Damien: A Stark Novel (Stark Saga Book 6) Read online

  As he watched, she bit her lower lip, then closed her free hand over her breast. She stroked it, caressing her nipple lightly, then tugging at it to a point that was surely painful. She bucked, making the water slosh out of the tub, and her soft moans echoed in the large bathroom.

  He realized with surprise that he was stroking himself through his pants, and that he was close. Possibly as close as she was. He closed his eyes, striving to regain some control, and when he opened them again, he found her looking right back at him.

  “Do you want me?” His voice was raw. Rough.

  “Always,” she said. “But no.” She licked her lips, then looked away as if shy. “I want you to watch.”

  “Christ, Nikki.”

  She tilted her head so that she was facing him again. For a moment, she held his gaze, her hand beneath the water stroking in slow, rhythmic motions. “Come on, baby,” he urged, but she just shook her head. And instead of continuing to play with her clit, she slid two fingers deep inside, arching her head back and lifting her hips as she finger-fucked herself, slow and deep, then faster as her arousal spiked.

  She met his eyes, then drew her hand free, her fingers once again on her clit as she rubbed tight circles, then closed her eyes, her body tense. His, too. Then she gasped, her body shaking as she made the sounds he heard so often in bed. Sounds designed to make him hard. To make his blood heat.

  Sounds that pushed him to the edge.

  And oh, fuck, he was close right now.

  “Please,” she said. “Oh, yes, oh, please.” Then she bucked up, splashing what seemed like gallons of water onto the tile floors. And as she exploded, there was only one word on her lips—“Damien.”

  He lost it.

  He absolutely fucking lost it. He hadn’t intended to come, not like that. But dear God, what she did to him.

  He stood there, still fully clothed, a goddamn satisfied mess, as he watched his very smug wife extend a hand to him.

  “I think it’s only right I help you clean up.”

  “You think so?”

  A slow, sexy grin eased across her face. “I may have other things in mind, too. Guess we’ll have to see. Right now, I need you naked.”

  “Never let it be said I failed to give my wife exactly what she needed.”

  She started to reply, but he pressed a finger over his lips, silencing her. He unbuttoned his shirt, slipped out of it, then dropped it on the floor. He’d already taken his shoes and socks off in the bedroom, and now he stripped out of the pants and briefs. Naked, he moved into the warm water to sit in front of her, lifting her extended legs onto his so that their bodies crossed.

  Silently, he cupped her waist, then moved her within easy kissing distance. And because kisses were on his mind, he did just that, holding her by the neck as he bent forward until his mouth was on hers. Sweetly gentle at first. A tiny taste. A delicious lick. Their mouths played softly, their breathing came harder, and their small sounds of pleasure floated around them, buoying them up.

  Soon, though, passion increased, and those nips and teases grew into slow, heated kisses. The kind that made a woman wet. That made a man go hard.

  One hand was behind her head and he slid it around, trailing kisses down her arched neck as his fingertips followed the path to her breast. He teased her nipple, rolling it hard between his thumb and forefinger. Then bent to close his mouth over her other breast, tasting skin and soap and the heady flavor of his wife. This incredible woman who quelled his demons and stilled his ever-churning thoughts.

  And he didn’t want to think. Didn’t want the day circulating in his head. Not now.

  Instead, he wanted the respite that only Nikki could bring.

  She slid her hands up his thighs until she reached his cock, then stroked him with her bath-oiled fingers. He felt himself go harder, that wild need to bring her closer—to claim her so intimately they became one—burning through him. Moving his hands to her hips, he slid his fingers between her legs, thrusting slowly in and out as she rocked her hips, taking him deeper, and with each thrust, teasing her clit on the pad of his thumb.

  “Is that what you want, baby? You want to come again, you greedy girl?”

  “Oh, God, yes,” she said, the fervency of her response making his cock ache.

  This was what he needed. This moment, this woman. A reprieve from the noise and the drama and the horror, lost here in the arms of his wife, his love. A few moments to feel as though all was right with the world. And to let himself believe that between the two of them, they had the power to keep the nightmares away, even if only for a little bit.

  She trembled in his arms, so full of erotic electricity he was surprised that sparks weren’t shooting across the tub, burning them to cinders. She was close, ready to explode, and he wanted—hell, needed—to feel her body tighten around him when she did.

  He slid closer until he was almost in the middle of the tub, then met her eyes as he ordered, “On me, baby. I want you to ride my cock.”

  He saw the heat flare in her eyes as her teeth dragged over her lower lip.

  “I like the way that sounds,” she said, her voice husky with desire. She shifted in the tub, and he held her perfect ass as one of her hands rested on his shoulders. The other slipped under the water to find his shaft, then slowly stroked, managing—because she was a goddamn miracle worker—to make him even harder.

  “Don’t tease me, Nikki. I want to feel your cunt, hot and wet, around me.”

  She moaned, just as he knew she would. He loved how responsive she was. How turned on she got when he talked dirty, telling her exactly what he wanted, what he planned.

  “That’s it,” he said as she guided him to her core, and he felt her exquisite tight heat as she lowered herself, taking him all the way inside her. “Oh, baby, that’s perfect. Tell me what you want.”

  “Kiss me,” she said, her hips moving in a slow, sensual rhythm, warm water splashing around them.

  His cock twitched inside her, just from the heated desire in her voice. He used one hand to cup her head as he claimed her mouth, relishing the taste of her. The way her fingers threaded through his hair, urging him closer, as if nothing else in the world mattered except the pleasure of their connection.

  At first, her hips were still and the kiss deep but gentle. But he needed more, craved more, and he drew her tighter against him, his tongue no longer exploring, but demanding. She matched him thrust for thrust, their tongues warring, their lips teasing, their teeth clashing.

  She had both hands on his head as she held him close, her mouth a frenzy against his, her fingers tight in his hair, so that the only way he could leave her embrace would be to literally rip himself free. But he never wanted to leave. Right then, he wanted this moment to last forever.

  His hand found her breast, and he stroked her smooth skin. She bit his lip, then arched back in pleasure when he pinched her nipple, her cry of, “Yes, God yes,” reverberating through him.

  He took advantage of her new position by lowering his mouth, this time teasing her nipple with his teeth, biting then sucking then biting again. She tasted as incredible as she felt, and her moans and cries sent them both spiraling higher, spinning closer to release. To that wild moment when pleasure overcomes the pain of utter destruction. Because she would destroy him. How many times had he exploded in her arms? La petite mort. The little death. And oh, how he longed for it now.

  Her hips rocked faster as she rode him, wild and hot, the motion making waves in the tub, sending water splashing over the sides. Forget slow and sensual. This was a hard, wild fuck, and dear God he loved it. Loved her.

  “Play with your clit, baby,” he ordered, his voice low.

  She met his eyes. “You do it for me.”

  “Oh, no,” he said, then kissed her hard as he slid his hand, now slick with bath oil, down her back. Lower and lower until his fingertip found her ass and teased the tight little muscle. She gasped, then bit her lower lip. He waited, just in case she wanted to prot
est, but she just rocked slowly against him as she lifted her hands to tease her own breasts.

  “Baby,” he murmured, easing his finger inside and watching her eyes go dark with passion.

  “Touch yourself,” he repeated, his free hand behind him to keep them steady. “My finger’s otherwise occupied.”

  She didn’t answer aloud, but she slid one hand down from her breast to disappear under the water. Then he felt the brush of her fingers against his cock as she teased her clit while riding him, her motions coming faster and faster as her climax bore down on her. When she finally came, the explosion was so intense that the clenching of her muscles around his finger and his cock drove him over the edge, too.

  His body shattered, and he grabbed one of her hips, desperate for the leverage to thrust her down, deeper and harder, craving that last intense connection before his entire body went limp, sated and satisfied.

  She fell forward on top of him, breathing hard and practically buzzing with pleasure. He wrapped his arms around her, then simply clung to her, as the water cooled around them.

  “I love you,” he whispered. And though there was more he could tell her—enough words to fill an eternity—right then, those three words were enough.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Damien brought the Cessna in for the final approach. Below him, the runway stretched out. A long, straight path, and all he had to do was follow it home.

  Straightforward. Simple. And in a few moments, he and Jackson would be in San Diego on the ground safe and sound. Because all that was required for that outcome was that he not fuck up the landing.

  Wasn’t that a mirror of life? Love, a family, children. He’d fought for what he had, for the family he’d built. And yet somehow, he’d been knocked off the path.

  Somehow, he’d fucked up.

  He just didn’t know how or where, and right now, it felt as though he was standing too close to a Monet, the dabs of colored brushstrokes not making sense. But if he could step back and look at it from a different perspective, then the entire picture would become clear.

  Maybe it would be clear when he stood back and looked at his father.

  “You’re expecting it to be him,” Jackson said once they were on the road.

  “Aren’t you?”

  Jackson drew in a breath, then turned and looked out the window as Damien maneuvered the rented Lexus toward the hilltop home their father had bought a few years ago. For a moment, Jackson said nothing, and Damien started to think his brother wasn’t going to answer. Then Jackson spoke, the words measured and low.

  “He’s not a good man,” Jackson said. “And the more I learn of him, the more I know that I won’t change my mind about that. I think of myself as a good man, but sometimes I wonder if I’m just delusional. Because how can I have come from Jeremiah Stark and have the slightest bit of good in me?”

  Damien clutched the steering wheel as Jackson voiced what he’d felt his whole life. Hell, what he’d been fighting his whole life. “Neither one of us is our father,” he said, as much to himself as to Jackson. “And I can testify that you are a good man. And that means a lot coming from a man who thought you were a conniving prick the first time we met.”

  As he’d hoped, Jackson chuckled, then turned to face Damien. “Fair enough. But here’s the thing—as vile as I think our father is—and even knowing something about what he allowed Richter to do to you—I can’t imagine him putting Anne at risk. Can you? Can you really?”

  Damien stiffened, those dark days filling his mind. All the times he’d begged his father to let him off the circuit. The moment he realized his father knew exactly what was going on.

  “Why? Why can’t we just hire a new coach?”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  A wild fury ripped through Damien. “Simple?” His voice broke and he hated himself for it. “Do you know what he does to me? What he—never mind. Forget it. Never mind.”

  “I know what he can do. And that’s take you all the way to the top and make us one hell of a lot of money in the process. Seems to me that whatever he wants—all this noise that you’re sniveling about—is a small price to pay for fame and for fortune.”

  In the Lexus, Damien suppressed a shiver. “I can,” he said. “I don’t have any problems imagining it at all.”

  * * * *

  “This is why my sons visit me?” Jeremiah Stark paced the sunlit living room like a wildcat. He came to a stop in front of Jackson, then turned angry eyes on Damien.

  They’d laid the whole story on him. Rory’s murder. The logical conclusion suggested by Jeremiah’s two million dollar debt. And then Damien had told him what he believed.

  “You really think that’s possible?” Jeremiah focused on Damien’s face. “You really believe that I could have had something to do with that sweet baby girl being yanked away from you?”

  “Yeah,” Damien said evenly. “I do.”

  “Well, fuck you, Mister Big Shot.” Jeremiah’s voice shook but he stood his ground. “Fuck you,” he repeated, then punctuated the words by slamming his palm unexpectedly against Damien’s chest, sending his body stumbling backwards and his fury spiraling up.

  “Okay, whoa there.” Jackson said as Damien righted himself and surged forward. “Both of you, just retreat to your corners.”

  “Did you hear him?” Jeremiah said. “Were you listening to what he’s accusing me of?”

  “Not an accusation. Not yet. But we’re looking at a two million dollar ransom when you’re staring down a two million dollar debt. That deserves a question. And that’s why we’re here. To ask the question.”

  “Well, you have your answer. So get the hell out of my house.”

  “Your house,” Damien said slowly. “And how exactly did you earn the money to buy this house?”

  Jeremiah said nothing, just stared defiantly at the wall.

  “You’ve lived off me for most of my life, and I put up with it despite the hell you put me through. It was easier to write you a check than to listen to your begging and excuses and lame justifications. I paid you off to keep you away, Jeremiah. But then I shut off the flow. And I just know that pissed you off.”

  “I didn’t—”

  Damien held up a hand, cutting him off. “I know you were pissed, Dad. How could you not be? Your steady income suddenly all dried up. And now there’s debt and no way for you to pay it off.”

  He took a step toward his father, his body tense, ready to lash out. Wanting to lash out. “Is that why you did it? To get money for the debt?” His voice rose with his anger. “Or was it more than that? Were you punishing me for cutting you out? Cutting you off?”

  He felt Jackson’s hand on his shoulder and realized that he’d inched so close that his father was pressed up against the closed glass door, and Damien was only millimeters from his face. “Back it off, brother.”

  With a violent jerk, Damien shrugged out from Jackson’s touch and turned away, furious with himself for coming so close to snapping.

  He took a deep breath, then another.

  “I didn’t—”

  “No.” The word was hard and firm, and as he spoke it, Damien turned back around, not driven by fury this time, but by a rage that burned colder. Deeper. “I don’t want to hear your excuses. I don’t want to hear your denials. I just want to tell you this—if I find out that you had anything to do with my daughter’s kidnapping, then you’re a dead man. Plain and simple.”

  “I didn’t.” Jeremiah’s voice broke. “Christ, son—”

  “Do not call me that.”

  “Damien. Damien, please. You have to believe me. I have no idea who took Anne. I didn’t know Rory was dead until you told me. And other than your money, I don’t have a clue as to why anyone would want to take her.”

  “I want to believe you,” Damien admitted. “God knows why, because it would damn sure be easier if you confessed right now and we just fucking ended this. But I want to believe you.” He shot a glance toward Jackson. “Maybe
I just want to believe that the blood that flows in my veins isn’t completely reprehensible. But it’s hard, old man. Because I’ve spent a lifetime learning what you’re capable of. So don’t you dare tell me that you could never do that to my little girl. Because I know better. Believe me, Jeremiah. I know the truth because I’ve seen the darkness.”

  “But I wouldn’t.” Though there were no tears, Jeremiah’s words were practically a sob. “Don’t you get it? Those baby girls are my redemption. I can’t soil that. I can’t screw it up.”

  Damien glanced at Jackson, saw that his brother looked as confused as he felt.

  “You,” Jeremiah said, pointing at Jackson. “God knows I wasn’t a decent father to you. And as for you—do you think I don’t know how much I messed up? How much I messed you up? And God, even Sofia. I actually went and added that poor girl to the mix. That’s how low I sunk. I fucked up, Damien. I know that. I know it. But not those little girls,” he said fiercely. “Never those little girls. They’re redemption. Yours and mine. And that’s a chance I won’t fuck up.”

  “Redemption.” Damien stared at him, the word hovering over his head like a storm cloud. “Redemption?” He took a single step toward Jeremiah, then stopped, afraid if he got too close he’d be unable to resist the temptation to lash out and bloody the man. “My children are not your way into my good graces. And just so we’re clear, there is nothing—nothing—you can do to redeem yourself.”

  Jeremiah swallowed, his eyes cast down. “Maybe that’s true,” he said, his voice so low it was barely audible. “But I didn’t have anything to do with Anne’s kidnapping. I didn’t hurt her, Damien. And I swear to you, I never will.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  When Damien walked back into the Malibu house at just after five, the place was bustling.

  He’d parted ways with Jackson at the airport with a promise to call if the team learned anything. In the meantime, Jackson would once again be taking point on The Domino while Damien carved out time to pursue the Rory investigation.