respond simply to the proximity of this man I love. My skin tingling. My breasts tightening. I desperately want to slide my hand down between my legs and ease the ache, but I don’t. Instead, I have one hand resting on the seat cushion, another on the back of the sofa. And I wait. I simply wait.
“Someone really is a naughty girl.” He is right above me, and I think he must have taken off his shoes to cross so silently. I breathe in a quick, startled breath as I sit up straight, longing for him even though I had told myself I would play it cool and simply stay here.
His fingertip brushes my hairline, then my lips, then down to lightly stroke my collarbone.
“Very naughty,” he repeats as he reaches the neckline of the very boring, very unsexy quilted robe I’d picked up at Target.
I open my eyes and smile at him, then bite back a moan when I see the wicked heat in his eyes and the stern expression on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Mr. Stark.”
“Mmm.” He says nothing else, but he walks around the couch to stand in front of me. He’s still wearing a charcoal gray suit, his waistcoat still buttoned and his tie still knotted neatly at his neck. He looks confident and in control. He looks like a man who could command a boardroom as easily as he can command me.
He looks like the man he is—Damien Stark, and I know that when I disobey I am playing with fire.
Frankly, I can’t wait to get burned.
“Stand up,” he says, and I don’t hesitate. He glances down, and I see the slightest twitch at the corner of his lips when he notices the ugly fuzzy slippers I’ve got on my feet.
He makes a rough noise in the back of his throat, then moves to sit on the couch, his feet on the floor and his knees slightly apart. He pats the edge of the couch cushion between his legs. “Put your right foot here.”
I comply, then close my eyes again when he slowly strokes the tip of his finger around my exposed skin before pulling the ugly slipper off. He tosses it aside, then turns his attention to my foot again, moving his finger slowly along the instep, then over my heel and up the back of my calf until I’m whimpering from the pressure building between my legs.
He feels it, too. I can see his erection bulging against the suit material, and as I meet his eyes, I move my foot inward, closer to his crotch. And then, very gently, I press the arch of my foot over his erection and am rewarded with his low, deep groan of pleasure.
“The robe,” he says, his voice a growl. “Take it off.”
I move to comply, tugging down the ugly plastic zipper and then throwing the quilted monstrosity onto the floor. I know that he expects me to be naked underneath, but I’m not. I’m wearing a black and red underbust corset with tiny, frilly panties that are both crotchless and backless.
Frankly, that would be more than enough to surprise my husband, but I’d grabbed one more thing from his closet before I’d left for the mountains—a set of nipple rings attached with a silver chain. The chain hangs down over the corset and the clamps on the rings are just tight enough so that the weight of the chain and the brush of that robe against my nipples has kept me in a constant state of pain, pleasure, and arousal.
“Christ, Nikki.” I hear the passion in his voice, and beneath my foot, his cock has hardened to steel. I see the subtle working of his jaw as he tries to cling to control. Since I’m determined that he will lose that battle, I slide my hand down between my legs, over the satin that seems to cover my crotch, and then slowly—very slowly—slip my fingers into myself.