Complete Me (23 page)

I nod helplessly. Liquid desire pools between my legs, making me hot and needy. My nipples tighten and my skin seems to vibrate simply from the pressure of the air against it.

“But first, I need you naked.” He slides his hand out from between my legs, and I mourn the loss of contact. Then he takes the hem of my T-shirt in his hands and skins it off me. He runs his finger over my bra, and I sigh from the delicious sensation of his fingertip gliding under the edge where my breast is bursting against the cup. “I like this,” he says, his voice soft. “I think we’ll keep this on. Now turn over,” he adds, making a circle with his fingers. “On your hands and knees.”

I lift an eyebrow, and he swats my ass.

“Over,” he repeats.

I’m tempted to defy him again, just for the pleasure of another swat, but I’m afraid that he might see through that ruse and shift the nature of the punishment to something less physical. Like not touching me. And that isn’t something I think I can stand. So I comply, and then he unzips my skirt and skims it over my hips, taking the wisp of a thong with him.

“Beautiful,” he says, rubbing his palm over my rear. “Now put your head on the mattress, but keep your ass up.” He brushes my thighs, urging my legs apart as my arms rest against my inner thighs. “Oh, yes, baby.” I hear the heat of desire in his voice and it makes me even more wet.

“I want your ass in the air and your cunt open to me. I’m going to fuck you, Nikki. I’m going to fuck you until we lose ourselves in each other. Until the universe swallows us whole. I’m going to make you come harder and longer than you ever have before, baby, and I’m going to feel every shudder, every ripple of that orgasm as it rips through you because I am going to be right here holding tight to you, buried deep inside you. And, Nikki, I’m not ever letting go.”

His jeans brush my bare ass, and I can feel his erection straining against the denim. He leans over me, his hands stroking my back, then his lips brush the curve of my ear. “You can either be quiet, or you can say ‘Yes, sir.’ There aren’t any other choices.”

My body is on fire, my cunt throbbing, muscles clenching in anticipation of being filled. I know he needs this. Needs to feel me beneath him, warm and solid and safe. And, yes, submitting. Giving myself to him. Completely. Willingly. Hell, even desperately.

“Yes, sir,” I say. It is all that I can manage.

I can’t see his face, but I hear the smugness in his voice when he says simply. “Good.”

I expect his touch, but he leaves me on the bed with an order not to move, then slides off and kneels down by my suitcase. My face is turned that direction, but from this angle, I cannot see what he is doing. I consider moving, but once again I don’t want to risk punishment. Or, rather, I don’t want to risk the wrong kind of punishment.

He stands soon enough, and when he does I see that he has pulled out two of the new thigh-high stockings that we bought from Marilyn’s Lounge.

“What are you doing with those?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer, just slides one under my leg and arm, then binds my forearm to my calf. He circles the bed and repeats the process on the other side of me as I protest that he’s ruining a perfectly good pair of stockings.

He chuckles. “For a good cause,” he says. “Trust me. This view is amazing.”

I can only imagine what he sees. I am on the bed with my shoulders and cheek pressed to the soft bedding. My arms are splayed back and bound to my calves. My rear end is high in the air and my legs are spread, undoubtedly giving Damien quite the view of my very wet, very needy sex.

“I want to see you,” I beg. “Please, Damien. I want you naked, too.”

“Do you?” He moves to stand in my field of vision, then tortures me a little by removing his clothing so painfully slowly. His chest is well-muscled and dusted by a sexy smattering of chest hair that I like to tease with my fingers. My fingers twitch now, thinking about the feel of him against my hand, the hot skin and hard muscle of his abdomen. He may not have played tennis professionally in years, but there is nothing soft about Damien, and whether he’s in a thousand dollar suit or a fifty dollar pair of jeans, he is sex and power and sensuality personified.

As if he realizes that he’s driving me crazy, he hooks his thumb into the band of his jeans. I can see his erection bulging against the denim, and my body throbs simply from the knowledge that he is as turned on as I am. My nipples are hard and erect, rubbing almost painfully against the rough lace of my bra. My sex is drenched. And when I breathe in deep, I catch the scent of my own arousal.

I whimper a bit, and keep my eyes on Damien.

Slowly, he peels the jeans off. They’re slung low on his narrow hips, and as I follow that disappearing trail of hair down to where it nestles against the base of his cock, I have to silently curse Damien. I want to touch him. Hell, I want to suck him. But I am trapped. Trapped and turned on and so goddamned needy.

He is naked now and fully erect, hot and huge, and my sex clenches in anticipation. He moves back to the bed, and I feel the mattress shift as he gets on behind me. His hands are warm upon my hips, and when he strokes the tip of his cock down the crack of my rear, I have to bite the comforter in order to anchor myself as bone deep shudders rake through me. Not an orgasm—but close enough that I am teetering on the very edge of desperation.

“That’s it, baby,” he says as his hands stroke my back, and the hard length of his cock continues to tease my ass.

My skin is hot and blood pounds through me. I can feel my pulse in my throat, in my temples, in my heavy, swollen breasts. Most of all, I can feel the blood surging in my sex. Pounding me, teasing me. Making me want so much more that I wiggle my ass shamelessly and beg Damien to please take me now.

“Not just yet,” he whispers, and it is all I can do not to scream with frustration. He leans closer, his voice a low, sensual tease. “Do you remember what you told me once? About how you own a very nice vibrator?”

All the blood that was pounding in my cunt now seems to rush to my cheeks.

Considering everything I’ve done with Damien—not to mention everything he’s done to me—I don’t know why the fact that I own a vibrator should raise modesty flags, but it does.

“Nikki?” He rubs his palms over my rear, then slides his hand down to stroke my sex. Slowly, he slips one finger inside me, then another. My body responds greedily, the muscles of my vagina tightening around him, my hips thrusting, my breathing coming fast and shallow. And then, suddenly, his hand is gone, and there is nothing. Just that electrical charge that I always feel when Damien is near. But there is no touch, and I close my eyes and whimper in frustration.

His low chuckle rises from behind me, and I do not doubt that he understands the extent of my discomfiture. “Do you want me to touch you, Nikki? My palm stroking you? My fingers filling your cunt? Do you want me to spread you wide and thrust inside you, our bodies moving together, my hand on your clit stroking and teasing until we both explode?”

I bite my lower lip, determined not to answer aloud. He already damn well knows what I want.

“Then tell me where, baby. Just tell me where.”

“Drawer,” I manage. “Bedside drawer.”

He is back quickly, and he has the small pink vibrator in his hand. He turns it on, and I hear the familiar buzz, then feel the decadent vibration as he trails it over my ass cheeks, along my spine, down the back of my thigh. Slowly he slides the vibrator over my sex, and I close my eyes, letting the pleasure roll through me. “Is this how you use it?” he asks. “Stroking your clit? Making it hard and hot and ready? Or like this?” he asks, slipping it easily into my so-soaked sex. “Or maybe both?” He moves the toy in a slow in-and-out motion, but angles the device so that with each thrust, the shaft brushes my clit, the vibrations enough to send tremors through me, but the sensation not lasting long enough to let me come.

“I—yes,” I say, because I’m having a hard time remembering the question.

He slides the vibrator deep inside me, then holds it there. I bite my lower lip as pleasure builds at my core, then starts to roll out in slow, languid waves. “I don’t like you saying no to me,” he says.

“If this is my punishment, I think I may have to say it more often.”

“Mmm.” It’s not even a word, but it holds all sorts of promises—and punishments—and when I feel his other hand, slippery with lube, slide up between the cheeks of my rear, I can’t help the frisson of desire and trepidation that shoots through me.

“Damien,” I say. “What are you doing?”

“Fucking you,” he says, as he teases the pucker of my ass with his well-lubed thumb. He stretches me even as he keeps up the erotic rhythm of the vibrator inside my sex. I feel the head of his cock pressing against me, then the pressure and bite of exquisite pain as he thrusts inside. He waits, letting my body acclimate to his thickness, to the way he’s filling me so deliciously and completely. I am completely exposed to him, completely used by him—and so desperately excited by him.

Slowly, he begins to thrust, matching the strokes of his cock with the motion of the vibe. Deeper and deeper, each stroke filling me, teasing me. His hand brushes my clit as he moves, his other anchoring me with a firm hand on my hip. “You’re so hot,” he says. “So wet, so goddamned tight around me.”

“Harder,” I say, wanting him to take me even further—all the way to the edge. “More.”

I can tell by his low, animal groan that my words have excited him even more.

And then the power of reason leaves me. He is pounding into me, and my shoulders shift almost painfully on the bedclothes. I can’t hold on—can’t anchor myself, can’t adjust to accommodate my own pleasure. I am Damien’s, to use as he wants, and it is that single thought that fills my head when Damien’s hand closes tight upon my hip and he slams hard against me, coming so powerfully inside me.

The shudders of his body crash through me and that spins me over the edge. Pleasure and pain and need and hunger slam together at my core, sending me shooting off into space, with Damien’s name upon my lips.

When the tremors stop, he gently unties me, then strokes my body, easing tight muscles and setting my skin afire again. Somehow, I end up on my back with Damien hovering over me, his fingers playing upon my skin, his expression one of exquisite tenderness.

I can almost taste his strength and control, and I feel safe and warm and loved, as if there is nothing in the world that can touch us. Nothing that can harm us.

But even as that thought seems to hang in the air, the shrill crash of glass shatters the night—followed by the irate howl of one very pissed off cat.

Chapter Fifteen

The rock that smashed through the curtained window near the front door is painted black with the exception of four white letters that have been stenciled in block letters on the smooth surface:

SLUT

I stand about two feet from the thing, my feet in flip-flops, my entire body trembling.
This
is not just a piece of paper. This is more. This has crossed a line and as I dig my fingernails into my palms, I am suddenly, acutely aware of just how fragile my grip on control has been.

The rock on the floor seems to goad me, but I am not touching it. Not because I know that the police will want to check it for fingerprints, but because of the vaguely superstitious feeling that if I do, something horrible will be transferred from it to me. As if it is some sort of contaminant that has managed to enter my world, and the best thing I can do is run from it.

That’s not what I need to do, of course. What I need to do is fight.

But how the hell do you fight what you can’t see?

As if in answer, Damien eases my clenched fist open and twines his fingers with mine. I hold tight, letting his touch calm me. Sticks, stones, gossip—I will weather it all if he is at my side.

Right now, he is on the phone with the head of his security team. The police have already been called, but there’s no way that Damien will leave this to them. He finishes the call, hangs up, and turns that laser-like focus on me.

He lifts our joined hands. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I say, then repeat the word for emphasis. “Yes, I’m fine. Now, I’m fine.”

His eyes search mine, as if he’s looking for the message under my words. For a moment, I don’t understand what it is that’s bothering him. Then I realize I am standing in a spread of shattered glass. I close my eyes. I’d been too focused on the rock earlier. And then Damien had taken my hand. But if he hadn’t, I know I would have felt that familiar compulsion, and those shards would have been nothing more than glittering temptation.

“I’m fine,” I repeat firmly, and squeeze his fingers. “I have you.”

“You do,” he says, and though his eyes are soft, his tone is businesslike. “I’ll give you the choice of Malibu or downtown, but until we catch whoever is doing this, you
are
staying with me. And that is not a subject that is open to debate any longer.”

Since I’m not an idiot, I nod agreement. I meant what I said earlier, but this has crossed the line into actual danger. And I’m not risking my safety on a point of honor.

“I’d rather stay in Malibu,” I admit. “But there’s no furniture.” The house was barely finished before we left for Germany, and I assume the pieces he’d rented for the party honoring Blaine and the reveal of my portrait have already been returned to whatever warehouse they came from.

He nods toward the bed. “I’ll have it brought back,” he says. “And I’ll have Sylvia arrange to rent enough furniture to make the rest of the house livable.” He pulls me close for a soft kiss. “We can decorate slowly, and as we find pieces we like, we’ll kick the rented pieces out on their asses.”

I roll my eyes, but I can’t help but smile. I had almost come undone when Damien had told me that he wanted us to furnish the Malibu house together. I don’t want to lose that because some asshole is throwing rocks at me. Damien, of course, understands that without me having to tell him.

“What about Jamie?” he asks. “Is she staying with us, or are we getting her a hotel?”

I slide into his arms, suddenly overwhelmed and grateful and so full of love for this man I’m not sure that I can stand on my own. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Knowing Jamie, she’d love to stay at the Malibu house.”