Текст книги "Take Me"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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Chapter Four

My mother.

My mother.

Holy shit, my mother?

My knees go watery and I have to force my arms to stay at my sides so I don’t reach out automatically for Tony. There’s nothing on the beach that I can use to steady myself, and right now I really need steadying, so I stand perfectly still and smile and hope Tony doesn’t yet know me well enough to pick up on the fact that I’m totally and completely freaking out.

“I wasn’t expecting my mother,” I manage to say. “She lives in Texas.”

“I knew she was from out of state, Ms. Fairchild. I checked the lady’s ID. Elizabeth Regina Fairchild, address in Dallas. I assume she’s here for the wedding.”

“Right. I just—she’s not supposed to be here until Friday,” I lie. I conjure what I hope is a bright smile, but I fear it looks like something out of a low-budget Halloween thriller. “So, right. I guess tell her to drive on up to the house. If you could buzz Gregory and ask him to settle her in the first-floor parlor, I’ll run in and get dressed,” I add.

“Of course, Ms. Fairchild.” If he has picked up on my nerves, he is either kind enough or well trained enough not to say anything.

I hurry back up the path and take the stairs to the third floor. I want to ensure that I don’t see my mother until I’m dressed and made-up and looking polished and pretty enough that maybe—maybe—she’ll wait an hour or two before she starts in on me.

Once I’m in the bedroom, the first thing I do is grab my phone off the table and dial Damien. The second thing I do is end the call before it has the chance to connect.

I sit on the edge of the bed and suck in air. My heart is pounding so hard, my chest hurts, and I am holding my phone so tightly in my right hand that it is making indentations into my palm. My left hand is curled in on itself, and I concentrate on the sensation of my fingernails digging into my palm. I imagine my nails cutting through skin, drawing blood. I focus on the pain—and then, disgusted with myself, I hurl my other arm back and toss my phone across the room. It shatters from the impact, an explosion of plastic and glass, a smorgasbord of sharp edges now glittering on the floor, tempting and teasing me.

I rise, but I am not heading toward those shards. I will not touch them, not even to sweep them away. They are too tempting, and despite the fact that I’ve grown stronger in my months with Damien, I do not trust myself. Not now. Not with Elizabeth Fairchild just two floors below, waiting like a spider to draw me in, wrap me up, and suck the life right out of me.

Shit.

My mother.

The woman who locked me in a dark, windowless room as a child so that I had no choice but to get my beauty sleep. Who controlled what I ate so meticulously that I didn’t make the acquaintance of a carb until college.

The woman whose image of feminine perfection was so expertly pounded into her daughters’ heads that my sister committed suicide when her husband left her, because she’d clearly failed at being a wife.

The woman who said that I was a fool to stay with Damien. That once you passed the ten-million-dollar mark one man is pretty much like another, and I should move on to one who came with less baggage.

The woman who said that I’d ruined the family name by posing for a nude portrait.

The woman who’d called me a whore.

I didn’t want to see her. More than that, I wasn’t sure I could see her and manage to stay centered.

I needed Damien—I wanted Damien. He was my strength, my anchor.

But he wasn’t in town and my mother was downstairs. And while I knew that one phone call would have him returning within the hour, I couldn’t bring myself to go to the kitchen, pick up the house phone, and make that call.

I could do this on my own—I had to.

And with Damien’s voice in my head, I knew that I’d survive.

At least, I hoped I would.

“Well, look at you!” My mother rises from the white sofa, then smoothes her linen skirt before coming toward me, her arms out to enfold me in a hug that is capped off by her trademark air kiss. “I was beginning to think you were going to leave me down here all alone.” She speaks lightly, but I can hear the indictment in her words—I left her unattended, and broke one of the cardinal rules from the Elizabeth Fairchild Guide to Playing Hostess.

I say nothing, just stand stiffly in her embrace. A moment passes, and I decide to make an effort. I awkwardly put my arms around her and give her a small squeeze. “Mother,” I say, and then stop. Honestly, what more is there to say?

“Married,” she says, and there is actually a wistful tone in her voice. For a moment, I wonder about her motive for coming. Is she here because she honestly wants to celebrate my marriage? I’m not quite able to wrap my head around the possibility, and yet I can’t help the tiny flame of hope that flickers inside me.

She steps back and looks me up and down. I’ve taken the time to shower and change and put on my makeup, and I know exactly what she sees as she looks at me. My blond hair is still short, though it has grown out since I took scissors to it and violently whacked off large chunks after the last time I saw her. I like this new shoulder-length style. Not only is it nice not to have the weight of all that hair, but the curls are bouncier and frame my face in a way that I like.

I’m wearing a simple linen skirt that hits just above my knees and a peach sweater over a white button-down. My feet are in my favorite pair of strappy sandals. The three-inch heels are wildly impractical for an afternoon of running wedding errands, but these are the shoes I was wearing the night I met Damien at Evelyn’s party so many months ago, and as I stood in my closet a few moments before, I was certain I’d need the extra bit of magical shoe confidence they impart if I was going to survive my mother.

The truth is, I know that I look good. It’s not possible to have entered and won as many pageants as I have and still hem and haw and pretend not to know how you look. Objectively, I’m pretty. Not movie star gorgeous—that’s Jamie—but I’m pretty, maybe even beautiful, and I know how to hold myself well. Under other circumstances, I’d be standing tall, knowing that I passed the inspection of anyone who took the time to look me over. But these are not ordinary circumstances, and I am suddenly feeling like an awkward teen, desperate for my mother’s approval. And the thing I hate the most? That soft look in her eyes only moments before. She’d knocked me off kilter, and now I don’t know what to expect. My defenses are down, and I’m left hoping for affection, like some lost puppy that followed her home looking for a handout.

It’s not a feeling I like.

“Well,” she finally says, “I suppose if you’re going to wear your hair short, that style is as good as it’s going to get.”

My rigid posture slumps ever so slightly, and I look down so that she can’t see the tears pricking my eyes. I really am that puppy, and she’s just kicked the shit out of me. I can either cower, or I can bare my teeth and fight back. And damn me all to hell, but the cowering almost wins out.

Then I remember that I’m not Elizabeth Fairchild’s pretty little dress-up doll anymore. I’m Nikki Fairchild, the owner of her own software company, and I’m more than capable of defending my own damn haircut. I suck in a breath, lift my head, and almost look my mother in the eyes. “It’s shoulder-length, Mother. It’s not like I’ve been shaved for the Marines. I think it’s flattering.” I flash my perfect pageant smile. “Damien likes it, too.”

She sniffs. “Darling, I wasn’t criticizing. I’m your mother. I’m on your side. I just want you to look your best.”

What I want is to tell her to turn around and go home. But the words don’t come. “I wasn’t expecting you,” I say instead.

“Why would you be?” she asks airily. “After all, it’s not as if you invited me to your wedding.”

Um, hello? Did you really think I would after the things you said? After you made it clear that you don’t like Damien? That you don’t respect me? That you think I’m a slut who’s only interested in his money?

That’s what I want to say, but the words don’t come. Instead, I shrug, feeling all of ten, and say simply, “I didn’t think you’d want to be here.”

I watch, astonished, as my mother’s ramrod straight posture sags a bit. She reaches a hand back, then takes hold of the armrest and lowers herself onto the couch. I peer at her and am astonished at an emotion on her face, one I’m not sure I’ve ever seen there before—my mother actually looks sad.

I move to the chair opposite her and sit, watching and waiting.

“Oh, Nichole, sugar, I just—” She cuts herself off, then digs into her purse for a monogrammed handkerchief, which she uses to dab her eyes. Her Texas twang is more pronounced than usual, and I recognize that as a sign of high drama to follow. But there are no tears, no histrionics. Instead, she says very softly and very simply, “I just wanted to spend some time with you. My baby girl’s getting married. It’s bittersweet.”

She reaches out, as if she intends to take my hand, but draws hers back into her lap. She clasps her hands together and straightens her posture, then takes a deep breath as if steeling herself. “I think about your wedding, and I can’t help but remember your sister’s. I want . . .”

But she doesn’t finish the sentence, and so I do not know what she wants. As for me, I don’t know when, but I’ve risen to my feet, and have turned away so that she can’t see the heavy tears now streaming down my cheeks.

I squeeze my eyes shut, determined not to think of Ashley, and even more determined not to think of the hand that my mother had in her suicide. But these thoughts are hard ones to banish, because they have lived inside me for so long. And now—well, now I can’t help but wonder if this is my mother’s way of showing remorse.

Or am I simply being a fool and wishing, perhaps futilely, that there is a détente to be had between my mother and me.

Chapter Five

“Cupcakes.” My mother’s voice is flat, but her smile is perky and falsely polite. She’s speaking to Sally Love, the owner of Love Bites. It’s one of the most popular bakeries in Beverly Hills. Sally has catered dozens of celebrity functions, has been featured in every food and dessert magazine known to man, and is a longtime friend of Damien’s. She’s also an artist with icing and a pleasure to work with.

I am terrified my mother is going to offend her.

Mother’s smile stretches wider. “What a perfectly charming idea. And was that your suggestion?” she asks Sally.

“I believe in working with my clients to figure out exactly what they want, to make their event not only special but uniquely theirs.”

“In other words, you don’t feel bound by tradition or societal expectations?” Her words are venomous, but her tone and manner are so polite that it’s hard to tell if she’s being deliberately offensive or making genuine conversation. I know the answer because I know my mother, and I step in and flash my own perky smile.

“I’m completely in love with the cupcake idea. I saw it in a magazine and it seemed like the perfect way to combine tradition and whimsy.” I turn to Sally, purposefully excluding my mother. “So we’re good to go on the top tier, right?”

Sally grins, displaying rosy cheeks that make me think of Mrs. Claus and Christmas cookies. She’s probably only ten years older than me, but there’s something maternal and soothing about her. I can understand why she does so many wedding cakes. She can calm a nervous bride with nothing more than a look.

“We’re all set,” she assures me. “But we do need to narrow down the choices for the cupcakes.” The plan is to have five different flavors of cupcakes—one for each of the tiers—so the guests can pick their favorite. Additional cupcakes—in case anyone wants seconds—will be scattered artfully on the table, mixed with the fresh wildflowers I have on order from the florist. Daisies and sunflowers and Indian paintbrushes that remind me of the incredible arrangement Damien sent me after the night we first met.

Sally nods to the table set up at the back of the storefront, elegantly draped in white linen. It’s topped with a row of ten tiny cakes. “I thought you might want to refresh your memory.”

I laugh. “Even if I’d already decided, you know I’d have to sit down and taste those.” I glance at my mother as I head toward the table. “Do you want to try, too? They’re all amazing.”

Mother’s brows lift sky high, and I wonder when my mother last had a carb that didn’t come from a lettuce leaf or a glass of wine. “I don’t think so.”

I shrug. “Suit yourself,” I say, and see my mother’s lips purse as I settle behind the table. “More for me.”

The first cake is a tiny cheesecake. It’s Damien’s favorite, and I restrain myself from taking a bite because I’m going to ask Sally if I can take it home for him. I can think of all sorts of interesting negotiations we could have if he’s bargaining for cheesecake.

I smile as I taste the next cake, not because I’m a fan of red velvet, but because I’m imagining all those possibilities. The next is a deep, delicious chocolate that I savor with a moan that is almost sexual. Sally laughs. “That cake gets that a lot.”

“It totally stays,” I say, then grin wickedly at her. “In fact, let’s have a dozen packed up to take with us on the honeymoon.”

We’re laughing, and Sally’s asking me about the honeymoon, and I’m telling her that it’s a secret even from me—a Damien Stark surprise—when my mother clicks her way over on her nail-point heels. She stops in front of me, effectively ending my moment of bridal bonding with Sally.

“Chocolate, yellow, white,” she says. “A pound cake. A cheesecake. If you insist on doing cupcakes at least stick with traditional flavors.”

“I don’t know,” I say, taking a second bite of the cupcake I’m working on. “This one—butternut?—is to die for.”

“It’s very popular,” Sally says. “But try the strawberry.”

My mother reaches over and snatches the fork out of my hand. For a moment, I’m fool enough to think that she’s going to get in the spirit and try the cake. But all she does is point the tines at me. “Honestly, Nichole,” she says, in a tone that leaves no doubt that I have committed some heinous sin. “Are you trying to ruin your wedding? Have you thought about your waist? Your hips? Not to mention your skin!”

She turns to Sally, who is clearly struggling to wipe the expression of appalled shock off her face. “Bless her little heart,” my mother says, in a tone that practically drips sugar, “but my Nichole isn’t a girl who can eat cake and then get into something as form-fitting as a wedding gown.”

“Nikki is a lovely young woman,” Sally says firmly. “And I’m sure she’s going to look stunning at her wedding.”

“Of course she will,” my mother says, her voice sounding farther and farther from me. It’s as if I’m sliding back, moving down some tunnel, away from her, away from Sally, away from everything.

“That’s why I’m here,” Mother adds, her tone entirely reasonable. “My daughter knows she has no self-control about things that are bad for her—cakes, candy, men,” she adds in a stage whisper. “I’ve always been there to help her keep her eye on the prize.”

“I see,” Sally says, and I have a feeling she sees more than my mother wants.

As for me, even from the depths of this well into which I’ve fallen, I am seething. I want to leap out of my chair and tell my mother that she’s never helped me, she’s only manipulated me. That she’s not interested in what I want, but only what I look like and how I act and if I’m presenting an image that stands up to the Fairchild name—a name that’s not worth what it used to be since she took over—and decimated—the oil business that she inherited when my grandfather passed away.

I want to say all of that, but I don’t. I just sit there, my plastic smile on my face, hating myself for not moving. For not telling her to get the hell back to Texas.

But what I hate even more is the fact that I’m now clutching the second fork in my hand, and it’s under the table, and the tines are pressing hard into my leg through the thin material of my skirt. I don’t want to—I know I need to stop, to stand up, to simply get the hell out of there if that’s what it takes—but whatever strength has been building in me over the last few months has scattered like dandelion fluff under the assault of a ferocious wind.

“Nikki,” Sally begins, and I can’t tell if the concern in her voice is because of my mother’s speech or if she sees some hint of my struggle on my face. It doesn’t matter, though, because her words are cut off by the electronic door chime.

I look up, then draw in a breath. The tunnel disappears and my vision returns. The fork tumbles from my hand to the floor, and I realize I’ve stood up.

It’s Damien—and he is moving like a bullet toward me.

I head around the table, unconcerned about anything else. He stops in front of me, his face hard, his eyes warm but worried. “Turns out I could work the cake thing into my schedule, after all.”

I try not to smile, but the corners of my mouth twitch, and I feel tears of relief prick my eyes. “I’m glad.”

He reaches out and strokes my cheek. “You okay?”

“I’m perfect,” I say. “At least, I am now.”

The worry fades from his eyes, and I know that he believes me. He takes my hand, then turns to face my mother. “Mrs. Fairchild. What a pleasant surprise,” he says, in the kind of overly polite voice that suggests there’s nothing remotely pleasant about this particular surprise.

“Mr. Stark—Damien—I—” She stops abruptly, and I am amused. My mother is very rarely rendered speechless, but the last time she and Damien met he sent her away, effectively getting rid of her by flying her back to Texas on one of his jets. And that was before she’d said the variety of nasty things she’s since uttered about the two of us. I have to wonder if she doesn’t now fear that her ride out of California this go-round will be significantly less pleasant.

Damien, however, is the picture of cultured politeness. “It was so kind of you to come with Nikki today. I think we both know how valuable your opinion is to her.” My mother’s eyes widen almost imperceptibly. I can tell that she wants to reply, to lash out with the sweet sting of words that she’d want to cut him as deeply as a blade has cut me, but they clearly don’t come. I’m not surprised. My mother is formidable, but Damien is more so.

Her expression shifts from consternation to surprise when Jamie bursts into the bakery like a tornado. “I’m here! I’m here! Big ticky mark for the maid of honor!”

For a moment I think that she really is here simply because she promised me she’d try to make it to Love Bites on time. But when I see that it is not me she looks to first, but Damien, I realize that he called her—and that she is part of the cavalry, too.

A moment later, Ryan Hunter, Damien’s head of security, hurries inside as well, only to stop short when he sees Damien, then fall back toward the door, his eyes on my mother, as if she is a bomb about to go off. Laughter bubbles in my throat. I never felt loved by my mother. Damien not only makes me feel loved, but also cherished and protected and safe.

I understand what has happened, of course. Tony called Damien. Since Damien was in Palm Springs, he called both Jamie and Ryan in order to ensure there was someone with me to run interference. I squeeze his hand, then mouth, Thank you. The words are simple; the emotion is not.

He squeezes back, but his attention is focused on my mother. I look toward her, too, and as I do I realize that Sally has gracefully exited, leaving the drama of the showroom for the relative calm of the kitchen.

Damien’s voice is firm as he addresses my mother. “Between Jamie and me, I think we have it covered. I’m sure you have unpacking to do. Why don’t you let my security chief drive you to the hotel?”

“Don’t be silly,” my mother says. “I’m happy to stay.” She smiles at me, and my stomach curls. “I want to spend time with my daughter.”

“Awesome,” Jamie says. “Today’s her bachelorette party.” She glances at her watch. “In fact we’re supposed to meet the others girls at Raven in about half an hour. It’s a strip club,” she adds in a stage whisper. “It’s going to be awesome. Wanna come?”

My mother goggles at her, and it takes all my power not to laugh. I know Jamie is joking—I specifically told her I didn’t want to do the bachelorette thing—but in this moment it would almost be worth going through with it.

“Um, no. Thank you. I—” Her eyes cut to Damien. “I suppose I should get settled.”

“I keep a suite at the Century Plaza hotel,” Damien says. “I insist you stay there.”

“Oh, no. I wouldn’t want to be any trouble.”

He doesn’t say what I know he is thinking—You’ve already been that. Instead, he graces her with his most formal corporate smile. “No trouble at all. In fact, your car is already there. You’re all checked in.”

I see the confusion on Jamie’s face—she’s been staying at the Century Plaza suite.

“Oh. I see. Well, then.” My mother turns her attention to me. “I’ll go with you tomorrow to the dress fitting,” she says, and I remember with regret that I’d nervously prattled off my schedule for the week as I drove us from Malibu to Beverly Hills.

“Sure,” I say, though what I really want is to scream that there is no way in hell I want her in my head as I try on my wedding dress. “That would be great.”

Damien is looking at me questioningly, and I shrug in reply. Part of me wants him to step in and send her packing. But she is my mother, and another part of me—the secret, buried part that I don’t like to take out and examine too closely—wants to have her at my wedding. Wants to have her hold me and tell me she’s sorry for all the years of horror and drama.

I want it, but I do not expect it. Yet still that flame of hope is alive, and I feel it flickering inside me.

“Ryan will take you,” Damien says to my mother. I glance at Ryan and watch as he turns his attention away from Jamie to this new assignment. I turn to look at my best friend. Her expression suggests that she’s oblivious to Ryan’s attention, but there’s an unfamiliar color to her cheeks, and as she watches him lead my mother out the door, I can’t help but wonder.

Jamie crosses the room to join me at the table, then picks up the red velvet cake with her fingers and takes a huge bite. “You realize that there’s no way I’m sharing a suite with your mother.”

I laugh. “Neither of you would survive.”

“I had Tony pack your things when he delivered Mrs. Fairchild’s car,” Damien says. “You’re staying in Malibu with us.”

Jamie does a fist pump. “Score!”

My smile is so wide it almost hurts. “Thanks for having my back,” I say to Damien.

“Always.” The softness in his eyes hardens a bit. “Do you want me to send her back to Texas?”

I almost say yes, but then shake my head. “No. I’m getting married, and she is my mother. I’m strong enough to handle it,” I say, in response to his reproachful look.

“You are,” he agrees.

“And there was a moment—” I shake my head, thinking about the way she’d talked about Ashley’s wedding, and the vulnerability that I’d seen in her eyes.

“What?” Damien is looking at me intently.

“I just think that, despite all the Elizabeth Fairchild nonsense, part of her really does want to be here for me on my wedding day.”

For a moment, Damien only looks at me, his hands on my shoulders. Then he leans forward and captures my mouth with the sweetest of kisses. When he pulls away, I expect an argument. I expect him to recite an itemized list of every horrible thing my mother has done to me, to us. I expect him to point to his own father, whom neither of us want at this wedding. Hell, I expect him to talk some sense into me.

Instead, he says simply, “Be careful.”

I swallow and nod, because I know that he’s right to be concerned.

Once again, the door chimes, but this time I do not know the man who enters. He is drop-dead gorgeous, with dark hair highlighted by gold and red. He carries himself with a Damien Stark kind of confidence, and when his gaze sweeps the room, I see both calculation and intelligence in his sharp, gray eyes.

“We should finish up with Sally and get going,” I say to Damien. “She’s got other customers to deal with.”

“I’m sure she does,” he replies, “but Evan isn’t one of them. He’s with me.”

“Holy crap,” Jamie says, “do you travel in packs?”

Damien frowns, and I almost laugh. There aren’t many people who can knock him off kilter. “What are you talking about?” he asks.

“Never mind,” Jamie says, waving her hand as if wiping the words away. But she turns her attention to me, and I nod slightly. I have understood her perfectly, because this guy is hot. Maybe not Damien Stark hot, I think loyally, but he’s got some serious sizzle going on.

“Evan Black, let me introduce you to my fiancée, Nikki Fairchild, and her best friend, Jamie Archer.”

Evan strides across the room to join us. He shakes my hand, then Jamie’s. I can’t help but notice that she holds on a moment longer than is necessary.

“Congratulations,” Evan says to me. “I knew the first time he talked about you that one day you two would be married. I wish you all the best.”

“Thank you,” I say, looking curiously at Damien. He’s never mentioned this man before.

“I’ve known Evan for years,” Damien says. “He lives in Chicago—we had a drink when I flew out there a few months ago,” he adds.

“We met when we were both looking to acquire a failing business,” Evan adds.

“Who got it?” I ask.

“Damien,” Evan says, without regret. “But today it’s my turn.”

That I don’t know what he means must be obvious by my expression. “Evan’s acquiring the galleries,” Damien says, referring to the art galleries that Giselle Reynard recently transferred over to him. “We were in Palm Springs examining the items in storage, and Evan’s going to come to Malibu tomorrow to take a look at the main property.”

“I have a few other things to take care of while I’m here,” Evan says, “but I’m honored to have been invited to the wedding. I’m very happy for both of you.”

“Thank you,” I say, noticing that Jamie is still peering at him with interest. This is something that needs to be nipped in the bud. Not only is Jamie supposed to be backing away from men, but considering Evan is Chicago-bound, he could be nothing more than a fast fuck. And that is so not what my best friend needs.

Jamie pulls out her phone and makes a face, then looks at me. “We need to hurry,” she says. “We’re going to be late.”

“Late? For what?”

She rolls her eyes. “I told you. We’re meeting the girls at Raven,” she says, referring to a male strip club in Hollywood.

“Raven,” Damien says, his brows lifting.

“Um, hello?” Jamie says. “Bachelorette party. Alcohol. Mostly naked gorgeous men.” She looks him up and down. “Not that she doesn’t already have that in her life, but still. This is the night to be naughty.”

“It’s only barely past lunchtime,” I say stupidly.

“I know,” Jamie says. “That’s when there’s less of a crowd. More attention for us.”

Oh my.

I glance toward Damien, but this is one of the few times when I cannot read his expression. My gaze shifts toward Evan. He is easier to read, as he’s not even trying to hide his amusement.

“I told you I didn’t want a bachelorette party,” I say. “And I have stuff to do today. The music. The photographer,” I remind her, then grimace when I see Damien’s brows rise again. Damn. My little lie earlier has been soundly caught out.

“And I need to make sure the flowers are confirmed,” I add, rushing on. “I need—”

“To chill with your friends,” Jamie says. “Come on, Nick. Music or not, pictures or not, come Saturday night you’re going to be married. You’ll never, ever, ever get to go out as a hot single girl again. So we’re doing this. I’m your maid of honor and I’m insisting.” She glances at Damien. “Sorry, dude. It’s in the best friends rule book.”

“I’m certain it is.” He turns to me, his expression implacable. “I need to speak with you alone.”

I shoot Jamie the kind of look that could bring down an army, then follow Damien to the far corner of the showroom. We’re standing beside a case filled with gorgeous, decorative wedding cakes. I glance at them, then wish that I hadn’t, because all they do is remind me of how quickly Saturday night is barreling down on us. And while Damien’s entry only moments ago might have felt like the cavalry, now those prickles of stress and nerves are starting up again. Because Jamie is right—this is my last chance to cut loose with my girlfriends.

But I don’t want to irritate Damien, and though it has never actually come up between us, I feel confident he is not going to graciously accept the idea of another guy getting up close and personal. And we both know that even if we insist on ground rules, Jamie will make sure that they are soundly ignored.

“It’s not my idea,” I say.

“But you want to go.” His voice is low, sensual—and it’s making me nervous, because I can’t figure out his angle.

“I didn’t even know about it,” I say.

He twines a strand of my hair through his fingers, then releases it as he brushes his thumb over the curve of my jaw, then over my lower lip.

My mouth parts, and I feel my body go soft and needy. There is no one in the world who has ever had the effect on me that Damien does, and right then I want nothing more than to fold myself into his embrace and lose myself in his kisses.

That, however, isn’t where the moment is going.

“Go,” he says. “Have fun with your friends.”

I blink. “Really?”

He chuckles. “Would I deny you the full wedding experience?”

“I—well, no, but Raven . . .” I trail off, because really, what is there to say about buff men dancing in thongs?

“Mmm, yes, about that.” He moves closer, his heat so palpable I feel the sizzle. “You go. You have fun. And you come back and tell me all about it.”

I lick my lips. “All about it?”

He leans forward so that his lips brush my ear. “Every last thing, baby. Have as good a time as you want. And when you get home,” he adds, his hand sliding down to cup my ass, “I’ll decide whether I need to simply spank this beautiful ass, or whether you need a more thorough punishment so that you remember just how much—how thoroughly, completely, and irrevocably—you belong to me.” He pulls back so that he is looking straight into my eyes, and the desire I see there almost makes me come on the spot.