Complete Me (10 page)

He stands upright again, then circles me, finally stopping near my right hand, still splayed out against the window. “I like this,” he says, reaching out to run his finger along the pearl necklace that is the only thing I still wear. “It is said that oysters are a potent aphrodisiac, but I think that pearls are equally enticing. It’s rumored that Cleopatra crushed one and drank it in wine in order to render herself irresistible to Mark Antony. But I think I prefer them as an adornment. For that matter, I can think of a few other adornments that I would like to see.”

“Damien—” I stop myself because I don’t know what I want to say other than to beg.

“Stay put,” he says. “Don’t touch yourself. Don’t put your legs together. You’ll come when I let you, Nikki, but not before. Break my rules, and I promise you won’t like the punishment.”

I swallow and nod. “But where are you going?” I call as he disappears into the bedroom. I get no answer, and I close my eyes in frustration, hyperaware of every inch of my body. Of the dampness at the back of my neck along my hairline. Of the tiny hairs upon my skin, standing up as if electrified, caught up in this storm that is Damien. Mostly, I am aware of the aching in my cunt.

I do not touch, though I desperately want to, and I am aware of every movement of my body, every brush of air. I can feel my pulse beating in my sex, and my muscles clenching with longing. I am need personified—and what I need is Damien.

He is only gone for minutes, but it seems like I am waiting for hours, lost with my own reflection. A nude woman against a shiny surface, a dream world of city lights blazing behind her. I am like a woman from one of Blaine’s paintings, forever captured by his brush in a state of arousal, never quite able to reach satisfaction.

No,
I think. Please don’t let Damien be teasing me like that.

When he returns, he has something in his hand. He sets it on the table behind me. I can’t see what it is, but I think I hear the clink of metal upon metal.

“Damien?” I ask, my voice wary. “What are you doing?”

He comes around in front of me, then gently takes my hands off the glass, easing me back up straight. A slow grin lights his face, and I see both amusement and heat in those beautiful eyes. I expect his answer before he says it—“What I want, Nikki. Always, what I want.”

I lick my lips. “And what is that?”

“To give you pleasure.” He moves behind me, to the table, then returns with something in his hand. “Do you remember this?”

He opens his hand to reveal a silver serpentine chain connected by two rings, each with two small metal balls on them. The balls pull apart, creating an opening, then snap back together when the pressure is released. They are nipple clamps, and I shiver from the memory of that exquisite bite of pain mixed with pleasure.

He brushes his thumb over my now painfully erect nipple. “Oh, yes,” he says. “I think you remember just fine.”

I moan as he slowly caresses my breast. “How did those get here?”

His chuckle seems to roll over me. “It’s been almost a month, Nikki. I had Gregory pack and ship a few things. Including the small leather case I keep in my closet.”

“Oh.” I wet my lips. “That was very efficient of you.”

“I’m a man who likes to plan ahead.” He catches my nipple between his thumb and forefinger, then squeezes tight. I gasp, relishing the sharp sensation, the pleasure edging toward pain. With his fingers tight, he rolls the hard nub and I bite down on my lip as electricity sparks through me, racing from my breasts to my wet, throbbing cunt.

“Damien.” I’m not sure what I’m demanding. I can barely form thoughts, much less words. All I know is desire. All I want is more.

Hell, all I want is everything.

As if in answer to my demand, Damien spreads the rounded ends of the ring, then gently releases it, causing the cold silver to clamp against my nipple. There’s more pressure now than Damien had applied, and I suck in air, surprised at first by the fiery pain. It fades soon, though, and I moan in pleasure at the warmth that ripples through me as my body adjusts to the tantalizing torture.

“We’ve gone so far together, Nikki,” he murmurs as he attaches the other one. “I’m going to take you even farther. I want to balance on the edge with you, and see you open and wide and wild.”

My breathing is ragged. I’m hyperaware of my breasts, of his touch. And when he slides his hand down between my ass cheeks, his fingers finally—
finally
—finding me hot and wet and wanting, I cannot help but moan aloud.

“I want to give you everything, Nikki,” he says, as his thumb brushes my anus, and I feel the slick lube of my own arousal. “I want the universe spread wide before you. And I want to be the one who sends you tumbling over, shooting off into space, without control, without inhibitions.” I feel the firm increase of pressure, then gasp as something small and well-lubed slips inside my rear.

“And, Nikki,” he says, his voice rough with passion, “I want to be the one who tethers you and brings you back.”

“You are,” I whisper. I am as unraveled by his words as I am by the riot of sensations storming through me. “Oh, God, Damien, you know you are. I’m lost without you.”

He moves to face me, then strokes my cheek. With a fervency I don’t expect, he pulls me close. I gasp as my raw, chained nipples rub against his shirt, but he silences me with a long, almost violent kiss.

“Please,” I beg when he releases me. I am helpless, I am melting. The pressure on my nipples sends shocks arcing through my body. That wicked plug fills me, opening me, making me hyperaware of every movement and sensation.

“Please what?” he whispers. “Tell me what you want, Nikki.”

“You, Damien. Always you—only you. I want you to touch me.” I reach for him, fisting my hands in his T-shirt. “I want you to fuck me because I’m not entirely sure I can survive without feeling you inside me right now.”

“I want that, too,” he says, and I sag with relief. “But we’re going to have to risk your imminent demise,” he adds with a very wicked grin. “Because I have something else in mind first.”

According to the concierge at our hotel, Club P1 is one of the hottest nightclubs in Munich. The venue is huge and crowded, and the patrons are as polished and bright as the modern interior. It’s funky and fun—and at the moment, I couldn’t care less. My body is too on fire, too teased by Damien’s sweet torture.

The limo ride was bad enough, with Damien demanding that I sit with my knees apart and my hands on either side of me, palms on the soft leather of the seat. He’d dressed me in a shelf bra before we left, leaving my still-chained nipples exposed. In the limo, they brushed against the black silk of my beaded tank top, the sensation making me squirm. And
that
caused all sorts of other shocks and quivers and pulses to ricochet through my body.

Damien sat across from me, sipping Scotch and watching me with such raw passion that I spent the entire ride in a constant state of unsatisfied arousal.

The ride, thank God, was short, but now that we are here I want nothing more than to go back to the hotel. Dancing, drinking—none of that holds any appeal. All I want is Damien’s mouth on mine, his hands on my bare skin, and his cock deep inside me.

Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll be getting what I want anytime soon, and so I draw in a breath and try to focus despite this sensual haze in which I am currently living. “You’re glowing,” Damien says, his mouth curving into a self-satisfied smile.

“Glowing?” I repeat. “Jesus, Damien, I’m practically radioactive.”

“Mmm,” he says, looking me up and down. “So I see.” He pulls me to one side so that my back is up against a smooth wooden wall. He presses his hands to either side of me and leans in close. “A bit on edge, Ms. Fairchild?”

“Just a tad.” I catch the scent of him—the whiskey on his breath, the deep, spicy musk of his arousal—and it works upon me like the most potent of aphrodisiacs. In addition to my sparkly black top, I am decked out in a black leather miniskirt, thigh-high stockings, a tiny red thong, and very high, very fuckable heels. I take one step away from the wall and lift myself on those heels, gripping Damien’s shoulders for balance. “I’m still trying to decide if I should thank you for this,” I whisper. “Or if I should figure out a way to get revenge.”

“While I’m very intrigued by the possibility of being at your mercy,” he says, “we both know that you’re as turned on as I am.” He slides an arm around my waist and pulls me toward him. Our hips meet, and I can feel his erection pressing hard against my belly.

“I am,” I admit, sliding my hand down between our bodies to stroke his cock through his jeans. The corner is dark and secluded, but I think I would have stroked him even if we were on the dance floor. I am intoxicated by lust, emboldened by passion. And since Damien isn’t shifting my hand away, I know that he is, too.

“I’m hot and horny and desperately wet,” I murmur, moving my hand in time with my words. I feel him grow even harder and I smile with the knowledge of my own power. “Do you know what I wanted in the limo, Damien? I wanted you on your knees in front of me. I wanted your hands on my thighs spreading me wide, and I wanted your tongue on my clit.”

He is close enough that I can feel the quickening of his pulse and his quick shallow breaths. “I wanted to feel my nipples tighten when you tugged on this chain, and my body tense around this plug when you made me come, so hard and so fast that you’d have to carry me into this club.”

“Holy fuck,” he whispers, his voice so soft I can barely hear it.

“So yes,” I continue, as if I hadn’t even heard him. “I am turned on.” I stroke his cock slowly, because at least for this one moment, I have turned the tables on Damien Stark. “But what I wanted I didn’t get. And
that,
Mr. Stark, is why I want revenge.”

“You make a very sound argument, Ms. Fairchild.”

“I pride myself on my sharp business skills.”

He steps back from me, his eyes gleaming mischievously, then holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“Come with me and find out.”

He leads me through the crowded club full of beautiful people who are much more interested in each other than us. I’m relieved. We do not look like the Nikki and Damien who have been in the German news. I’m in my Girl Goes Clubbing outfit and Damien is casual in jeans and a light jacket over a T-shirt, not to mention a day’s worth of beard stubble. That’s not to say that I haven’t seen a few heads turn when we pass, but I think that is more a product of Damien’s astounding good looks than his status as either a celebrity billionaire or as a man who narrowly escaped a murder charge.

As far as I can tell, the club has two main rooms, both filled with bright colors and shiny surfaces. The DJs spin an eclectic mix, but the theme seems to be techno-club, and while the music isn’t anything I recognize, it is deliciously danceable.

At the moment, however, dancing is not on the agenda. Instead, Damien leads me to the terrace, and we step outside. I pause a moment to take it all in—the candles that illuminate the patrons in a surreal glow. The plush leather sofas and love seats that dot the terrace. Some are in clusters near colored lights and provide a place for energetic dancers to have a drink and get a second wind. Others are secluded, tucked away in dark corners for lovers to curl up together and soak in the atmosphere.

The bouncers downstairs made it clear that no one gets into this bar if they look shabby, and here under the starlight, that policy is obvious. Everything glows, including Damien and me. There is a polish to everything that I see, but I know better than anyone how tarnished something shiny can be underneath, and I can’t help but imagine this place come morning. The sofas stained with spilled drinks. Cigarette butts stamped out on the stone floor. The ethereal candles revealed as nothing more than globby clumps of wax.

Nothing is as it appears. Not this club nor its patrons nor Damien. And certainly not me.

We weave among the other patrons to one of the love seats tucked in a darkened corner. Damien sits, and I start to sit beside him. “No,” he says, then pulls me into his lap so that I am straddling his leg, the hard muscles of his thigh pressing enticingly against the hard knot in my ass as I face him.

I exhale, making a little
ah
sound as shimmers of awareness crash through me.

“Trouble, Ms. Fairchild?”

I lift a brow and rock my hips, grinding my rear against him and making this hedonistic tempest crackle and pop inside of me. And—if his face is any indication—my lap dance is driving Damien a little crazy, too.

“No trouble, Mr. Stark,” I say, as primly as I can manage despite my body being on fire.

“Christ, Nikki . . . ”

He tugs me forward so that I am still straddling him, but now I can feel his denim-clad erection against the bare skin of my thigh above my stocking. I meet his eyes, my heart pounding wildly, then moan when his mouth crushes against mine. One of his hands is around my waist, holding me in place at the small of my back. The other slides under my skirt, his fingers finding the thin strip of silk that makes up the thong, then begin to move in slow, easy circles calculated to drive me crazy.

“Damien,” I whisper. “Someone might see.”

“I want you. Right now. I want to watch you explode in my arms.”

“But—” I look around. There doesn’t seem to be anyone paying attention, and in the dark it’s not obvious where his hand is hidden.

His fingers curve inside me, and whatever protests I might have raised die right then. His thumb presses against my pubic bone as if my body is a handle, and I gasp as he roughly pulls me closer. “Now,” he repeats. “I want you coming in my arms.”

“Yes,” I say, because I am too wrecked, too wanton, to say anything else. Right then I think I’d let him lay me out on the dance floor and fuck me with the crowd cheering us on. He wouldn’t, though, and deep inside, under this haze of passion and lust, I know that. We’re still in our bubble, hidden in the dark, buried in the corner.

But Damien needs this. This man who once told me he doesn’t do public sex. Because that’s not what this is about. Instead, he needs proof that I am really here. That I didn’t leave after talking with Maynard. That the demons of his childhood haven’t pushed me away.