Complete Me (31 page)

“I have checked her credentials,” he says. “It’s just been a while.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do,” he admits. He steps toward me and the air between us thickens.

I step back. “Dammit, Damien. You can’t just pull shit like that.”

“Are you going to ignore her advice? Cut her off?”

“No. She’s my friend.
Despite
you,” I add. “Not because of you. And don’t you dare argue that what you did makes no difference because we ended up genuinely liking each other.”

“I know the difference,” he says seriously. “But I have a blind spot where you’re concerned, Nikki.”

“Aw, really? That’s so romantic.” I cross my arms over my chest. “Get over it.”

He chuckles, then crosses the space between us before I can back away again. His arm is around my waist and he pulls me close so that my pelvis is hard against him. I feel the length of his erection, and I want to be annoyed that he’s hard despite the fact that I’m mad at him. I can’t, though. Because I’m turned on, too, my body tingling and already melting against him. Hell, I’d gone damp the moment he stepped into my office. “You can fuck me,” I say breathily. “But I’ll still be mad at you.”

He closes his mouth over mine for the kind of kiss that positively melts a girl. “Tempting,” he says. Then he releases me, takes two steps back, and returns to me with the shopping bag. “For you.”

I take it warily, then peek inside. It’s full of tissue paper, which I pull out to reveal a box shaped like a doghouse. I glance at him, confused, then pull the box out of the bag and open it. Inside are a dozen sugar cookies baked in the shape of dog bones. Each has
I’m sorry
lettered upon it in silver icing.

“Okay,” I say with a grin. “You’re officially out of the doghouse. Thank you for the cookies,” I add. “And don’t do it again.”

“I’ll do my best,” he says. “But it’s safer not to make promises.”

I can’t help but laugh. This is one of the foibles of being in a relationship with a man like Damien Stark. But the more important fact is that as much as he drives me nuts, we are talking about this stuff. It’s light in the shadows. It’s glue on the bubble. Because the more solid we are, the longer we can hold back the world.

“Thanks for coming,” I say. “You could have waited and talked to me tonight.”

“No,” he says simply. “I couldn’t have.”

“Lunch?”

“Unfortunately, that I do have to pass on.”

“Too bad, though I suppose it’s just as well. I’ve accomplished absolutely zip today. I take it your day is busier what with a universe to run.”

“My universe today extends only to the two of us.”

At first, I think he’s being romantic. Then I see the hard lines of his face. I push the box aside and perch on the edge of my desk. “You’ve learned something. Is it good or bad?”

“A bit of both, actually.”

“All right. Tell me the good first.”

“The court ruled against the motion to unseal the photos.”

“Damien,” I say. “That’s huge.”

“It is,” he agrees. “But the press isn’t stupid. The odds are they’ll try the back door route and do the same thing I’m doing—try to figure out who sent the evidence in the first place.”

“Have you learned anything new?”

He hesitates, then nods. “About the photos, no. About our leak regarding your portrait, yes. Turns out the ATM camera was very effective.”

“Seriously? That’s wonderful. Who is it?”

“I still need confirmation,” he says. “Let me see where it goes, and then I’ll lay the whole thing out for you.”

“Okay,” I say, though I’m disappointed he won’t tell me right then, even if he is still investigating. I consider pressing the point, but decide not to. I don’t think that his closed-mouthedness stems from the desire to keep secrets but simply from Damien’s innate need to keep control. Of his business. Of information. And, I think, glancing at the doghouse-shaped box, of me.

The intercom buzzes. “Ms. Fairchild, you have another delivery. May I send them back?”

“Sure.” I glance at Damien, but he holds up his hands. “This one’s not from me. I swear.”

I don’t believe him, of course. At least not until I take the envelope from the courier and see his Damien’s face. “Let me open it,” he says sternly.

My chest goes cold. The negligible weight of the plain manila envelope turns heavy in my hand. “You don’t think . . . ”

“I don’t know.” He reaches for it. “But I’m going to find out.”

I pass him the envelope, irritated with myself for not having the guts to rip it open, and at the same time desperately grateful that he’s there beside me. He holds the envelope in a handkerchief, then uses a small pocketknife from his keychain to open it. He pushes the envelope at opposite corners so that the slit gapes open, then starts to peer inside.

“No,” I say firmly. “I want to see when you do.”

His expression is tight, and I expect him to say no. But then he nods. I move to stand beside him, and then he upturns the envelope over the desk, spilling the contents onto the polished surface.

Six photographs
. Me in kindergarten. Me in a tiara at my very first pageant, my hair in ringlets. Me, me, me, me.

In every photograph, my face has been crossed out with a red pen pushed so hard into the photographic paper that the emulsion has been scraped off, leaving a series of ragged red x’s where my face should be. There is one piece of paper mixed in with the photos. Block letters cut like a cliché from newspapers and pasted on the sheet:
YOU DON’T EVEN EXIST

I stare at it all, surprised that the room is silent. Surprised that I’m not screaming, because this is so very wrong. But the world is as silent as death. Hell, the world looks like death. No noise. No color. No light.

It’s all gray. Even those red x’s have faded to gray. And the gray room is actually shifting to black. A cloudy, inky black that surrounds me, blanketing me, drawing me down, down, down . . .

Nikki!

Nikki!

I feel a sharp sting across my cheek. “Nikki!”

“Damien.” It’s my voice, but it sounds horribly far away. I lift my hand and touch my cheek.

“Sorry,” he says, though he sounds more worried than sorry. “You fainted.”

“I—what?” I sit up, groggy, and realize that somehow I’ve ended up on the love seat. I focus on Damien. “Fainted?”

I haven’t fainted in years. Not since I was accidentally locked in a storage closet during college. Dark enclosed spaces have always freaked me out, and I’d passed out. But never have I simply slipped into a faint like this.

“You had reason,” Damien says, correctly reading my face.

Those photos.
My
photos.

I shiver. Whoever did this is in my life. This isn’t just nasty texts. This is flat-out targeting me. And if I don’t exist, then what the hell does that say about their endgame?

I draw in breath and try to calm the machine-gun beat of my heart. I sit up straight, my hands on my thighs. My skirt is hitched up a bit, and I clutch tight to the bare skin above my knees, digging my nails in tighter and tighter, using the pain to help pull me out of this fog.

I breathe deep. “My mother,” I say. “Whoever is doing this got these from my mother.”

Beside me, Damien gently plucks one hand off my thigh and holds it tight. Guiltily, I relax my other hand.

“Your mother?” he says. “What are you talking about?”

I relay Jamie’s conversation with my mother.

“This is good,” Damien says, releasing me long enough to type out a text on his phone. “It’s solid information,” he adds, since I must look confused. “A definitive connection. I’m going to have Ryan speak with your mother. I think he’ll have better luck getting her to cooperate than I will.”

I nod, then arch my neck as I look toward the desk. There is nothing there. “Where—”

“I put it away.” His voice is as gentle as the hand that eases my fingers once again off my thigh. I jump a bit; I hadn’t realized I’d started again, but I can see the small red crescents where my nails cut into my skin.

“I—” I look away. I’m too transparent, my wounds far too visible. I desperately wish that I didn’t need the pain, but I do. I
do
exist, goddammit, and if I’m going to have any chance of pulling back to myself, I need it desperately.

“Tell me,” he says softly. “Tell me what you need.”

I look down at the fading crescents. “You know,” I say, my voice low.

“I do, baby.” He slides off the love seat to kneel on the floor. His hands are on my knees and he gently spreads my legs. “You want me to touch you.” His voice is as gentle as the pressure of his thumb upon my inner thigh. “You want me to fuck you. You want to feel the sting of my hand against your ass or the burn of a rope around your wrist.”

His words mesmerize me. They slide over me like warm water, seductive yet dangerous. So deep I could drown in them.

“You want to draw in the pain—to turn it around inside you.” His hands slide roughly over my thighs, pushing the skirt up around my hips to expose the white lace triangle over my sex.

My breath comes faster now and I am hyperaware of my body. Of the way the nubby upholstery presses into my thighs. Of the heat coursing through me, running in vibrant currents from Damien’s hand to my cunt, to my breasts, to my nipples. I arch my back and slide forward a bit with my hips. I want to feel his hands upon me. Hell, I just want to
feel
. I want the explosion, and yet at the same time, I want
this.
His touch. His words. His slow build to passion and that sharp sting of pain mingled with pleasure that I know is coming.

He grabs the hem of my shirt and pulls it over my head in one swift, violent motion. I hear myself moan and feel my breasts tighten with need as the muscles of my sex clench with longing. Damien tosses the shirt aside and grabs my hip with one hand, shoving the skirt up around my waist. With the other hand, he fingers me over the lace panties, rubbing and teasing me through the delicate material as I spread my legs wider in shameless, wanton greed.

I want it hard and fast. I want to latch on to the pain—to use it as a rope to find my way back. I want it—and I am certain that Damien understands it.

His fingers glide over bare skin on either side of the thong, so close to my sex and my clit—but without actually touching—that my frustration is almost as keen as the pain he knows I am craving. He slides the hand on my hip up to my breast, then pinches my nipple through my bra as he yanks the thong to one side and slides three fingers deep inside me.

My breath comes in shudders and I squirm against him. I’m no longer sure what I need anymore except him. And now. Oh, please, now.

“You want the pain because it’s what gives you the power to beat it—to haul yourself back and say fuck you to the world. It’s a gift, Nikki—that red-hot sting. And I will be the one to give it to you.”

He tugs his fingers out of me, then flips me over as if I weigh nothing and carries me toward my desk. He puts me on my feet in front of it and orders me to bend over. I do, the bulk of my skirt between my hips and the edge of the desktop providing some padding.

He stands off to one side, and as I watch, he tugs his belt free. I bite my lower lip, imagining the feel of leather against my rear. I wanted his hand, but this—oh, yes, I can imagine it. The shock, the sting. The building sensation as I close my eyes and grab hold letting the pain focus at my core.

“Is this what you want?” he asks, and from his tone I realize he had not intended that. But Damien is nothing if not adaptable, and I see the tip of his head and the rise of his brow. Then the slow smile when he nods. He moves behind me, one hand stroking circles on my bare back. “You’ll have my hand, too, because I can’t bear not to touch you. But if this is what you need—”

He punctuates the word with a lash to my ass and I cry out from surprise and pleasure. The sting is exquisite, and I bite my lower lip, then moan in delight as he rubs his palm over the tender flesh. There is another sting, then another, and with each I feel myself getting wetter. I imagine my rear turning red, and Damien’s large hand cupping me tenderly, stroking away any lingering pain that I have not claimed and drawn inside.

“Is that what you needed?” he says after four strokes. He is behind me, his trousers and briefs gone. His palms are on my rear, and his cock is hard between my legs, the length of it stroking me and teasing my clit. “Do you need more? Tell me, Nikki. I want to hear what you need.” His voice is raw with excitement, and I know that he needs this as much as I do. And that knowledge turns me on even more.

“You,” I say, lifting my ass and spreading my legs wider. I grip the sides of the desk and sigh from the sweet sensation of my breasts hard against the desktop. “Inside me now. Like this. Right here on my desk. And hard. Please, Damien, fuck me hard.”

“Oh, baby.” He thrusts inside me, using his hands on my hips to piston us together as he pounds and pounds, using me, taking me. I feel the stirrings of my climax inside me, and squeeze my eyes shut, wanting to draw it out. He is so thick, and he’s going so deep, and all I want is for this to last. The sensation of him filling me. Of every thrust causing the bunched up material to rub against my clit. I am lost in a sensual web, and it isn’t until I feel the tremors run through Damien and know that he is close, that I start to let myself go so that—oh, God, yes—I can explode when he does, my body squeezing tight around him, drawing every last bit of pleasure out of him.

And then, sated and breathing deep, I sink my head down onto the desk with a moan of deep satisfaction.

He molds his body over mine, and I do not know how long we stay like that. Then he scoops me up and carries me back to the love seat, curling me up on his lap and covering me with his suit jacket.

I snuggle close, then lift my head to look at him. I cleave now to Damien instead of the pain, and the beautiful, wondrous thing is that he understands. Hell, he understands better than I do.

A single tear escapes and he brushes it away with his thumb, his eyes like a question mark.

“I need you, Damien—God, I need you in ways that you understand better than I do. But I feel so selfish. So—”