Claim Me: A Novel Page 15

  Apparently someone noticed Damien’s arrival, and the word spread like wildfire.

  I squeeze Damien’s hand tighter, hoping he has a car nearby. It may only be a block to the apartment, but I do not want to walk it with these vultures following in our wake.

  “What about the rumors out of Germany, Mr. Stark?” a voice calls, and Damien’s hand tightens around mine as he leads us firmly and silently toward the valet stand.

  “Nikki, is Damien Stark off the bachelor block?”

  “Damien! How will the talk of a possible German indictment affect your holdings in the European Union?”

  My mind is spinning. An indictment? I force myself not to look at Damien, and instead look forward, my face a mask of disinterest. There is no way—no way in hell—that I am letting these vultures see that I haven’t a clue what they’re talking about. Is Stark International in some kind of legal snafu? Is that what he meant by the tapestry unwinding?

  “Nikki! Mr. Stark! Germany! Indictment!” The voices blend together into a hideous cacophony. “Richter! Dedication! Damien! Damien! Damien!”

  Damien must have summoned Edward without me realizing because the limo pulls to a smooth stop in front of the valet stand, and Edward gets out.

  “No,” Damien says. “I’ve got it.” As Edward gets back in behind the wheel, Damien tugs me forward, then opens the rear passenger door, his body shielding me from the blinding storm of lights and questions.

  I’m just about to slide into the car when Damien pulls his hand from mine, then turns and faces the crowd. A hush falls. Considering Damien’s staunch policy of not talking to the press, I think the paparazzi are at least as shocked as I am.

  “I will not be attending the dedication ceremony for the Richter Tennis Center,” Damien says, in the firm clear voice he uses during business meetings. “While I fully support the construction and operation of such a center, I cannot in good conscience support its dedication honoring a man I don’t respect. As for your other questions, neither Ms. Fairchild nor I have any comment.”

  Immediately, the air fills with mingled voices, each louder than the next, none discernible. They are shouting follow-up questions, shouting for Damien to turn for a picture, shouting for me to step away from the open limo door. Damien ignores them, turning to face me. I realize that I am still standing frozen, slightly bent midway in the motion of entering the limo.

  And then, another voice rises above the noise, this time from the far side of the street.

  “Damien Jeremiah Stark!”

  I glance at Damien, but his hard expression reveals nothing. I straighten, then peer over the roof of the limo. The reporters have shifted the aim of their cameras, and now their lights are focused on an older man making his way across Flower Street.

  “Get into the car,” Damien snaps at me.

  “We need to talk,” the man calls out.

  I stand frozen.

  “Get in,” Damien urges, his voice more gentle.

  I comply, but I peer out the far window at the man, and then once more up at Damien. “Who is that?” I ask.

  He meets my eyes, his jaw tight, his expression hard. “My father.”

  11

  Damien slides in beside me and tugs the door closed. “Go,” he says to Edward, who nods and starts to pull slowly out into the street. Reporters scramble to get in front of the car, taking pictures of the limo and of Damien’s father, who is now pounding on the side window and yelling for Damien to stop.

  I grab Damien’s hand, then look left at the old man’s face. “Damien,” I say. “Let him in. If you don’t, those reporters are going to eat him alive.”

  Silence.

  “Damien,” I say gently. “You need to find out why he’s here.”

  Damien’s face is tense, his breathing even, and I wish that I knew what he was thinking.

  Finally, he squeezes my hand and nods. “Stop,” he tells Edward. “Unlock the doors. And as soon as he’s in, run those goddamned piranhas over if you have to.”

  A moment later the old man is inside the limo and Edward is pulling hard to the left and accelerating. I hold my breath, not really caring if a reporter gets squashed, but also not wanting Edward to get into trouble. Then we’re clear and the limo is traveling smoothly down Flower Street. “Make the block,” Damien says. He looks at his father, who’s settled on the seat facing us. “What do you want?”

  The old man ignores him, instead focusing on me. “You must be Nikki,” he says. “I’ve seen your picture in the paper with my boy. I’m Jeremiah, but you can call me Jerry.”

  “What can we do for you, Mr. Stark?” I ask.

  “We,” he repeats, then looks between the two of us. “We,” he says again, then actually guffaws.

  I squeeze Damien’s hand tighter. I didn’t like this man before I met him, and I like him even less now.

  “Ms. Fairchild asked you a question,” Damien says. “What can we do for you?” I can sense the low bubble of anger rising off Damien, and I hold tight to his hand. I’m certain that this man sitting so casually across from me either abused his son or was complicit in it, and I’m not sure if I’m holding on to Damien to give him support—or to keep from leaping across the limo and slapping the old man’s face.

  Jerry shakes his head as if in defeat. “Damien,” he says, then leaves the name hanging.

  My initial impression of him is someone oily and untrustworthy, but as I look more closely, I realize that he’s actually attractive, although a little too smooth. Like a man who discovered luxury late in life and has spent the rest of his time trying to play catch-up.

  “I repeat,” Damien says, “what can we do for you?”

  Jerry leans back in his seat, and his face takes on an unattractive, calculating edge. I can see a bit of how this man managed, despite his low income and working-class background, to maneuver his son onto the international tennis circuit. “What can you do for me? What can you do for me? Not a goddamn thing now. But this ain’t about me. It’s about you. And you managed to fuck it up real good.”

  “Did I?” Damien asks coldly. “Let me explain the situation to you. You are in this car only because the lady insisted. If you want to earn the right to stay, then you speak, and you speak clearly. Otherwise, we are through.”

  “You want clarity? How’s this: You’re acting like a damn fool, Damien Stark, and I may be a lot of things, but I am not the father of a fool. You get your high-class PR people to put some sort of spin on that nonsense you just spouted. You write a speech that would make angels sing. And you get your ass to that dedication on Friday, and you smile that photogenic smile, and you write a big, fat check if you have to. Because you need to do this, son. You need to push it through. You need to be goddamn squeaky clean, damn you.”

  “Don’t call me ‘son.’ ”

  “Goddammit, Damien!”

  I watch the two men, trying to understand what is really going on here. Trying to intuit why Damien’s refusal to attend the dedication and his very public announcement as to the reason means so much to the elder Stark. Damien did not outright say that Richter abused him, and he certainly didn’t say that his father was involved. Is that what Jeremiah fears will come next? That once Damien spills one truth, the rest will come tumbling out? If, as I suspect, that truly is the rest.

  I don’t know, and all I can do is hold tight to Damien’s hand.

  Damien has not responded to the criticisms his father poured out. Instead, he has been staring at the elder man’s face, his eyes narrowed as if the older man’s features were some sort of equation with a missing variable.

  When he finally speaks, I do not understand the context: “How much of this is your doing?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jerry says, sitting up straight, his eyes wide as a child getting chastised. Even I can see that he is lying.

  “Let’s get this straight,” Damien says. “I am not interested in your opinion or your help. Now get out. Edward, pull over
.” We’ve circled three blocks, and now we’re at Pershing Square, two full blocks from where we started.

  “I’m not even parked near here.”

  “I don’t care,” Damien says. “Out.”

  Suddenly, Edward is outside pulling the door open. Jerry hesitates, then looks from Damien to me. “Does she know? I wouldn’t tell her, Damien,” he says, and there’s malice in his voice. “If you want her to stay, I wouldn’t tell her a thing.”

  He gets out, and Edward immediately slams the door, as if the driver wants him gone as much as Damien and I do.

  Damien runs his hands through his hair and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “So, you’ve met my mom and I’ve met your dad. I guess that means we’re really dating.” I’m shooting for a light moment here, but Damien’s expression doesn’t change. “Hey,” I say. “It’s okay.”

  “Very little about this entire day falls into the category of okay.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I rather enjoyed dancing with you.”

  “Yes,” he says. “So did I. Come here.” I am already right beside him, but I slide closer and lean against him. His arm is draped over my shoulder and his fingers are idly stroking my arm. I slide down and put my head on his lap. I kick off my shoes and curl my legs up on the seat as Damien strokes my hair. Part of me wants to stay like that forever, warm and safe in Damien’s lap. But another part of me has questions—so many questions. I want to understand what Damien’s father was talking about—why he cares so much whether or not Damien endorses the tennis center. But I don’t want to ask—I want Damien to tell me because he wants me to know.

  If you want her to stay, I wouldn’t tell her a thing.

  I shiver. I can think of nothing so horrible that I would walk away from Damien. But is that because nothing exists that is so bad it could rip us apart? Or do I simply lack the imagination to think of it?

  Damien holds me calmly for the short drive to the Tower apartment.

  He remains coolly collected as Edward pulls into the parking garage beneath Stark Tower.

  His composure doesn’t break during the ride either to the building lobby or from the lobby to the penthouse fifty-seven floors up that houses his private office on one side and his residential apartment on the other.

  It is only once the doors to the apartment slide open and we have entered the residence that Damien’s equilibrium shifts and the facade of calm vanishes. There is something desperate in his eyes, and he grabs both ends of the scarf that is still draped around my neck. “What was it you said about tying you up?”

  His words are as rough as the anger that still clings to him. “Yes,” I say, because I know he needs it. He needs to get lost in the passion that is always ready to burst between us. He needs to forget what just happened—the paparazzi, his father, Ollie, and even my own refusal to meet him here tonight.

  He needs to do something about that tapestry of his that is coming undone.

  He needs to be in complete control—and right then, I want nothing more than to surrender to him.

  “Yes,” I repeat, my voice raw. “Yes, please.”

  He uses the scarf to shift our position until my back is against the wall, and he is against me, and I am breathing hard, my body quickening with excitement and expectation. With one hand, he holds both ends of the scarf while the other hand strokes slowly down my body, over my breast, down my belly, over my hip. His touch is slow, the movements designed to make me melt. It’s working. My lips are parted, my skin hot and sensitive. If I was not already leaning against a solid structure with Damien keeping me upright, I think I would sink to the floor, my body too limp and malleable to hold myself up.

  He slips his hand inside my sarong skirt, his finger dipping under the string of my thong to find me wet.

  I tremble, a small shiver rushing through me, as if a portent of an explosion to come.

  “Why, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, “I do believe you want me.”

  I bite my lower lip and say nothing; he doesn’t need to hear my answer. He already knows he’s right.

  Slowly—so painfully slowly—he starts to peel me out of my clothing. The knot of the sarong. The tiny thong panties. The tank he tugs gently over my head. Even the scarf falls into a pile on the floor. I see it there, a lonely bit of pink in a sea of black, and I sigh.

  “Trouble?”

  “I thought you were going to tie me up.”

  “Maybe I changed my mind.”

  “Oh.”

  “Complaining, Ms. Fairchild?”

  “Never with you, Mr. Stark.”

  “Good answer. For that, you get a reward.” His expression takes on a dangerous edge. “Come with me.”

  I follow him to the bedroom, where he lays a blanket on the floor, then opens one of the leather trunks. He pulls out two lengths of rope and slowly twines them between his hands. I can feel my eyes go wide. We’ve moved a long way from soft pink scarves.

  “What are you going to do?”

  But Damien doesn’t answer. He just nods at the floor and tells me to lie down. I hesitate only a moment, and then comply, my head near the foot of the bed and my body stretched out on the blanket.

  “Hands above your head,” he says.

  I stretch my arms up, my excitement building along with my curiosity, and he uses the shorter length of rope to tie my wrists together. Then he fastens my bound hands to the center leg of his king-size bedframe.

  “I’m going to please you, Nikki,” he says, then strokes his fingertip slowly down my arm. He starts at my wrist, then gently teases the soft flesh of my inner arm, then the bend of my elbow, his fingertip finally trailing along my upper arm to the sensitive flesh of my underarm.

  I bite my lower lip and squirm. The sensation of his finger upon my skin is exquisite. It is feather-soft, almost a tickle, and desperately, wildly erotic.

  “Do you see how you writhe?” he asks. “That movement lets you control the intensity so that you’re not overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations. Do you understand?”

  I nod.

  “I’m going to take that away from you,” he says as he begins to position me. He moves the soles of my feet together, and then slowly wraps the jute rope around them once, twice. I test the bindings and find that I cannot move my feet at all. I am strangely helpless, and it’s unnerving and exciting all at the same time.

  “There will be no writhing,” Damien says as he gently spreads my knees and brings my joined feet up higher on the blanket. “No shifting. No place to hide.”

  I’m essentially in the butterfly pose from yoga now, my knees spread wide and each only inches off the floor. I’m not particularly athletic, but my mother kept me doing both yoga and ballet long enough that I am sufficiently limber, so that Damien has no trouble positioning me.

  My back is arched, the inside of my thighs tight from the stretch. And, yes, my sex is completely exposed. The position is undeniably erotic, and not only because I am so wide open. As Damien has said, there is nowhere to go. Not now, and certainly not when he finishes what he has started. I will be utterly at his mercy—and that, of course, is the point. Damien has lost so much tonight, but these ropes and my body can give him some of it back.

  But this isn’t just about what Damien needs. I want this, too. I want to surrender to him. I want to abdicate my pleasure to Damien’s command. I want to float, with only Damien to tether me.

  Damien’s eyes meet mine, and when he then trails his gaze down my body, there is so much heat, it is a wonder that he doesn’t leave scorch marks on my skin.

  He has used the middle section of the long length of rope to bind my feet, and now he takes one of the free ends and begins to encircle the shin and thigh of my left leg.

  “I’m giving you pleasure, pain, and beauty combined,” he says. “I want to look at you like this, open for me, your legs bent, your body like a diamond shining bright and glistening for me.”

  He pulls the rope tight so that it both ma
rks my flesh and ensures that my legs stay at the proper angle. Then he ties it off. I am now half-bound—and completely turned on.

  “You’re like the portrait,” he says. “A vision of erotic beauty. But a portrait isn’t flesh, and its beauty can’t feel pleasure.”

  He closes his mouth over my breast and sucks and I feel a fast, electric trill race from my nipple to my cunt. My sex tightens, as if begging for attention, but Damien is in no hurry, and he suckles and teases, his teeth grazing my tender nipple, his mouth drawing against my flesh until my areola is tight and puckered. His tongue teasing my skin, and he is right—I am desperate to move beneath him, to escape even slightly from the overwhelming sweetness of this onslaught. But I am trapped and the sensual assault continues, edging me high and higher until I am certain I have no choice but to fall.

  Just when I am certain that I will scream if he doesn’t relent, he trails kisses down my belly until he reaches my navel. He takes a quick, playful nip, then sits up and returns to the task of tying me down. He takes the rope again, and this time moves to my other leg. Before he does, though, he gently strokes my sex. I’m hot and needy, and a tremble runs through me. I want him to do it again, another stroke, his mouth, his fingers deep inside me. I want that tremble to turn into a full-blown explosion. I want that—and Damien damn well knows it.

  He does nothing about it, though, except focus on my other leg. “You’re wet, baby. And every quiver, every sign, every dewy hint of your arousal is on display for me. Tell me you like it, Nikki,” he says as he finishes binding me. “Tell me you like being open and ready for me.”

  As he speaks, he trails his finger up and down my leg, then traces the rope that binds me. My body trembles and shivers run through me, sparked in the wake of his touch. I can barely breathe, much less talk. I want to tell him everything that’s bubbling inside me. That there is an exquisite joy in surrendering to him. In giving myself over for his pleasure and trusting that he will see to mine.

  I want to tell him that “like” doesn’t even come close to describing how I feel, and it is certainly a poor measure of the extent of my arousal.