Take Me: A Stark E-Novella Read online

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  I feel my cheeks heat. “I thought you didn’t do public sex.”

  “I don’t. And I’m not going to. We’re in a limo. No one’s looking in. But I like the fantasy,” he admits. He leans forward and kisses me, even as he slides two fingers deep inside me. “And so do you.”

  “I do,” I admit, both because it’s true and because I don’t want to have secrets from Damien. “You are my fantasy, Damien. You know that, right?”

  “And you are mine,” he says, after kissing me softly. “We’re lucky, you and I. There were so many places where our lives made wrong turns. And yet all those turns, all those horrors, all those days that we want to forget—they all add up to this moment. To you in my arms.” He strokes my hair, his expression tender. “I have no regrets for the past, Nikki. And when I’m with you, the only thing I can see is the future.”

  “Damien,” I say, the word soft like a prayer.

  “Yes?”

  “Kiss me.”

  “Whatever you want, sweetheart,” he says before his mouth closes over mine and I slide down into the bliss of his arms.

  Chapter Seven

  I sit in the silence of the Malibu house, sipping a sparkling water as I work at a small desk in the library. The library is my favorite room in this house, and it’s not really a room at all. Instead, it’s a level—a mezzanine—broken into a variety of sections. The comfy chairs and coffee tables are by the wall of windows overlooking the ocean. The bookshelves line the area that is visible from the massive staircase leading up from the entrance hall. The work areas are farther back, hidden from view, and it is in one of those quiet corners that I now sit.

  It is late—barely three in the morning—and Damien is asleep in our bed.

  I couldn’t sleep, and though I stayed in bed for hours, warm in Damien’s arms as I drifted in and out of a hazy dream state, I never managed to fall into slumber. I’m not sure if it was nerves or too much bourbon or the persistent thoughts of my mother, but in the end I gave up and came down here. Now I am sitting in the light of my laptop monitor putting the finishing touches on the gift I intend to give Damien on our wedding day—a scrapbook of our time together.

  I’ve been working on it for months, even before we were engaged, and have managed to gather and edit photos ranging all the way from our very first meeting at a Dallas pageant to the present. I had originally intended it to be entirely electronic, but once he proposed and I realized that this was the perfect wedding-night gift for the man who owns everything, I decided that it needed to be tangible. I bought a leather-bound scrapbook with thick, archival paper, and have been carefully pasting in the images and writing captions and notes to him with my very best effort at penmanship.

  Right now I am searching the computer for a picture of the Vineland Drive-In, because that is a memory I want him to keep, though I don’t think either one of us had any idea what movie was playing. Instead, we made out like teenagers in the backseat, kissing and exploring, touching and groping. And when Damien finally thrust hard inside me—when I came in sudden release and exultation—I am certain that my cry was at least as loud as the movie soundtrack.

  The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I know without turning around that Damien is here. His walk, his scent, his presence—I don’t know what it is, but there is something in him that calls so profoundly to me that I am never unaware of him. If he is in the same room, my body knows—and wants.

  I gently close the scrapbook, then tuck it into a drawer before turning to him.

  “I don’t like waking up without you,” he says.

  I smile. “Now you know how I feel.” Usually it is me who wakes up to find the other side of the bed cold and empty.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just working on something.” I lift a shoulder. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Oh, really?” He lifts a brow and eyes the desk.

  “Don’t even think about it, mister. You’ll see it on Saturday.”

  “Saturday,” he murmurs, the hint of a smile playing around his mouth. “Seems like there’s something I’m supposed to be doing on Saturday.”

  I laugh, and fly out of the chair to smack him playfully on the chest. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, gently at first and then with increasing fervency. “I reached for you,” he says. “You weren’t there.”

  The words are matter-of-fact, but to me they seem thick with meaning. I lean back so that I can see his face more clearly. “What’s wrong?”

  “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, deflecting my words but not my worry. There is something on Damien’s mind. He tucks my hair behind my ear. “Tell me what’s keeping you awake.”

  “Bourbon,” I say. “Bridal jitters.”

  “Not your mother?”

  “That, too,” I admit.

  “Whatever you want to do, you know that I support it. All I ask is that you remember this is your wedding, and it’s the only wedding you’re going to have.” He strokes my cheek, the touch melting me as much as the words. “Consider that when you decide how to handle your mother.”

  I nod. “You’re right.” I take his hand. “And you? Is it wedding jitters that are bothering you? Is something going on at work?”

  He turns, looking out toward the rows of polished bookshelves now standing like sentries in the dark. He doesn’t answer right away, and I’m starting to suspect he isn’t going to answer me at all. Then he says, “It’s Sofia.”

  I try not to react, but I have no control over the quickening pace of my heart, and I’m certain that my eyes have gone unnaturally wide. “What about her?” I ask carefully. Sofia is so far off my list of favorite people, it isn’t even funny. Still, she was important to Damien when he was growing up, and despite a lot of recent shit, I know that she’s still important to him.

  “I got an email from her. I saw it right after we got home. She wants to come to the wedding. She thinks that it could be arranged.”

  The words hang in the air, like one of those cartoon anvils that is defying the laws of gravity and simply hovering, waiting for the moment when it will drop and crush the hapless coyote.

  I open my mouth, close it, then try again. “Oh,” is all I can manage.

  “That pretty much sums it up,” he says. He’s wearing pajama bottoms tied loosely around his waist, and he slides one hand into a pocket. With the other he massages his forehead with his thumb and finger.

  “Do you want her to come?” I finally ask.

  He lifts his head, looking at me as if I’ve gone insane. “No.”

  A moment passes, and then he lets out a soft curse. “No,” he repeats, “and the not wanting makes me sad.” He meets my eyes. “But I meant what I said in the limo, about our choices and the people in our lives leading us to this point. To each other.” He steps closer to me. “It saddens me—hell, it angers me—but I have no regrets.”

  “I don’t, either,” I say, thinking of my mother. Of who she is, what she’s done, and what I want. It’s all a turmoil inside me. A storm. I know what I should do, what I want to do. But I’m not certain it’s what I can do.

  And though he hides it better than I do, I know that a similar storm is raging within Damien. How can it not be? He thrives on control. It is his lifeblood, his sustenance, and yet just the mention of Sofia’s name conjures the specter of everything that spun out of control, cutting a path of destruction through his life as effectively as a spinning propeller breaking loose from its axle.

  “Damien,” I say, and I hear both longing and helplessness in my voice.

  I see the heat flare in his eyes as he moves even closer to me. I take an automatic step backward, but am foiled by the desk. I stop, breathing hard, as he cages me in. I am wearing the button-down shirt that he abandoned on the floor when we went to bed. The tail hits me mid-thigh, and he uses his finger to trace the line of the hem, slowly easing it up, higher and higher.

  My pulse quickens, and I feel th
e effects of his touch shimmering through me, hot and electric and alive.

  Without thinking, I shift my stance, widening my legs. I want his hands upon me. I want his cock inside me. I want everything he has to give, and I want him to take everything he wants.

  His hand slides between my legs and cups my sex, finding me desperately wet. “Tell me you want me,” he says, sliding his fingers inside me. I almost melt with pleasure.

  “Always,” I say truthfully, and I know with absolute certainty that there will not ever be a time when I don’t respond to Damien’s presence. To his proximity, his heat. When I won’t open like a flower to him. When my body won’t crave his touch.

  He thrusts another finger inside me and I grind down, shamelessly wanting more. But he denies me, and I hear myself whimper as he pulls his hand away. And then my whimper changes to a gasp when he grabs either side of the shirt and tugs it open, baring my breasts and sending buttons flying.

  “Beautiful,” he murmurs, and I close my eyes in expectation of his mouth on my nipple. But the touch doesn’t come. Instead, he turns me around, then pulls the shirt the rest of the way off so that I am naked in front of him. I am facing the desk, my ass pressed against his erection, now hard steel beneath the thin pajama bottoms.

  “I wanted you in the limo,” he says. “But I need you now. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “You know I do.” I turn to look at him as I speak, but he shakes his head.

  “Eyes forward. Bend over. Hold on to the far side of the desk.”

  I do as he says. I feel vulnerable. I feel him.

  “I don’t think we ever took care of that little issue of punishment,” he says.

  I lick my lips, my body already tight with anticipation and my sex clenching with desire.

  “Is that what you want, Nikki? Shall I spank your ass? Shall I punish you with the sting of my palm, turning your ass pink and sweet, making you hot?”

  “I’m already hot,” I say honestly. “And yes. Please, yes.” We both want this. Hell, we both need it. He needs to take back some of that control, and I so desperately need to give it to him. Because I need the storm to settle inside me as much as he needs my submission.

  I do not turn around, but I can hear the soft rustle of material as he slips off the pajama bottoms. He steps closer, and the tip of his cock rubs along the crack of my ass. “Maybe I should just take you, fast and without warning.”

  “Yes.” There is no hiding the need in my voice, and Damien chuckles.

  “Soon,” he says, and then lands his palm sharply against my rear.

  I cry out, more from surprise than pain, and then brace for the second blow. It comes fast, and then Damien’s palm is caressing the point of impact, smoothing out those brilliant red sparks, making them flow inside me, shifting from pain to a vibrant pleasure that pulses through me.

  “More?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer, just spanks me again, and again. Eight more times, until my rear is red hot and sensitive and my cunt is so wet that I can feel my desire coating the inside of my thighs.

  I am bent over the desk, my breasts rubbing against the wood with every impact, and now my nipples are as tight and hard and sensitive as my clit. I’m awash in sensation, my entire body sparking like a live wire, and with the right touch, I know that I will shatter.

  I expect another smack, but this time his hands grab my hips instead. With his knee, he roughly shoves my legs apart. One hand comes down on my back, holding me in place over the desk. The other strokes my sex, opening me, readying me, though that is hardly necessary—as I am so ready for him to be inside me, I can hardly stand it.

  “Damien, please,” I beg. “I need you in so many ways, but right now, I just need you to take me.”

  He does, thank God. Gently at first, just the tip of his cock sliding into me as my muscles clench greedily around him. He withdraws, and I moan, immediately regretting the loss of him. Then, without warning, he slams into me, our bodies coming together brutally, violently, and I can feel his body tightening as his climax draws close. “Come with me, baby,” he says, his hand snaking around to stroke my clit.

  It is that touch in combination with the sensation of being filled by Damien that sends me spiraling off the cliff, then grabbing on to the edge of the desk as Damien thrusts into me, faster and faster until he explodes as well, then collapses onto the carpet, clutching me around the waist and pulling me down with him.

  I land on top of him, and he grins. “Again, Ms. Fairchild?”

  “I could be convinced,” I say, though I am still breathless.

  He lifts himself just high enough to kiss me. “Marry me,” he says, then grins.

  “Yeah,” I say happily. “I think I will.”

  “All I am saying is that there is a reason that tradition exists,” my mother says as we enter Phillipe Favreau’s Rodeo Drive boutique.

  I am regretting not only having her come along today, but also that I answered her questions about my flower choices for the wedding. She has been harping on it ever since I explained that the cupcake tower would be decorated with wildflowers because that was the overall floral theme.

  Wildflowers, in the world of Elizabeth Fairchild, are an epic fail where weddings are concerned.

  “Orchids, lilies, gardenias. Darling, those are all lovely and elegant and classic.”

  “I like what I’ve picked out, Mother.” I glance around the studio. There are only three gowns on mannequins and one very thin woman working behind a tall glass table that doubles as a desk. “Now, would you drop it?” I glance at the woman. “I’m Nikki Fairchild. I have an appointment with Alyssa for an alteration on a gown that arrived this morning.”

  “Nikki Fairchild?” she repeats, looking a bit more flummoxed than is usual for store clerks on Rodeo Drive. “The Damien Stark gown?”

  I frown. “Um, well, I’m going to be the one wearing it, but Damien ordered it, yes. Why? Is there a problem?”

  She smiles an overly perky smile, and little knots of dread form in my stomach. “I’ll just get Alyssa. One moment.”

  “Even magnolias,” Mother says.

  “Would you stop it?” I am practically snarling, and Mother’s eyes go wide.

  “Nichole! You need to learn to control yourself.”

  I suck in both a breath and my temper, and refrain from telling her that she needs to learn to shut up. “I’m a little nervous,” I say. “I think there may be something wrong with the dress.”

  “Nonsense. I’m sure it’s lovely. Do you have a picture?”

  I glance sideways at her, thrown off kilter by the fact that she’s actually being soothing. “Um, sure.” I pull out my phone and call up the photographs we’d taken in Paris, both of Phillipe’s sketch and of the basted-together version that I wore for the initial fitting. Just seeing it makes me smile. It has a fitted bodice with a low neckline that reveals a hint of cleavage. The sleeves are slim and hug my arms. The skirt is not a traditional princess style, but is instead sleek in the front and over my hips, showing off my curves. The back has a modified bustle that supports a train.

  The neckline and the hem and the lower line of the bodice are embroidered with tiny flowers accented with pearls, giving the pure white dress a touch of the whimsical. I think it’s an exceptional dress, and I cannot wait for Damien to see me in it.

  I glance over at my mother, expecting to see approval in her eyes. I should have known better.

  “Well,” she says with a sniff, “I suppose this is to be expected, considering your choice of flowers and cake.”

  “I—” I snap my mouth shut. I have no idea what to say. No idea what insult to hurl that will cut her as deeply as she is cutting me, each word like a new wound.

  All I want is one tiny crumb from my mother. Approval, compassion, respect. But there is nothing there, and there never has been.

  And yet I have been foolish enough to let that flame of hope keep burning. God, I’m an idiot.

  I turn away
so as to not let her see that my eyes are bright with tears.

  “A longer train,” she says. “And a fuller skirt. This is one of the few times you can completely hide those hips, Nichole. You should take advantage of it.”

  I cringe, wanting to scream at her that just because I’m no longer a size four does not mean that I have to start wearing caftans. I’m young, I’m healthy, I’m pretty, and if she’s too goddamn stupid to see that—

  My wild thoughts are interrupted by the door to the back room bursting open and a tall red-haired woman hurrying in.

  “Nikki,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Alyssa.”

  I start to hold my hand out as well, only to discover that I’ve clenched it so tight that I’ve left indentations from my nails in my palms. I flex it, then extend it to her. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’m afraid so,” she says. “This is terribly embarrassing, but your dress is missing.”

  “Missing,” I repeat stupidly.

  “We hope it’s just a clerical error in customs, and we’re doing everything we can.” I halfway tune her out, still stuck on that one word: missing. My dress is missing, and my wedding is Saturday. Tomorrow.

  “. . . have been other shops with items missing . . .”

  What the hell am I going to do? This is my dress. My wedding dress. I mean, I can’t just run to Target.

  “. . . customs or the shipper, but we’re looking into it, and . . .”

  And it’s not even just a wedding dress. It’s the dress I bought during my trip to Europe with Damien. It’s the dress we bought during our days and nights in Paris. The dress made by the designer who assured Damien that he would go faint with awe when he saw me in the gown. This is not a dress I can lose, nor is it a dress I can replace, and I can feel the panic, the anger, the futility rising inside me.

  One goddamn thing after another, and I can’t even lash out. Because it’s not this poor girl’s fault—hell, she’s mortified, too. But everything is just piling on: the photographer and the music and the flowers. Those goddamned flowers that my mother has been talking about for the last hour.