Complete Me Page 10

  I'd never expected to see her again.

  Then again, at the time I'd never expected to see Damien again, either. Apparently we've now come full circle.

  Instinctively, I take a step closer to Damien. He reaches down, his fingers automatically twining through mine.

  Carmela's eyes flicker down to our joined hands, and I have to bite back a triumphant smile. Ha. Take that, bitch. The thought is petty. But it's heartfelt.

  "What are you doing here?" Damien's voice is cold, his body tense. I can feel the irritation rolling off him in waves.

  "Damie, darling, don't be angry." She stretches, cat-like, as she reaches for a glass of wine on the table beside her. She takes a sip, looking perfectly at home.

  I want to go slap her face.

  "How the hell did you get in here?" Damien demands.

  Her eyes widen, then she glances at me. "After all the times I've shared this room with you, I'm like family. I just asked one of the room service boys to let me in."

  "It didn't occur to you that you were costing the boy his job?"

  She laughs. "Why would it? I thought we could celebrate your victory together. And when have you ever kicked me out of your room, Damie? When have you not been happy to see me?"

  "Now," he says.

  I'm watching her face as he speaks, and am startled to see that there is no reaction. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't blink. She is neither angry nor hurt.

  In other words, Carmela came here knowing exactly how this would play out. What a goddamned bitch.

  "Get up," I say. "Get up and get the hell out of here." That gets a reaction out of her. A tight, condescending smile that only pisses me off even more.

  Beside me, Damien squeezes my hand, but he says nothing. Somehow he knows that this is my fight now.

  "You're Nichole, aren't you?" she says, though there is no doubt in my mind that she knows exactly who I am. "You're the little girl who caught his eye in Texas at that ridiculous pageant."

  "I caught more than his eye, Carlotta," I say, deliberately getting her name wrong.

  Her eyes narrow. "Are you sure? Reality so rarely lives up to expectations. I hope you're prepared for the day he realizes that you are not the woman he wanted, after all."

  I flash my best pageant smile and conjure a honey-sweet Texas twang. "Sugar, I think you have us confused. I'm the one he's taking to bed. It's you he doesn't want." I imagine a stadium of people leaping to their feet and applauding. "Now get the hell out of here."

  I know my blow struck home from the way her eyes dart to Damien, as if he will soothe the wound. But Damien is not her salvation. "You heard the lady," he says. "Go."

  For an unpleasant moment, I think she's going to argue. Then she rises to her feet. She moves with deliberate slowness as she takes the last sip of her wine and then hooks her purse over her arm. It seems to take forever, but she finally steps over the threshold and out into the hallway, the weighted door slamming shut behind her.

  I turn to Damien. I can see the rage in his eyes. The rising fury. But it's tempered by something else. Regret. And apology. No, I think. No way in hell is he apologizing for that bitch.

  "Nikki, I--"

  "You what? You didn't know she would be here?"

  "You know I didn't." His voice is hard. Firm.

  "Do you think I'm going to be jealous, knowing that there was a time when she had free run of this suite?" I ask, making my voice even harder. I have a point to make, and I'm damn well going to make it. I cock my head, considering. "Just how many hotels around Europe is she intimately familiar with?"

  "Goddammit, Nikki."

  "One? Three? Five?"

  He stalks toward me and I take a corresponding step back, then another until my back is against one of the pillars that divides the sitting area from the kitchen and dining area. "Did you take her here? Like this? Hard against a wall?"

  "What the fuck are you doing?" Anger curls in his voice and I know that I've almost pushed him too far.

  "What do you think I'm doing?"

  "Pissing me off," he says, then kisses me hard, the force of his lips upon mine knocking my head back. I open my mouth to draw him in even as I hook one leg around him and curl my arms around his neck. I want him hard against me. I want to feel him--to feel our connection. Because nothing--not Carmela, not anybody--can break that.

  Roughly, he wrenches his mouth off mine. I hold him tight though, so that I feel his breath upon my face when he speaks. "You're the only woman in my life now, Nikki."

  I am breathing hard, my eyes never leaving his. "Don't you think I know that, too?"

  I see the exact moment when he realizes that I have been playing him.

  "Unless I find you in bed with one," I say, "don't you even think of apologizing for another woman. Believe it or not, Damien Stark, I was not under the impression that you'd taken a vow of chastity before sleeping with me."

  He looks me up and down, his eyes filled with a dangerous kind of heat.

  "What?" My voice is wary.

  "I think, my very dear Ms. Fairchild, that you are in for a much-deserved punishment."

  "Oh." I feel the tightening in my body simply from the thought of his hand smacking hard against my ass. Still, though . . .

  I try to take a step backward, but am blocked by the pillar. "Why? Because I pushed your buttons? That doesn't seem quite fair."

  "No," he says, "it doesn't. And not because of that."

  "What then?"

  "Do you really think it's in the realm of possibility that you would ever find another woman in our bed?"

  "No," I say.

  "Well, there you go."

  I cross my arms over my chest. "But you know I don't believe it and didn't mean it."

  "I do," he says. "But I'll tell you a little secret. It's the best excuse I have for bending you over and feeling the sting on my palm."

  I lick my lips. The room turns suddenly warm, and I feel beads of moisture at the back of my neck and between my thighs. I reach back, holding on to that pillar to steady myself. "Is that something you want?" I keep my voice low and even; it's damn sure something I want.

  "Right now," Damien says, "I want it more than anything."

  He uses the pad of his thumb to trace lightly along my jawline. I close my eyes and draw in a breath, suddenly unable to concentrate.

  "Why?"

  "You know me better than anyone, Nikki. You know why."

  I do know. He needs me like I used to need a blade--like I now need him. In a day when he's been blindsided by horrific pictures of his past and bitchy ex-girlfriends, he needs to know that I will surrender utterly to him. That it is Damien who controls my pleasure even by controlling my pain. He needs to know that he can take me to that limit. And he needs to know that I want him to.

  And I do.

  Everything has spun out of control. Not just Carmela's appearance in our room, but the whole day. Ollie's appearance in Germany. The horrible photos. Damien's reaction to the dismissal of the murder charge against him.

  Too much noise, and it all bubbled up inside of me, so much so that when it knocked Damien flat, I'd craved the feel of a blade in my hand. I'd fought it, though. I'd fought and I'd won. I didn't need to cut, but I still needed Damien. Do need Damien. I need to feel his hands upon me and the rise of pleasure accompanied by the sharp sting of pain. I need the release to keep me anchored. A safety valve preventing me from exploding.

  I need it--and so does Damien.

  "Take off your skirt." His voice is tight.

  "I--"

  He cuts me off with a quick shake of his head. I get it; we're through talking. We're moving on. We're leaving the trial and Carmela and the photographs behind. We're saying fuck you to the real world and sliding back into our bubble, which is just where I want to be.

  "Your skirt," he repeats, his tone broaching no argument.

  "Yes, sir," I say, and his slow, approving smile slides over me as intimately as his hand upon my sex.

&n
bsp; Slowly, I reach behind my back and unzip my skirt. I wriggle my hips and use my hands to ease it down until it falls in a circle at my feet.

  "Step out of it," Damien says.

  I do.

  "Now the top. Pull it off. Toss it over there."

  Once again, I comply. I feel the rush of air against my newly exposed skin, the sensation even more enticing considering how sensitive my nipples are from the clamps and how heavy my breasts feel simply from the minimal weight of the silver chain. I shiver, not from the chill of the air, but from the anticipation of what is to come. I do not know exactly what Damien has in mind. I only know that I want it, and that it will be spectacular.

  I move my hands to the front clasp of my bra, but he shakes his head. "No. I'll do that." He steps closer, and I find it suddenly hard to breathe, as if the air has become as thick as liquid. I should be used to this by now--to the way he makes my body hum, the way molecules seem to shimmer when he is near me. I should be able to draw a breath without trembling, and stand beside him without feeling as though I will swoon. But I cannot, and so help me I hope that day never comes. I am in thrall to this man, and I do not want anything about that to change.

  His hands brush the swell of my breasts as he detaches the rings. I gasp, surprised by the rush of sensation back to my nipples that is at least as enticing as the initial shock of contact when he put them on. He sets the chain and rings on the bar, then removes my bra, sending shocks of anticipation shooting through me. I close my eyes, expecting to feel his mouth close over me, his teeth grazing my nipple. But that sweet sensation doesn't come. Instead, his palms stroke down my arms and his fingers close around my wrists. Gently, he raises my hands above my head. "Keep your eyes closed," he whispers.

  Satin twines gently around my wrist before tightening, the pressure pulling my hand flush with the pillar. "What are you--"

  "Hush," he says. A moment later, I feel that same constriction around my other wrist. I try to move my arms, but they are bound in place, and I realize that Damien has used my bra to tie me to this pillar.

  "Clever," I say.

  "Enticing," he retorts. "Can I trust you not to peek?"

  "Yes," I say.

  "Mmm." From his tone, I'd have to say he doesn't believe me, and I open my eyes to find him frowning at me. I grin sheepishly, but he says nothing. Just turns and goes into the bedroom leaving me tied to a pillar in the living room, wearing nothing but my thigh-high stockings, high heels, and a conservative strand of pearls.

  I twist my head, trying to see what's he's doing, but it's impossible. I listen, but I hear nothing.

  I close my eyes and say a silent prayer that he's not leaving me here. Unfortunately for me, I know damn well that I can't discount the possibility. "Damien?"

  There is no answer.

  "Mr. Stark? Sir?"

  Again, the room remains silent. And I, alone and essentially naked, can't help but wonder just how long he'll be gone. For that matter, I can't help but wonder what he'll do when he returns. This may be my punishment, but I know that the reward, when it finally comes, will be astounding.

  "And here I thought you had more patience." I hear his voice, but there is no Damien.

  "And here I thought you were going to fuck me. At the very least, you were going to spank me."

  Then he steps in from the bedroom, his stride long and easy, his back straight, his expression that of a man who knows damn well that the earth will rotate whichever way he tells it to. All that power, and right now it is focused entirely on me. "Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?"

  "Maybe I'm feeling a little cheated," I say.

  "I promise you won't by the time I'm through with you," he says with such heat in his voice that it's a wonder I don't melt right there, and slip out of my bond like butter. "I didn't get to take you as far as I would have liked during our limo ride. I intend to remedy that now. Slowly, and very, very thoroughly."

  He has something in his hand, and it takes me a minute to realize it's one of his ties. "Your eyes are open," he says.

  "Ah." I can hardly argue, as I'm looking right at him.

  "Close them," he says, and I do. I feel the brush of silk over my eyes, then the tug as he tightens the tie around the back of my head. His lips brush the corner of my mouth. "Nice," he says. His lips brush my ear. "Now everything you hear, everything you feel, every bit of pleasure, every hint of pain will come from me. So tell me, Nikki. Does that excite you?"

  "You know it does."

  His lips graze my neck, and his one simple word seems to reverberate through me. "Why?"

  I swallow. It's not a question I expected. "Because--because you know me. Because you know what I can take. You know what I want. You know my limits, Damien. And because you push them."

  "Good girl."

  He reaches up and traces his finger lightly along my collarbone, then over the strand of pearls. A moment later, he has removed the necklace, and I hear the clink of pearls against pearls as he crunches the strand in his palm, then cups his hand over my breast.

  I tilt my head back and suck in air as he rubs small circles over my nipple, massaging me with the hard, slick surface of the cluster of pearls. Then he opens his hand more and I feel the brush of the necklace as he untangles it, then rubs the strand enticingly against the swell of my breast, my puckered areola, and my oh-so-sensitive nipple.

  "Damien," I murmur as he trails the tip of the strand down my belly, careful to let only the smooth surface of one stone touch my skin. The sensation is intoxicating. The cool brush of the gem. The sweet anticipation of not knowing where the next touch will fall.

  I jump a little when the necklace grazes my pubis, then bite down on my lower lip, willing myself to stand still.

  "Should I crush these as Cleopatra did?" he whispers.

  "I don't need an aphrodisiac," I retort, my voice breathy.

  "No, I don't think you do. I can see the flush on your skin, I can breathe in the scent of your arousal. When I touch you, I know I will find you desperately wet for me. Won't I, Nikki?"

  "Oh, God, yes."

  "Good." I hear the smile in his voice. "Now spread your legs for me."

  I do, then moan when he draws the strand of pearls between my legs, back and forth, the strand becoming slick with my own arousal. Each perfect gem glides over my clit, and the sensation is maddening, right where I want it, and yet at the same time not quite there. Not quite enough. I squirm, shameless, wanting more. Hell, wanting it all.

  "Shhh," Damien says. He is right in front of me, and he pulls the strand free, making me whimper in protest. Then I feel his fingers on me, stroking and opening me.

  "Yes," I say. I need to feel him inside me. I need to come, to explode, to release this maddening pressure.

  I hear the crunch of the pearls in his hand again, then he rolls the cluster enticingly over my desperate sex. I am being bombarded with sensations, buried in heat. I am on edge, desperately aroused, and on the verge of simply crying out and begging.

  What I'm not expecting is for him to stretch me wide and slide the pearls inside me.

  "Damien! What the--"

  He silences me with a kiss. "Quiet," he says. "And stay still."

  And then he's gone and I'm left naked and exposed and unsatisfied, my sex heavy from the knot of pearls tucked inside me, my body desperate for his touch, and my mind spinning with possibilities.

  "Damien?"

  At first I don't hear him. Then I detect the slightest rattle from behind me. I strain against the bond that keeps my hands tight above me. I want to take off this blindfold. I want to see.

  I want Damien.

  It's no use, though, and all my struggles do is shift the pearls even more. Little shock waves burst through me, but not enough to bring on the explosion that I so desperately crave. Damien--damn him--has brought me to the edge and left me there.

  And this, I think, is part of the punishment he promised.

  The pillar with which my ass is now on such familiar
terms is the line of demarcation between the living area and the suite's kitchen. We've eaten out or ordered room service most nights, so we haven't had to rely on the kitchen for anything other than the storage of wine and ice cream, the latter being a late-night splurge about a week ago. I checked it out my first night in Germany, though, and was impressed to find it fully stocked.

  I hear him moving about, but I can't tell what he's doing. There is the thud of a drawer. The clatter of cutlery. And then there is the even rhythm of Damien's steps as he moves toward me. "Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?" he asks. "Your skin flush. Your nipples hard. Your lips parted as if waiting for my kiss."

  "I am waiting," I say, and am rewarded by the briefest touch of his lips upon mine. Brief, yes, but oh so powerful. Much like the butterfly effect in chaos theory, that minuscule sensation has set off a chain reaction, sending sparks humming and dancing throughout my body. It's deliciously sweet, but it isn't enough.

  "Turn around," he says.

  "Um . . . ?" I tug on my hands, still bound to the pillar above me.

  "Cross your wrists and turn," he says, and though I'm dubious, I manage. Now I am facing the pillar, though with the blindfold I can see nothing, and my back is to Damien. "Good girl. Now slide down a bit. That's it," he adds as I try to ease my hands down. I have to scoot back to manage, and I end up with my torso almost parallel to the floor. The position shifts the pearls, and I draw in a shuddering breath.

  He runs his palm over the curve of my rear, and I bite my lower lip in anticipation of a firmer touch. "Beautiful," he whispers, then slides his fingers down. I'm so wet and so ready, and his low moan of satisfaction sends another shiver through me. I swallow, expecting him to thrust his fingers inside me, but then he withdraws his hand, and I find myself whimpering--and hear Damien chuckling.

  "Soon. I have something else in mind, first. Your legs," he says, tapping the inside of my thighs gently. "A bit wider."

  I comply again, my brow furrowed. That wasn't his hand upon my leg just then, but I'm not sure what--

  "It's interesting how many things one can find in a kitchen that entice," Damien says, interrupting my thoughts. "This, for example, seems quite intriguing."

  I feel something warm and flat press gently against my rear. The surface is slightly rough, and I cock my head without thinking, trying to figure out what it could be.