Play My Game Page 8

  Back on the boat, I sit on the deck, a towel wrapped around me as the sun sinks toward the horizon.

  Damien is expertly maneuvering us back to the island, and I feel completely at peace out here on the wide, blue sea. Despite the dicey start to the morning, everything is calm now. We've both pushed it aside, I think. Hopefully, there will be no pictures released tomorrow, but if there are, we'll deal. If there's one thing I'm certain of, Damien and I can handle pretty much anything so long as we are together.

  I'm surprised when he maneuvers the boat past the rental dock from where we'd departed. Instead, he follows the shore, and then brings the boat in to the small dock that extends from our private beach.

  "Door-to-door service?"

  "Only the best for you," he answers.

  It's only once I'm off the boat and back at the bungalow that I see how seriously he means those words. The small pool in the bungalow courtyard is filled with floating candles, turning it into a magical fairyland. A bottle of wine is open beside a giant, round lounge chair designed for two. And beside the wine is a plate filled with cheeses and meats and covered with a clear glass lid to protect it from the elements.

  Beside the pool, the hot tub bubbles, and I remember what I'd said about wanting to take a bath in the Jacuzzi tub. This, I think, is just as appealing.

  "How did you do this?" I ask.

  "I believe I've mentioned that I have a rather large bank account which allows me to purchase a surprising variety of goods and services."

  "Must be nice being you," I tease, then slide into his open arms.

  "It's better now that I have you," he says, and I almost melt from the depth of emotion that fills his voice.

  He tugs me to the lounge chair, and then slowly undresses me before telling me to lay back and close my eyes.

  I do, and my reward is Damien's touch.

  I cannot count the different ways that he has touched me since we have been together, but his touch tonight is deceptive, its simplicity hiding a power to drive me over the edge.

  All he uses is a finger.

  Slowly, he traces his forefinger over my leg, drawing soft patterns. Teasing me behind my knee. Stroking gently up my inner thigh, but not quite high enough. And though I moan a bit and squirm in silent demand, he does not stroke my sex.

  Instead, his finger trails only in that soft area between thigh and genitals, but that is enough to send tremors running through me, shifting the rest of my body into a state of hyperawareness so that innocent touches are suddenly anything but. Even his finger slowly circling my belly button makes my sex clench with longing.

  Featherlight touches continue upward, caressing every inch of me and paying extra attention to my breasts until my nipples are so hard and tight that I have to bite my lower lip so as to not beg him to close his mouth over me and suck my breast until I come.

  Finally, that wonderful, damnable finger traces my lower lip, then teases its way inside my mouth. "Suck," he demands, that one word holding a world of erotic possibilities.

  I do, drawing him in, and feeling the shock of sensation travel through me like an electric current that runs from my mouth to my cunt. There is no part of me now that isn't open to him. Desperate for him.

  "Please," I whisper, and then tremble with need as he stretches out beside me so that his body is pressed against mine and all those erogenous zones that he has created sparkle and fire in anticipation.

  "Tell me what you want."

  "You know," I say. "I want to feel you inside me. Please, oh please, Damien."

  "Anything you want, sweetheart," he says, slowly rolling onto his back and urging me on top of him. "Anything you need."

  What I need is him. He has ministered to my body for what feels like an eternity and every cell in my skin is humming with desire.

  And yet in all that time he has neither penetrated me nor touched my clit. I feel swollen with need, so ready to be filled by my husband that I fear I will go crazy if I don't have him right this very second.

  I move to straddle him even as he moves onto his back. His cock rubs against me, teasing my rear, and I bite my lower lip, wanting everything. Wanting Damien.

  Slowly, I rise up on my knees and then lower myself onto him. I gasp as he fills me, then cry out as his hips pivot up even as his hands on my hips push me down so that he fills me hard and fast and completely.

  "Kiss me," he demands, and I lean forward, our bodies moving together as my mouth closes over his and my breasts brush against his chest, teasing my already sensitive nipples.

  His hand slides between our bodies, and now his fingers do touch me, stroke me. He teases my clit as my body tightens around him, the muscles of my sex clenching to draw him in, hotter and deeper, and I can feel the tension building inside both of us until I can't stand it anymore, and I pull myself back up, then arch back so that I'm facing the sky as the force of my orgasm rocks through me and I grind against him, my muscles tightening around his cock and bringing Damien the rest of the way with me so that he calls out my name and I close my eyes as it echoes through the night.

  When my body stops spasming, I fall down upon him again, then sigh as his fingers stroke my hair.

  "It's midnight," he whispers, and I lift my head to meet his eyes. "Happy Valentine's Day, Mrs. Stark."

  Chapter 11

  Damien wakes me before dawn, though that is not an easy feat. It's his fault that I got so little sleep, and I feel no guilt about sliding down the bed even as I pull the covers higher.

  I know we are on a schedule. But I also know that the plane won't take off without Damien. What's the benefit of being an ultra-rich lord of the universe who owns a fleet of planes if you can't adjust departure times in order to let your wife grab a few extra minutes of sleep?

  I want to explain that, but all I manage is a murmured, "Fifteen minutes. Sleepy."

  I hear the soft pad of his footsteps as he moves away from the bed, and I slide back into sleep, secure in the belief that I've succeeded in begging more time.

  Soon enough, I realize I'm wrong. He's back, and he's gently tugging the covers down. I peel open my eyes, and this time I pay more attention to my surroundings. My husband is already dressed in jeans and a crisp button-down. Behind him, I see his running shorts and a T-shirt on the floor near a half-packed suitcase. I put the clues together easily enough--despite not actually going to sleep until almost three in the morning, Damien is not only awake, but has both gone for a run and started packing our things.

  Clearly the man is superhuman, but since I am a mere mortal, I still feel no guilt about closing my eyes again and trying to claim another minute.

  He, however, is having none of it. He pulls the covers down, then scoops me into his arms. I protest for form, but it's warm and comfortable in his embrace, and so I simply snuggle closer. All too soon, though, he sets me on my feet, and then helps me into a robe. "Trust me," he says, then kisses me softly before leading me outside to our private beach.

  "Damien." His name is little more than a breath. "It's wonderful."

  I'm looking at a table draped with white linen, atop which sits a number of covered trays and a very large pot that I assume is filled with coffee. Tiki-style torches have been placed at each of the four corners of the mat upon which the table sits, providing a relatively sand-free surface. The sun has barely started to peek above the horizon, and the torches cast a golden glow over the tableau, making it seem all the more magical.

  "Happy Valentine's Day," Damien says. "Since we're spending most of the day traveling, I thought we should start off with something special."

  I smile up at him, feeling sappy and loved. "Every moment with you is special, Damien. Don't you know that?"

  He doesn't say anything, but the tenderness I see on his face answers for him.

  I take his hand and let him lead me to the table. And as we enjoy a breakfast of eggs and coffee and flaky croissants, we watch the sun rise on our first Valentine's Day together.

 
Because of our early departure and the time difference, we arrive home not long after noon. Damien has been checking social media since the sun rose in California, and so far he has seen no evidence that the photos or tape have been leaked.

  We are cautiously optimistic.

  Unlike the plane ride to the Bahamas, during which I'd managed to sneak in some work on my Valentine's Day present to Damien, I had no secret project on the return trip. So I spent the flight reading, napping, and trying to do a little bit of coding.

  "Try" is the operative word, though, because Katie kept the mimosas flowing, and since it's Valentine's Day, I didn't hesitate to take them as fast as she wanted to bring them.

  Which meant that the napping part of the plane ride soon overtook all other activities. And now, as we walk through the doors of the Malibu house, I am very well rested.

  Damien takes my hand as we head up to the third floor, and as soon as we are high enough on the stairs to see the room, I gasp.

  The entire space is filled with flowers. Not only that, but our bed--the lovely iron bed that was a prop for the portrait of me and that now lives in our bedroom--is back in this open area where Damien and I spent so many delicious hours together.

  I turn to him, my smile so wide it hurts. "How did you do this?"

  "Gregory. Sylvia. I have my ways."

  "It's a wonderful Valentine's Day surprise."

  His mention of Sylvia makes me wonder if with this minor redecoration she still did what I asked and left the package for Damien on the bed. From here, I don't see it, and I wonder if she put his present on the dresser in the bedroom.

  But as we get closer, I see that the box is there, so flat and white that it blends in with the bedclothes, the only splash of color being a thin red ribbon.

  Damien sees it, too, and glances at me curiously. He moves to the bed and lifts the package, then checks the tag. I know what it says, of course. Sylvia may have arranged to have the present wrapped, but I'd written the tag.

  For my husband. For my love.

  "Looks like I wasn't the only one who had the help of Valentine's Day elves."

  I shrug innocently.

  "Can I open it?"

  "Of course."

  He sits on the edge of the bed, and I climb on beside him. To be honest, I'm curious myself to see how it turned out. I'd managed to sneak time on the flight to Nassau to go over all the images that Sylvia took for me. I'd found my favorite, manipulated it in Photoshop to heighten the contrast so that my silhouette is even darker against the backdrop of the city, and to clean up the lingering glare from the glass.

  Finally, I'd added text, a caption in lovely script on the left-hand side of the space so that it balanced my image on the right:

  Anything you want. Anything you need.

  I'd emailed the file to Sylvia with specific directions as to how to print it and frame it.

  Now I can only hope that the end product is as lovely in real life as it is in my head.

  Damien slowly unties the bow and sets the ribbon on the bed. Then he removes the wrapping paper to reveal the box. By now, I'm as anxious as if I were opening one of my own presents on Christmas morning, and I am biting my lower lip hard by the time he opens the box to reveal the framed photograph inside.

  "Nikki." He manages to fill my name with awe. "My god, Nikki, it's stunning."

  "You like it?"

  He's been staring at it, but now he takes it out of the box, then turns to me, and I can see in his eyes that he likes it very much indeed. "It couldn't be more perfect."

  "You're a hard man to shop for, Mr. Stark," I say. "I wanted to get you something special. Something us."

  He cups my cheek with his palm and kisses me softly. "You did. It's beautiful. It's you."

  He pulls me close and holds me tight. I hug him back, warmed by the fact that my single photograph--so small compared to a scavenger hunt and a spa retreat--has affected him so much.

  "Thank you for my presents, too," I say. "If I haven't already said, I loved the treasure hunt, not to mention the retreat time with my husband."

  "As did I," he said. "But that was more like an appetizer than the main course."

  I lean back and frown at him, not understanding what he is saying.

  "How could I give you your Valentine's Day present before Valentine's Day?"

  "But--" I close my mouth as I regroup. "Um, okay. So ..."

  He chuckles. "The third floor pantry," Damien says. "Gregory assures me he put it in the pantry right before we arrived."

  The pantry?

  Damien's expression is both amused and smug. "Go on," he says, and since I need no more encouragement, I bolt toward the kitchen, desperately curious as to what he could possibly have gotten me. A personal chef, maybe?

  I tug open the door, and then clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream of delight.

  There, curled up and purring on a cushion inside a wicker basket is the tiniest, orangest, most adorable kitten I have ever seen.

  "Damien," I whisper as the kitten opens its eyes, yawns, and stumbles out of the basket toward me. "Oh, my god, Damien."

  I glance back at him, and as I do, I notice the pile of cat food that I need to return to Jamie. Damien knew how much I missed having a cat around, and he got me a kitten.

  I am overwhelmed. I'm in awe.

  I'm in love.

  "She doesn't have a name yet," Damien says, moving behind me and putting his hand on my shoulder. I scoop the kitten up, and am delighted when she immediately starts purring in my arms.

  "She does," I say, snuggling close to my husband. "Her name is Sunshine."

  We take Sunshine to the bed and the three of us pile on. I lean against Damien and laugh as we watch the kitten go through all her kitten-y antics. Attacking fingers and toes. Pouncing on imaginary prey. And generally being a bundle of cuteness until she wears herself out, turns in three circles, then settles down in the middle of the bed to purr herself to sleep.

  "She's wonderful," I whisper as Damien leads me to the balcony. "She's perfect."

  He stands behind me, his arms around my waist as I lean back against him. "She is," he says, but what I hear is We are.

  I breathe deep, relishing the feel of him. It is a soft moment, nice and gentle, but it doesn't stay that way for long. Soon Damien's hands slide beneath my shirt, and I draw in a breath as my skin tightens with longing and my heartbeat quickens.

  He moves slowly, letting the anticipation grow, until his palms cover my breasts and he is stroking my nipples with his thumbs. The motion is almost casual, but my reaction is not. On the contrary, a wild heat is growing inside me, and if the press of his erection against my back is any indication, it is growing in Damien as well.

  I murmur his name, and am rewarded by his soft "Shhh. Just relax." Easier said than done, but I close my eyes and let the sensation of Damien's expert touch take over, taking me all the way to the edge until, finally, he pushes me over and I explode in his arms as the sun sets on our first Valentine's Day.

  I'm curled up in bed, wearing nothing but Damien's Wimbledon T-shirt, one leg tossed negligently across his thigh as I lick a chocolate ice cream-covered spoon.

  Beside me, Damien has his laptop open and is scouring the internet as the kitten attacks our toes with military-like determination. "Still nothing," Damien says, squirming a bit under Sunshine's assault.

  "Then it worked. You didn't pay, and they didn't release the photos or the tape."

  "Looks that way," Damien says, though he doesn't look as happy about it as I feel.

  "You still want to know who's behind it."

  "Very much," he says.

  "You'll find them. Ryan's on it, right?"

  "He is. And eventually we'll find them."

  "Damn right, you will," I say. "So worry about it tomorrow. I don't want those stupid threats touching any more of our day than they already have."

  "Touche, Mrs. Stark." He sets the laptop aside, and grabs the red ribbon. He holds on
to one end and tosses the ribbon toward the cat, who is immediately fascinated. She stares at the wiggling end of the ribbon, her eyes wide and her orange fur spiked out in attack mode. Damien and I both hold our breath, swallowing laughter as her little butt wiggles, her tail spiky. Finally--after much observation--she pounces, attacking the end of the ribbon with all the panache of a jaguar going after its prey.

  I laugh, delighted, and she abandons the ribbon just long enough to flop onto her back and wiggle.

  Damien reaches down and scratches her belly and is rewarded by the kitten grabbing hold and gnawing his hand. He grins at me, and my heart melts a little.

  "I could have sworn you told me you didn't want us to turn domestic," I tease.

  "Is that what this is?" he asks, taking the ribbon and wiggling it again. "Domesticity?"

  I offer him a spoonful of ice cream. "Yeah. I think it is."

  He licks the spoon, then takes my finger and dips it into the ice cream. Then he offers my finger to the kitten, who runs her rough little tongue over it, making me laugh again. "In that case," Damien says, "I've changed my mind. I like domesticity very much."

  "I like it, too," I say, snuggling closer. "And I love you."

  He brushes a soft kiss across my lips and we lay together as the kitten climbs over us to find a spot on the pillow. And as the little ball of fluff settles in and starts to purr, I sigh with satisfaction.

  This is us.

  This is our life.

  And it is exceptional.

  About the Author

  J. Kenner is the New York Times bestselling author of the Stark trilogy, including Release Me, Claim Me, and Complete Me, and the tie-in novellas Take Me, Have Me, and Play My Game, and the Most Wanted series, comprised of Wanted, Heated, and Ignited. She spent more than ten years as a litigator in Southern California and central Texas, using her rare free time to indulge in her passion of writing. She lives in Texas with her husband and daughters.

  www.jkenner.com

  www.facebook.com/jkennerbooks