His hand returns between my legs, the other one going to cup my breast. I start to rise, but hear his sharp censure telling me to stay as I am, bent over and ready for him. “You want to be fucked, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I moan. It’s good that my hands are on the table. I don’t think my legs alone could hold me up. I am little more than sensation. I am need and longing and sexual energy, and if he doesn’t let me come soon, I fear that I will collapse from the pleasure of it all.
He slides two fingers in me, and I groan as my body tightens around him. I’m close—so very close—and I bite my lower lip in expectation of a soul-rocking explosion.
It doesn’t come.
For that matter, neither do I, and I whimper in protest as he withdraws his fingers, his hands going to a relatively chaste position on my hips.
“Turn around, baby,” he says. “I want to see your face.”
I turn, and his eyes say more than words ever could. I melt under the desire I see there. The need and the hunger. It rips through me until the only thing that I know in the world is Damien. “Kiss me,” I whisper.
He does, and it is a violent, hungry kiss that bruises my lips until I taste blood. He pushes me back onto the sturdy table, then grabs the dress at the bodice and rips it down, baring my breasts. I cry out, arching up to meet him, my hands going to his head to pull him down as his mouth closes over my nipple, his teeth biting just enough that I suck in air, cresting on a wave of intense pleasure that borders on pain.
“Now,” he says, and what remains of the dress is up around my waist. The table is hard against my back, but I don’t care, and I spread my legs wide for him then cry out as he thrusts deep inside me. I arch up, meeting his thrusts, feeling frenzied and wild and wicked and his.
Damien’s.
He explodes inside me, my name on his lips. And then, spent and soft, he slides his hand down to where I am slick with his semen. I gasp as he strokes me in small circles, faster and faster until I again cry out and my body bucks from the orgasm that rips through it, then finally calms as exhaustion and bliss take over.
“Wow,” I say, and curl up next to him.
“Indeed,” he says.
We stay like that for a moment, still in each other’s arms.
“This table is really uncomfortable,” I finally say.
Beside me, Damien laughs.
“I think we need to clean it up, too. I’m not sure the maids will understand.”
“I’m sure they’ve seen it all before,” he says.
I turn and meet his eyes, my brows raised.
“Right,” he says. “We’ll take care of it. But now, I’m taking you to bed.”
He holds out his hand, and I follow him into the spacious bedroom, with a bed that looks much more comfortable than the table. “A mattress,” I say. “How novel.”
“Come here.” He tugs me to the bed and we abandon what remains of our clothes before sliding under the covers. I curl up beside him and we lie like that for what feels like hours, talking and flipping channels and watching snippets of old movies.
This is yet another thing I love about Damien—that shift from frenzied passion to these soft moments when I feel safe and warm and cherished beside him. It’s as smooth and satisfying as a glass of port after a truly decadent meal.
“I’m not tired,” I say, when I notice that the clock reads four A.M. “I’d say that I’m going to regret this in the morning, but it already is morning.”
“Will you?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Not a minute of it,” I say.
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For indulging my fantasies.”
I laugh. “Why, Mr. Stark. Haven’t you heard? I’m yours to command.”
He kisses me lightly. “And I’m very, very glad.”
For a moment, we just lie there quietly. Then Damien says, “That phone call you asked about earlier. It was bad news. From a friend.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I remember what Charles Maynard said. “Is the friend in Germany?”
He gives me a sharp look. “Why would you say that?”
I shrug. “Charles’s voice carries.”
“So it does. No, Germany’s something different.”
“An indictment? One of your Stark International subsidiaries or something?”
The line of his mouth is hard as he answers. “Or something.”
“Are you worried?”
“No.” The word is firm. “Charles is handling it.”
I nod. Since I know nothing about the laws of international trade and finance, I can’t go far with this conversational thread. “Do you want to tell me about your friend’s bad news?”
For a second, I think that he’s going to say no. Then he speaks, his voice steady and even, as if he’s fighting for control. “It’s Sofia.”
It takes me a moment to place the name. “Your friend from childhood? The one Alaine mentioned?”
He nods. “She’s gotten herself into some trouble. It’s not the first time, but it’s frustrating. I keep hoping she’ll get her shit together, but she keeps screwing up.”
“I’m sorry. I hope it gets better for her.”
He kisses my forehead. “Me, too.”
I wait for him to tell me more, but he doesn’t. That’s okay, though, and I take his hand. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t need to ask what I mean. “I am trying,” he says.
“I know you are.” I spoon against him, feeling warm and safe. “And I appreciate it.”
I’m facing away from him, and as I close my eyes, he strokes his fingers over my bare skin. The minutes tick away, and when he speaks, I have already begun to drift off, so that his words have the quality of a dream. “I never used to sleep naked.”
“Why not?” I am only half awake, and I like that he is sending me to sleep with images of a naked Damien.
“Because when we traveled, Richter would come into my room. Somehow, I was always assigned a room of my own, even though the other boys had to share.”
My eyes are open now, but I don’t roll over. I’m afraid that if I look at him, he’ll stop talking. “What happened?”
“He would come in. And he would touch me.” His voice is strained. Hard and measured. “He would threaten me and swear that if I told anyone, that everything I had would be ripped away. And my father would have no money, and we’d starve on the street. But mostly, I would have the reputation of a little boy who told nasty, nasty lies.”