Entice Me Page 4

  “Nikki.” There’s a tightness in his voice. Almost a warning. But I don’t heed it. Frankly, I don’t think he wants me to. Slowly, I stroke my hand up the length of him, a wild knot of heated need growing inside me, spreading wilder and faster as I feel him harden beneath my hand. As I hear the shift in his breathing. The catch in his throat when my hand reaches the base of his cock and then rises to the button of his jeans.

  “Christ.”

  That’s all he says, and I turn my head just enough so that I can see the desire in his eyes. A wild lust. A wanton need that matches my own. There’s never a moment when I don’t crave this man, but right now—after a day in the sun with the alcohol still warming my blood—I think that I will die if I can’t touch him. Can’t taste him.

  And with every second that passes—with every tiny shift in his posture, every shortened breath, every tightening of his muscles as he fights for control—I know that I am winning. And that rush of power that courses through me is as potent as wine and as powerful as the most magical aphrodisiac.

  It takes some doing, but I manage the button with one hand. The zipper is trickier, and I try to hurry because Damien has lifted his hand, and I’m afraid that if I don’t manage, Damien will do it himself, and this is something that I want. Wholly and completely.

  But it’s not his fly that Damien is reaching for, it’s my leg. And as I lower his zipper, his hand slides slowly up my leg, slipping under the hem of my skirt so his palm rubs my bare skin.

  I shiver as I ease his zipper down, then slide my hand in and stroke his cock though his briefs. He’s so damn hard, and I slowly ease the fly open to free him. His erection springs free, and I move forward just enough so that I can run the tip of my tongue lightly over the head as his hand squeezes my thigh tighter and tighter.

  “Nikki, fuck, baby, that feels amazing.”

  I allow myself a smug smile before I move forward even more and tease the tip of my tongue along the underside of his cock, all the way from balls to tip.

  As I do, his free hand slides up the back of my neck and I feel the pressure of his thumb as I slowly draw in his cock, deeper and deeper until I feel it in he back of my throat. Until his hips start to shift under me in a subtle demand that I suck him hard, deeper.

  His fingers slide further up my leg, then slip under my panties. “Spread your legs,” he orders, his voice like heated sandpaper. I try, but it’s not easy in my awkward, sideways position. It’s enough, though, and soon his fingers are stroking me. I’m wet and slick, and I shift position, pressing against his hand, wanting more and more—and then gasping when he thrusts his fingers deep inside me, mimicking the way I’m taking his cock in my mouth.

  He finger fucks me hard and deep, and I shamelessly ride his hand, my own mouth working the same rhythm on his cock as a wild, wanton pressure builds inside me.

  I’m close—I’m so damn close. And my muscles tighten around him, drawing him in even as every cell in my body races closer and closer to release.

  And then he withdraws, shocking me with the sudden cessation. I pull my head back, releasing his cock as I cry out in protest.

  “On me,” he orders as I struggle to catch my breath and swallow my protests. “I want to feel you shatter around me. I want to look in your eyes while you come. And I want to explode deep inside you.”

  I nod because words just aren’t happening right now, and I start to pull off my panties while I rearrange myself so that I can move onto his lap.

  “No.”

  I don’t understand at first, but then his hand slides under my skirt again and he tugs the crotch aside as I straddle him. His cock is right there pressing against me, and I’m so turned on I don’t want to wait. I lower myself, biting my lower lip as he fills me, then gasping as his finger inside my panties shifts just enough so he can tease my clit as I ride him.

  “Hurry, baby,” he murmurs. “We’re almost there.”

  My head is fuzzy with lust, but I realize he means the Tower—not our orgasms.

  With his other hand he cups my breast, and as I ride him faster and harder, his fingers tighten on my nipple, hard now under my thin bra and T-shirt. Tighter and tighter, and I moan and squirm and gasp as a delicious pressure builds inside me. And when I explode—when a wild, relentless orgasm rocks through me like a cresting, pounding wave—Damien releases my nipple and I feel a wild whipping heat crack through my body, tracing a line of indescribable intensity from my nipple to my clit, and deep, deep inside me.

  “Damien,” I beg. “Now. Please, now.” Because we’ve arrived, and Edward is shutting off the engine, and any minute now he’s going to open the limo door that’s just a few feet from us. But no way am I getting off my husband until I’ve taken him all the way.

  And just as that determined thought cuts through me, Damien clutches my hips, thrusts down even harder so that he fills me completely, leans his head back, and explodes.

  For a moment, we stay like that, me straddling him and us both breathing hard. Then I hear Edward’s footsteps and I scramble off, adjusting my skirt, and knowing full well that my panties are soaked through.

  And by the time Edward opens the door, my clothes are back to normal and Damien’s jeans are buttoned.

  Damien grins at me, then ushers me out of the limo in front of him. I comply, though I don’t look Edward in the eye. And it’s not until we’re in our private elevator that I finally relax, my nerves kicking in as I collapse against the side of the car, my body shaking with laughter.

  “I swear I hadn’t planned a repeat performance,” I say as we step into the elevator.

  “Complaining, Mrs. Stark?”

  “On the contrary,” I say as we begin to rise. “I was going to comment how very much I love limousines. They’re very . . . invigorating. I’m hardly tired at all anymore.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I was wiped,” I admit. “Those kids exhausted me. I expected it from Ronnie. But I had no idea a baby could wear me out. Did you see how fast that kid can move?”

  The elevator arrives, the doors opening on our foyer. I step out, and immediately kick off my shoes.

  “He’s got good genes,” Damian says. “He’ll be a little athlete, that one.”

  “I think Jackson’s hoping for a little architect,” I counter.

  “I have every confidence in Jeffery. He can be both.”

  “Absolutely,” I agree as I head toward the living room.

  Damien takes my arm and tugs me back toward him. “Might be nice to have one around here.” His voice is low. Almost tentative. And Damien is never tentative.

  Something raw shifts in my chest, and I’m really not sure if it’s a good or a bad feeling. “I thought you said you weren’t drunk.”

  “I’m very sober.” He holds my head with one hand and traces my lower lip with the index finger of the other. “They have good kids,” he says softly. “We would, too.”

  “We would, yes.” My voice is shaky. “But I just got invited to submit that proposal. My business is just getting off the ground.”

  “I know,” he says.

  “I don’t want to put all that aside.” My insides are tight, and my voice is rising in pitch. “And I haven’t got a clue about how to be a mom. You know that.”

  “Hey,” he says gently. “Calm down. I didn’t say we should have kids tomorrow. Just some day. We’ve always said we’ll have them some day.”

  I nod, a little relieved. A little embarrassed that I overreacted. “Sorry. I just—”

  “Of course, I am getting older,” he interrupts with a definite tease in his voice.

  I smirk. “Yeah, you’re looking pretty decrepit these days. Is that your way of reminding me you have a birthday coming up?”

  “Are you saying you need reminding?”

  “Never.” I sidle up closer, shaking off the lingering panic, then smile up at him. “So tell me, Birthday Boy. What would you like?”

  “So many choices.” He trails
a fingertip down my arm. “Maybe a birthday strip tease?”

  I raise my brow. “Interesting choice. I’ll see if I can’t hire someone.”

  “I’d rather have one from my wife.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Maybe you should practice so it’s perfect.”

  “Should I?”

  He bends down so that his lips graze my ear. “Dance for me, baby. Right now.”

  “Is that what you want?” I ask. “To watch me dance? Because I have something else in mind.”

  His brow rises. “Do you?”

  “Mmm,” I say, then start humming as I pull out my phone and find my current favorite song on my workout playlist. A little fast. A little raunchy. A lot fun. I click the button to send it through our sound system, and when the music starts, I press my hand to Damien’s chest and jauntily strut forward, forcing him backward to the padded bench that is intended as a place to sit and wait for the elevator. Right now, I have a different purpose in mind.

  “I’ll dance,” I say, doing a shimmy and pulling off my T-shirt in the process. “I’ll even do a stripper dance,” I add. “But I don’t do solo shows. I require full participation.”

  “Do you?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, turning around so that my back is to him as I shake and shimmy in time with the music and very, very slowly ease my skirt off.

  When I turn around, I’m dressed only in my bra and panties, and though I should feel silly, I don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the lingering high from fucking him in the limo. Maybe it’s the heated way that he’s watching my every move.

  Maybe it’s the simple fact that I love my husband.

  Whatever the reason, I’m enjoying showing off, turning him on and getting turned on in the process. And as I think that, I slide one hand over my bra and the other down my abdomen to cup myself over my panties.

  I have my eyes closed, and the music’s loud, but I still hear Damien’s sharp intake of breath. I figure that’s as good a cue as any, and I open my eyes and strut toward him, then reach out a hand to pull him up.

  He complies, amused, and I do my own version of a pole dance, with Damien playing the role of my pole. Up and down, stroking and teasing, shimmying and shaking. It’s a little erotic and a little silly, and by the time I have my bra off and am about to step out of my panties, I’m both desperately wet and giggling furiously.

  I bend over to untangle my panties from around my ankle, and when I do, my giggles turn to squeals as Damien scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder. I pound uselessly on his back, then cry out when he pitches me unceremoniously onto the bed.

  “What are you—?”

  “Shhh.” He puts his finger over his mouth, then strips off his own clothes. And though he doesn’t add any dance moves, I can’t deny that I enjoy the show.

  Slowly, he eases onto the bed and straddles me. “I liked your dance,” he says. “I like even more that you did it because I told you I wanted it.”

  “Anything you want,” I whisper, my voice throaty. “You know that.”

  “I want you,” he says, then brushes a kiss over my lips. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

  “You have me,” I murmur. “You always have.”

  “I know.” His smile is slow, his eyes dark with passion. “You’re my proof that I must be a good man. How else could I deserve you?”

  I blink, my eyes suddenly damp, and I pull him down for a long, slow kiss. “Make love to me,” I beg. “And make it slow.”

  “Anything the lady wants,” he says, sliding his hand down and finding me very, very wet. “I’m always happy to oblige.”

  We make love slowly, easily. And as he takes me over the precipice and my body shatters in his arms, I know without a doubt that I am loved as deeply and passionately as it is possible to be.

  And, more, I love him back just as much.

  Sated, I curl up against him, and I’m drifting toward sleep when Damien’s voice rolls over me. “We should go to Vancouver for my birthday.”

  “Mmm,” I say.

  Then the words register on my sleepy brain, and suddenly I’m wide awake. I roll over, forcing myself not to curse. Surely—surely—he’s not going to screw with all my planning. “Vancouver? Really? Why?”

  “Because it’s beautiful, and you’ve never been. And I want to show you the world.”

  It’s an incredibly sweet thought, and if I weren’t so frustrated that he voiced it, I might actually appreciate it. As it is, I just force a smile and say, “Then it should be my present. Not yours.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it. But nothing makes me happier than spoiling you. Vancouver,” he says firmly as he pulls me close. “I’ll plan the perfect trip. I promise, you’ll love it.”

  And as he drifts off, I stare at the ceiling, one single thought going through my mind.

  Well, damn.

  Chapter Five

  As the elevator descends toward the Stark Tower lobby, I play back last night’s conversation. Vancouver. How in the hell am I going to get out of going to Vancouver?

  The car slows as it approaches the lobby, and I pull out my phone, watching the screen so that I can dial Jamie the second I get a signal. My best friend is devious, after all. Surely she can help me come up with a plan for forestalling Vancouver before Damien makes all the arrangements.

  Either that or she’ll talk me into forgetting the surprise altogether and going with the Damien-driven Canada plan.

  “No way are you doing Vancouver,” she says as I step off the elevator. I’ve whipped through my summary of last night’s conversation, and she’s as flustered as I am. “He only thinks he wants it because he doesn’t know about the alternative.”

  “Agreed,” I say. “But how do I get him to forget about his trip without telling him about the party?”

  “I don’t know. Tell him you have a deep-seated hatred of Vancouver. Tell him your mom made you do a beauty pageant there or something.”

  I grimace. That would work, actually. Damien would happily sacrifice a vacation if he thought that the destination was haunted by my bad memories.

  “The problem is that I actually want to see Vancouver someday. It’s supposed to be beautiful. And if I tell him that, I’ll never get to go.”

  “Ah, well, in a year or so you could tell him that you want to bravely conquer your demons, and that you should both go up to Vancouver to face your bad memories.”

  I rub my temples. “Just think about it, okay? And let me know if you have any ideas.”

  “No problem,” she says. “Seriously. I’m off this morning. I’ll brainstorm ideas.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Then I add, “Real ideas, James,” before I hang up.

  I pause in the lobby and look around. I’d been so frazzled this morning, that I’d left the apartment without my usual travel mug of coffee, which is why I’d stopped at the lobby instead of heading straight into the parking structure.

  Unfortunately for me, the line at Java B’s is at least a mile long, and I consider heading back upstairs and coaxing a latte from our espresso machine. But I honestly don’t have the energy, and so I use the time to scroll through my emails, trying not to think about the Vancouver conundrum, and instead simply operating on the premise that if I just ignore, it will all go away.

  “Nikki?” My name is pronounced with a thick, familiar accent.

  I look up, unable to place the voice, and find myself looking at the stunningly beautiful face of Carmela D’Amato, an Italian supermodel who also happens to be Damien’s former girlfriend. She’s just picked up her coffee, and she holds it in one hand while she pushes a strand of silky dark hair behind her ear with the other.

  She takes a step toward me, smiling brightly, and I return her smile automatically even as I cringe and wish that I had an escape plan. But she looks so genuinely pleased to see me that I want to kick myself for being a bitch.

  Yes, there’d been a period there when I’d though
t Carmela was the devil. But things have changed, and we’ve come to an understanding of sorts. She’s hardly my bestie, but I’m no longer afraid she’s trying to screw my husband—or screw with me.

  “It’s great to see you,” I say after she releases me from a hug so enthusiastic that I fear she’s going to spill coffee down the back of my pale blue dress. “I’m sorry if I seem off—I’m just surprised. I thought you were in London these days.”

  “I am. I have the most darling townhouse just off Portabella Road. You and Damie must come to London so we can spend time. He has an office there, yes? And surely he hasn’t sold the house in Maida Vale? But even if he has, you will stay at a hotel, or even with me. I will take you around to all the best designers. It will be a girls’ weekend, yes?”

  Her enthusiasm is infectious. “Sounds fun,” I admit. “Maybe one day we can make it happen.”

  “I will tell Damie that you agree, and that the two of you must come as soon as it is possible.”

  “Tell Damien?” I suddenly realize what I’d apparently been blocking. “Of course, you’re here to see him.”

  Her mouth shifts into a thin line, and for a moment I’m afraid that she thinks I’m jealous. But then I see that it’s not anger or irritation in her face—it’s fear and frustration.

  “Carmela?” I reach out and touch her arm. “Hey, what is it?”

  She blinks, and a tear clings to her long lashes before falling onto her cheek. “Forgive me. I am—I do not like having to pull you back into this. I do not like that it is my fault, too.”

  “What’s your fault?”

  “Those photos,” she says, her voice so thick I can barely understand her. “Those wretched blackmail photos of Damie and me.”

  “Okay,” I say, pacing in front of the reflecting pool that is the centerpiece of the Stark Tower plaza. “Let me get this straight.”

  Since I’d foregone my coffee to take her outside and get to the bottom of this, I’m not thinking as clearly as I’d like. She’d run me through the whole convoluted story, but I want to make sure I really understand what’s going on.