Текст книги "Take Me"

Автор книги: J. Kenner

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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 6 страниц)

“Do we understand each other?”

I nod.

“What’s that?”

“Yes,” I say, and then meet his eyes defiantly. “Yes, sir.”

The corner of his mouth twitches. He takes my hand and pulls me close, then brushes a gentle kiss over my lips. “Just so you know, Ms. Fairchild,” he whispers, “I’m secretly hoping you spend this afternoon with your friends being very, very naughty.”

Chapter Six

Jamie lets out a laugh as a guy in nothing but a thong and a cowboy hat gets up close and personal in her face. I’m sitting right beside her and am listing toward the left—away from him—but Jamie is eating it up, gleefully tucking ones and fives into the elastic band of his thong. Elastic that, from the stretched out look of it, is going to snap at any moment.

Which probably wouldn’t bother Jamie at all.

But even though the guy’s not bad-looking, the only naked man I’m interested in anymore is Damien. And this guy is no Damien.

Jamie pulls out a fifty, and I roll my eyes, thinking that I’m about to witness a new level of hip-gyrating entertainment. That’s when Jamie hooks her thumb toward me, nods, and very deliberately sticks the fifty right over the guy’s package.

“Jamie!” I squeal, but I’m laughing now, because she’s laughing and so are Lisa and Evelyn and Sylvia. I try to squirm away, but Jamie holds me in place, grinning wickedly.

Beside me, Evelyn takes a shot of straight Scotch. “Honey, you know I love your boy—and I am quite fond of my own man’s attributes, too—but you need to relax and appreciate this from an artistic perspective.” As if in illustration, she leans back, takes another drink, attaches her eyes firmly on the cowboy, and sighs.

Evelyn Dodge is brassy, opinionated, and often inappropriate. She says what she thinks, takes no shit off anyone, and has conquered Hollywood and then some. A former-actress-turned-agent-turned-patron-of-the-arts, Evelyn has been friends with Damien since his early days on the tennis circuit. She’s known his secrets for longer than I have, and she loves him as much as I do. Damien lost his mom when he was just a kid, and I’ve always been grateful that Evelyn was in his life. Now I’m grateful that she’s in mine.

But this isn’t the time to be sappy, and I flash her the kind of smile that would make my mother proud. “Evelyn,” I say sweetly, “you are so full of shit.”

“It’s the years in Hollywood, Texas.” She cocks her head at Jamie. “At least this one already has the mouth for it.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Jamie says. Then she waves another bill and points at me. “Come on, John Wayne,” she says. “Don’t stop now.”

The dancer obviously knows which of us is shoving bills down his pants, because he does as she says, gyrating closer and closer, and I’m squirming out of reach and laughing so hard that I almost pee my pants.

And all the while I’m wearing a fake diamond tiara that says Virgin Bride in equally fake red gemstones.

“It’s no use,” Jamie finally announces, then waves the dancer away, but not before giving him one more fifty. “She only has eyes for Damien.”

“Can you blame her?” Sylvia says. I turn to her, eyebrows raised. Sylvia is Damien’s assistant, and we’ve spent so much time together as I’ve planned the wedding that we’ve become pretty good friends. “What?” she says, holding her hands up in a sign of innocence. “Just because I work for him doesn’t mean I’m blind to him.”

“What happens in Raven stays in Raven,” Jamie says wisely, then points a finger at me. “And don’t even pretend to be jealous of her. You’d have to be jealous of the whole world, because every straight female out there thinks he’s the most fuckalicious thing on two legs. Besides, you know Damien’s only got eyes for you.”

“I do,” I say happily. At the moment, I’m very happy. It may not even be five yet, but I’ve had a Happy Hour buzz going for the last couple of hours, and have imbibed more than my fair share of Manhattans, because Jamie says that the little cherry garnish is appropriate for a bachelorette party, even though my cherry was popped long ago.

My best friend has a way with words.

The waiter comes with another round of drinks, but before I can snag a fresh Manhattan, Lisa snatches it off the tray. “I think it’s about time we get you home to Damien,” she says. “You’re getting glassy-eyed.”

I squint at her. “No way.”

She laughs. “He will be so mad at all of us if we send you back tonight only to pass out. Especially since you’re going home with a goodie bag.”

“I am?” I’m beginning to think that Lisa’s right and I’m a little wasted, because even if she’s talking in euphemisms, I have no idea what she means by a goodie bag.

“Instead of each of us buying you a present, we went in together and got you a Bag O’ Fun from Come Again,” Jamie explains, referencing a local sex toy shop.

“You didn’t,” I say, not sure if I should be amused or mortified. “What’s in it?”

“You’re just going to have to wait and see,” Jamie says, while the rest of them grin.

“I promise it’s good,” Lisa says. “I may have to recreate a bag for Preston and me.” Lisa is a business consultant who has done some work with me, and her fiancé, Preston, is one of the top executives at Stark Applied Technology.

“You’re supposed to save it for your wedding night,” Sylvia adds.

“But we won’t think less of you if you dig in tonight,” Jamie says. She shares a mischievous grin with Evelyn. “She’s going home to Damien, after all, so how could we blame her?”

The limo parked outside of Raven is one of Damien’s insane stretch numbers that the company keeps primarily for impressing competitors and rewarding employees. Since this isn’t the greatest neighborhood in the world, a crowd of gawkers have gathered. I think some of them are drooling. A few must recognize me, because about ten feet from the car I start to hear my name called out. I see phones being thrust into the air, and a flurry of shouts and camera flashes surround me.

I walk faster, flanked by my friends.

I’m surprised that Edward isn’t on the sidewalk holding the door open for me, but it doesn’t matter, because Jamie and Evelyn have taken the lead, and they bundle me into the limo, tell me that they hope I had a great time with them and that I have an even greater one with Damien—wink, wink—and then slam the door, effectively blocking the paparazzi and tourists who are determined to get in my face.

I lean back against the soft leather and take deep breaths. Dealing with the paparazzi is part and parcel of dating and marrying a multi-bazillionaire who owns half the world, and I know that. But once the press got hold of the fact that Damien had paid me a million dollars to pose for a nude portrait—and once Damien was indicted for murder—the press went a little nuts. Now it’s a good day if we go out in public with only a small swarm.

I’ve learned to live with it, but I don’t like it. It makes me tense and uncomfortable, and if there was a way to avoid it, I would.

What I hate the most is that I know they will be out in full force for the wedding. Although all of the Stark International security force will be at the house to make sure we don’t have party crashers on the perimeter, the beach itself is public—and I’m certain that it will be crowded with paparazzi with long lenses and lots of determination.

Since I can’t do anything about that except move the wedding inside or to another location altogether, neither of which are options that appeal to me, I have come to terms with the fact that I’m going to have to simply deal with the paparazzi and all the pictures that will surface afterward.

Yay.

That realization was one of the reasons we fired the photographer that we’d hired to do our wedding day portraits. I really didn’t need one more underhanded person trying to snap a picture of someone who is having just a little bit too good a time at the champagne fountain after the wedding.

I frown, remembering that I still have to find a photographer, and it’s already Thursday and the wedding is Saturday. Shit. If it weren’t my own wedding, I could take the pictures myself. For that matter, I suppose I could take my Leica to the ceremony . . .

I shake off the ridiculous thought. Honestly, the black camera strap would totally clash with my dress.

Still, I should use this time in the limo to be productive. Maybe call some of the folks on my initial list of maybes and see if they’re booked for the day. But my head is too light from my Manhattan indulgence, and all I want to do is sit back, enjoy the ride, and think about seeing Damien again in just a few minutes.

The fact that I tossed my phone across the bedroom and broke it also puts a crimp in my plan to manage a little work.

Frustrated at being without Damien, and irritated about my own foolish temper, I glance out the window and frown, because this isn’t the way that we usually go home. I am about to hit the button for the intercom when a phone rings, which is odd because there is no permanent phone in the back of the limo, and, as I have just reminded myself, my iPhone is toast.

The ring comes again.

I lean forward, cock my head, and decide the sound is coming from the bar. I get off the leather bench and move carefully in that direction. Another ring, and I narrow the source down to the ice bucket. I pull off the lid, glance down, and find a phone in the otherwise empty container.

With a grin, I answer the call. “Hello?”

“Ms. Fairchild,” he says—his voice is low and enticing and flows over me like warm chocolate.

“Mr. Stark,” I say, unable to hide my amusement. “Funny you were able to call me, since I have no phone.”

“I told you—I will always take care of your needs.”

I smile, feeling warm and satisfied. “Where are you?”

“I’m not with you,” he says. “Other than that, does it matter?”

My mouth curves into a smile. “No, but you’re wrong. You are with me. You’re always with me.”

There is a pause before he answers. “Yes,” he finally says, and I don’t think I have ever heard that simple word spoken with so much meaning and complexity before.

I sigh with satisfaction, then close my eyes. He may not be beside me, but for the moment, I am content.

“We’ve done this before,” he says. “You, alone in the back of my limo. Me, somewhere else, thinking of you. Imagining you. Wanting you.”

I swallow, my body already tightening in anticipation of where these words are going. Because we have done this before—and the caress of his voice upon me that night is one of my most treasured memories.

“Tell me what you did,” he says.

“That night in the limo?” I ask, though I know that is not what he means.

“Tonight. At Raven.”

“I watched the dancers.”

“What did they do?” His voice has a hard edge, and I shiver a little, remembering his promise to punish me.

“They danced,” I say. And then, because I’m feeling reckless, I add, “They stripped down to thongs. They were slick with oil. They got close.”

“How close?”

I think of the way the cowboy was gyrating right in front of my face. I remember the way that Jamie laughed and Lisa and Evelyn egged him on. “Pretty close,” I whisper.

“I see.”

There is a pause, and I squirm on the seat. My legs feel prickly, my sex clenches greedily. I’m thinking of Damien’s promise to punish me, and I yearn to be home. To feel his hands upon me.

“Did it turn you on?” he asks, with that low, dangerous tone.

I almost lie, but I can’t do that. “Yes,” I whisper. “But only because it made me think of you. Your body hard and naked in front of me. Your chest close to me. That thin strip of hair that leads down to your cock, so near I could lick it. And those amazing muscles that form a V as if arrowing down to heaven.”

“Christ, Nikki.”

I smile, pleased I can bring that ragged tone to his voice.

“Mostly, though, it turned me on because I was watching other men. Because they were nearly naked, and I knew that when I got home to you—” I cut myself off, my bravado suddenly evaporating.

“What?” he asks. “What will happen when you get home?”

“You said you’d punish me,” I say, so softly I’m not sure that he can hear me.

“Did I?” There is a note of triumph in his voice, and it makes me weak. “How should I punish you?”

I lick my lips. “You should probably spank me.”

“I probably should,” he agrees. “Would you like that?”

“Yes.” My voice is nothing more than a whisper of air.

“Why?”

I close my eyes. It’s a question that I expect whenever I ask for the pain, and I know that after my dreams he will be even more careful with me. I love that he understands me so well, but it means that I have to say aloud what I want from him, and that voicing of my desires is both awkward and undeniably exciting.

“Why, Nikki? I want to hear why you want the sting of my palm.”

I lick my lips, forcing them to wrap around my words. “Because of the way it feels.”

“Tell me.”

“Tiny pinpricks of pleasure,” I say, my soft words becoming bolder even as they sizzle through my body, sparking like currents of electricity that fire my senses. “They melt into heat, into liquid desire. It makes me wet, Damien, you make me wet.” I pause, knowing that my words have captured him. “Pleasure and pain, Damien, and you’re the only one I trust to give me both.”

For a long moment he is silent. Almost too long. And then I hear his intake of breath, followed by his slow, clear words. “There is no one else who has the power to tear me apart the way you do, Nikki. No one else who can reach in and squeeze my heart. You are my world, Ms. Fairchild, and I love you desperately.”

“I know,” I whisper.

“But, baby,” he adds, with a lightness now coloring his words, “that doesn’t change the fact that you were naughty.”

“Was I?” I am breathing hard now, anticipating what is to come.

“Have you seen the Internet?”

I frown. That wasn’t a question I was expecting. “Um, no.”

“Your party is all over Twitter,” he says, and I cringe. That I should have expected. “I imagine it’ll be on TMZ by morning. The gentleman who was, shall we say, in your face looked quite energetic.”

“I think he probably works out,” I say dryly.

“You realize this puts me in a bit of a predicament.”

I’m trying very hard not to smile. “Does it?”

“I’m just not sure how to punish you now. Considering your . . . eagerness . . . I’m beginning to think that spanking isn’t quite the punishment it ought to be.”

“Damien!” I’m laughing—but I’m also a little worried. Damien is nothing if not creative.

He chuckles, and it’s obvious the bastard is enjoying himself.

“Maybe I should just hang up?” he says.

“No.”

“No, what?” he asks, and I hear the tightening in his voice. Whatever playfulness has been between us, it’s fading under the slow burn of something else. Something hot. Something dangerous.

“No, sir,” I say. My breath stutters in my chest, and I know that I am already wet. I’ve been wet since the moment I heard his voice. “Please, sir. Please don’t hang up.”

“I’ll stay on the line, but only if you obey. Bend my rules, and I hang up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Take your skirt off. And your panties.”

I unbutton the skirt and shimmy out of it. I toss it onto the floor of the limo and drop my panties on top.

“Okay.”

“Are you sitting back down?”

“Yes.”

“Are you wet?”

“Yes.”

“I’m going to punish you, Nikki, just like you want. I’m going to make you come. I’m going to make you explode.”

I close my eyes and lean my head back, lost in the power of his words.

“But it won’t be fast.” He pauses, then, “Tell me how wet you are.”

“Very.”

“No, not like that. I want you to touch yourself. Just one finger. Imagine it’s mine.”

“I am.”

“Now slide it down the juncture of your thigh,” he orders. “Let me feel how silky your skin is. How soft. How tempting.”

I do what he says, trembling as much from the gentle touch as from the fantasy that it’s Damien’s.

“Don’t touch your clit,” he says, and though I desperately want to, I obey. “Now tell me.”

“Like I said, I’m very wet.”

He chuckles. “I’m very glad to hear it. Tell me, what’s in the goodie bag?”

“I don’t know. Hang on.”

I tug the bag over and peek inside. “A mask, a vibrator, some sort of oil, handcuffs, a video.”

“Oil?”

“Yeah.” I pull out the small bottle and read the label. “Arousal oil.”

“Interesting. Open it.”

“I—okay.” I break the seal and unscrew the cap. Immediately, I can smell the spices. “It’s a bit minty. There aren’t instructions.”

“Dab a little on your finger,” he says. “Then stroke it onto your clit.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Should I hang up?”

“Right. Okay. No problem.” I’m not at all sure what this stuff is, but I figure if it’s in a bag from Jamie, it must be fun. I put a drop on my finger and ease my finger over my clit. I’m so sensitive that even that tiny sensation makes me shiver.

“Well?” Damien asks.

I cock my head, expecting some sort of new sensation. “Nothing.”

“Hmm. All right, then, we’ll move on. Does the vibrator have batteries?”

I test it out, and find that it purrs nicely in my hand. “It does,” I say, and immediately cringe. I sound far too eager, and I know from Damien’s chuckle that he both heard and understood.

“And the mask,” he says. “Go ahead and put that on.”

“All right.” I slip it over my eyes, and the world goes dark. “Okay, I—holy fuck.” The oil that I thought did nothing is now doing considerably more than nothing. “That oil, it’s . . . well, it’s very wow.”

“Tell me.”

“It’s like mint, I guess. Like if you sucked on one of those really strong mints and then went down on me. Oh, wow. It feels amazing, sensitive—oh, God, Damien, please.”

“Please, what?”

“Everything. Anything.” I squirm, wanting simply to relieve this growing pressure, this demanding sensation. “Please, sir, can I touch myself?”

“Oh, yeah. We’re going to use the vibrator. Your fingers. I’m going to tell you how to touch yourself, baby. And you’re going to let me hear you come.”

I am awash with gratitude. I’ve been holding the phone, but now I put it on speaker and set it beside me, peeking out from under the blindfold just long enough to make sure I push the right buttons.

“Slide your hand up your thigh,” he says, “then gently stroke your clit. Are you doing it?”

“Yes.” I can barely speak.

“Can you turn on the vibrator?”

“I—I think so.”

“Fuck yourself with it, baby. I want it inside you. I want you imagining it’s me. Holding you, fucking you, burying myself deep in you.”

Oh my God. I fumble, turned on, frantic, weak with longing. I switch to my right hand, and stroke my clit with my left. The oil is amazing, and . . . “I’m close,” I say. “God, Damien, I’m so close.”

“I know, baby. Come the rest of the way for me. Let me hear it.”

“I—” But I can’t talk anymore. I’ve done as he asked with the vibrator, and it fills me, the dual sensation of the vibration and my finger stroking my clit coupled with my fantasy of Damien, and his voice on the phone telling me to “Come for me, baby, come for me,” is too overwhelming. I let my head fall back, and grind my hips, lost to everything now but the need for release that is close, so close, so very close, and then—

I explode, and as I do, I cry out Damien’s name.

“That’s it, baby,” he says. “That’s it. Keep touching yourself. Don’t stop. Don’t stop, baby, you can come again.”

I’ve turned off the vibrator and tossed it onto the seat, but I do as he says and stroke myself. I’m so desperately wet. Wet and wide open and wishing that Damien were right here.

I still have the mask on, but I can hear the mechanical sound of the privacy screen starting to descend.

What the fuck?

“Damien!”

“I hear it, too. It’s just the privacy screen. Don’t stop. Don’t put your legs together. Stay like that, baby. Open and wide.”

“Are you crazy? Edward.”

“I believe we agreed that you needed to be punished.”

“No.” I pull my legs tight together and rip off the mask even as I slide sideways, out of the line of sight of the driver.

And when I do, I realize that it isn’t Edward behind the wheel, it’s Damien.

He turns to glance, and I take deep, gasping breaths as I try to reconcile fear and relief and anger.

“Bastard,” I finally say, though that hardly covers it.

“Slide back to the middle.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Suit yourself.” He starts to raise the privacy screen.

“Fine.” I’m pissed, but I’m not stupid. And, yeah, I’m still turned on.

As he drops the screen, I slide back to center.

“Spread your legs,” he says, and as I do, he adjusts his mirror. “Now, that really is a beautiful view.” There is awe in his voice, and it makes me feel beautiful. Despite being exposed, despite the scars on my thighs. Damien makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, and that is just one of the things that makes me love him.

“Wider,” he says. I comply, and I hear Damien’s sharp intake of breath. He may be playing with me, but there’s no denying that he’s turned on, too.

“Are you excited, Ms. Fairchild?”

“Yes,” I admit. “Except for that one moment of terror, yes.”

“You should know me better. And you should listen better.”

“Listen?” And then it hits me. “The bag. How would you know about the goodie bag if you weren’t in the car?”

“Exactly. I gave you that clue. It’s not my fault if you were too distracted to pay attention.”

I manage a smirk. “Actually, I think it was your fault.”

He chuckles again. “Maybe so.”

I start to bring my legs together.

“Oh, no, Ms. Fairchild. That’s how you sit for the rest of the ride. It’s your punishment—and my reward,” he adds, tapping the rearview mirror.

“In that case,” I say, and strip off my sweater, shirt, and bra.

“Jesus, Nikki,” Damien says, as I sit naked on the backseat, feeling suddenly very smug.

“I thought you needed to be well rewarded. After all, you earned it. I mean, you’ve been sitting in an empty limo all afternoon while I was inside drinking and watching hot guys.”

“Best not to remind me of your infractions,” he warns. “And the truth is, I wasn’t just sitting in the limo.”

“Oh?” I lick the tip of my finger and slowly circle my nipple. I’m pretty sure I hear a low growl come from the driver’s seat. “What were you doing?”

“You were with the girls,” he says, his voice unnaturally tight. “I was with the guys.”

“Were you?” I let my finger trace down, down, down. Slowly, I stroke my sex, thrusting my finger deep inside, then withdrawing it to tease my clit.

I started this little show to torment Damien, but I’m also tormenting myself. “So, um, who were you with?” Honestly, it’s getting hard to think.

“Alaine, Charles, Preston. Jesus, Nikki, do you have any idea how hard I am?”

I allow myself the pleasure of a satisfied smile. “Anyone else?”

“Ryan, Evan, Blaine. A few others.”

“Mmm.” I force myself not to drift, not to let myself come. I want him hard and hot. I want to turn the punishment around on him.

I want to keep control.

“So, um, tell me about Evan. Jamie was certainly checking him out.”

“Tell her to stay away,” Damien says sharply, and my hand pauses.

“Why?”

“Actually, I take it back. Don’t tell her anything. Knowing Jamie, telling her to stay away would just make her more determined.”

“All right,” I agree. “But why? What’s wrong with him?”

“Not a damn thing. I like him, a lot. But he has an edge.”

“An edge? What kind of edge?”

“The dangerous kind.”

“Oh.” I want to ask more; however, I know better than to try to get information out of Damien that he doesn’t want to give. “To be honest, I think Jamie’s appreciation is more aesthetic than active. I’m pretty sure she’s got her eye on another guy.”

“Who?” Damien asks.

I shrug. I don’t answer, but I’m thinking of Ryan.

For a moment I think Damien will press the point, but all he says is, “We’re here.”

I glance out the window and see that we’ve entered a drive-in movie lot. I laugh out loud. “Where are we?” I ask, tugging my skirt and shirt back on. I don’t bother with the bra or underwear. At the moment, they seem superfluous.

“The Vineland Drive-In. City of Industry.”

“Don’t you have to pay?”

“I called ahead and made arrangements.”

“You planned this all along,” I say, which is pretty much stating the obvious. “Why?”

He opens his door, gets out, then joins me in the back.

“Why?” I repeat.

“So we could make out in a car at the drive-in,” he says simply.

I laugh, because as corny as it sounds, the idea is also exciting. “Interesting. I think I’d like that.”

“Would you?” He reaches over and begins to unbutton the shirt that I just put back on. I lean toward the console so that I can raise the privacy screen.

“No,” he says as he peels the shirt off.

“Damien!”

His fingers unbutton my skirt, then tug down the zipper. “Do you really think that someone is going to lean on the hood, press their face to the glass, and peer all the way back here?”

“They might,” I say, though I agree it’s doubtful.

“They won’t. But doesn’t the possibility make you wet?” He slides his hand up my skirt. “Yeah,” he says. “I think it does.”

I lick my lips, refusing to admit the excitement that’s building inside me. “I was already wet,” I say.

“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.