Claim Me: A Novel (8 page)

“Jesus, Nikki, I can’t hold back.”

“Then don’t.” I close my eyes, and my fingers have barely grazed my clit when he trembles, tightening his grip around my waist as he fills me. His release triggers my own, and I clench tight around him, dropping my hand back to the bed so that I don’t fall, too sensitive to continue touching myself, anyway.

“Nikki,” he says when his body stops quivering.

He releases my waist, then immediately catches me when I start to sag, my legs so weak I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to stand again.

“I think you’ve unraveled me,” I say. “If you were going for punishment, though, you missed the mark completely.”

“Did I?” His voice rises provocatively. “Sounds to me like you’re assuming I’m done with you. I assure you, I’m not.”

“Oh.” My pulse kicks back up again. “That’s a very interesting bit of information.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re intrigued.” He slides a hand down my still weak legs. “But this time maybe you ought to lie down. You seem a bit unsteady.”

“You think?”

He scoops me up so that I am once again cradled against his chest. I feel warm and safe and cherished, and when he places me gently on the bed and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, I want to cry from the sweetness of it all. But then his eyes take on a devilish gleam. “Don’t go to sleep on me yet,” he says as he unties the cord from around my neck—then immediately ties it to my right wrist. He attaches the other end very firmly to the bedpost.

His face is right over mine, his smile undeniably wicked. “I’m going to enjoy this. And, Nikki? So will you.”

I lick my lips, all thoughts of gentleness fading under the weight of Damien Stark’s decadent, silent promises.

He retrieves the robe from the foot of the bed and pulls out the sash. He trails it lightly over my body, then smiles with purpose. “Left hand.”

I comply, raising my hand above my head and gripping the bar of the headboard. My arms are spread wide now, my back slightly arched, and my legs tightly together.

“Nice,” Damien says, once he’s secured that wrist as well. “But I think we can make it nicer.”

With obvious purpose, he slides off the bed, then walks to the door that leads to the patio. It’s made of sliding glass panels, and he opens them now, letting the night breeze come in. The air is cool, but my body is so much on fire that I don’t even notice. He stands next to the door, his hand running gently over the gossamer white drapes that fluttered against me as I posed for Blaine.

“Remember our first night?” he asks.

How can I not? Those drapes. This bed. And me, lost to Damien’s sensual onslaught, my fears and my shame soothed by his kisses and his soft words.

I say none of that now. I only whisper, “Yes.”

“So do I,” he says, then takes two drapery panels, one in each hand, and rips them off the metal rings that attach them to the curtain rod. From my perspective, I see the muscles in his back flex and then the soft swell of filmy white as the sheer material falls to the ground, set free by Damien’s will. A small smile touches my lips; he’s set me free, too.

He is back at my side in no time, and as I anticipated, he uses the drapes to bind my legs to the iron bars at the foot of the bed. The result is sweetly, painfully intimate. I am spread-eagled, arms wide, legs open. I can’t touch him or myself. I can’t roll over. And I certainly can’t close my legs to hide my swollen, sex-slick cunt. I turn my head to the side, part of me wishing I could burrow beneath the sheets, and part of me desperately aroused by the knowledge that I am completely wide open to Damien. His to do with whatever he wants.

I wonder what he has in mind, and then whimper when he moves away from the bed instead of climbing on beside me. I bite my lower lip, suddenly worried. I know that no matter what happens, this will end magnificently. But I also know that Damien’s a master at manipulating anticipation. If he leaves me like this—wide open and ready—I just might have to scream.

“Don’t worry,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “I might
have it in me to torment you a little bit, but tonight that would be torturing me, too.”

“Sadism, not masochism?” I say archly, then smile when he bursts out laughing.

“Sadism, Ms. Fairchild? Let me see if I recall the definition. I believe that sadism is the deriving of sexual gratification from inflicting pain, suffering, or humiliation on another person.” He moves to the small table by the bed and opens a drawer. “I’ll admit to the sexual gratification—and I intend to be significantly more gratified before the night is over—but let’s explore the rest, shall we?”

I lick my lips as he pulls a box of matches from the drawer. I trust Damien completely, but what on earth is he planning to do with matches?

“So tell me, Ms. Fairchild, are you in pain?”

I swallow. I’m in very dire straits, but I’m a long way from pain. “No.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” He crosses the room, then disappears from view. A moment later he returns carrying a thick candle, the flame flickering as he walks. “Candle wax can be very enticing,” he says in response to my questioning glance. “The sensation of the quickly changing temperature. The way it tightens when it hardens on the skin. Have you ever experienced that, Ms. Fairchild?”

I shake my head. “No.” I’m not certain if I’m scared or excited.

“Mmm,” he says, as if marking my words in his memory. “Well, today, I’m interested in only one thing from this candle.” He pauses by the bed and tilts the candle so that the wax drips onto the marble surface of the decorative side table. Then he sets the candle in the wax, letting it harden to form a stand. After that, he takes something else from the drawer. I realize only when the sconce lighting begins to dim that it’s a remote control.
Soon we are in darkness, bathed only by the flickering orange of a single candle.

“Oh …”

“Disappointed?” he asks.

“No,” I say. I feel my cheeks heat. “But I might have been a little intrigued.”

“Were you? I’ll have to remember that. But where were we? Oh, yes. Sadism.” He eases onto the bed and kneels between my widespread legs. My breath comes in small gasps as he gently rests his hands on my thighs just above my knees, his thumbs on the soft inner skin. “Humiliation was next, I believe. Are you humiliated, Ms. Fairchild? You’re exposed to me, after all. Wide open like a blossoming flower and so very wet. You’re beautiful, Nikki,” he says, and I hear the raw passion in his voice. “But are you humiliated?”

I’ve turned my head to the side, because the truth is that I do feel exposed. Exposed and open and decadent and wild. I don’t, however, feel humiliated. On the contrary, I feel aroused. And I think it’s that odd combination of emotions that heats my cheeks with a ridiculous blush. “No,” I whisper.

“Look at me.”

I turn my head until I can see his eyes, the amber one shining in the candlelight, and the near-black one as dark as eternity.

“Not humiliated,” he says. “And not suffering, either, I assume?”

“No.”

“Good.” His lips curve into a smile as his hands stroke my inner thighs, the pad of one thumb brushing ever so softly over the worst of my scars. “You are exceptional, Ms. Fairchild,” he says. “I could look at you forever. Lose myself in you forever.”

I draw in a trembling breath. The muscles of my sex clench with longing, and my breasts are so heavy they are almost painful.
I want to move—want to satisfy this sexual itch—but I’m stuck fast and helpless.

“I like that I can make you blush,” he says.

I swallow. “Why?”

“Because I know why you do.”

“Really? Well, then please, Mr. Stark, share your insight.”

“Because I have you spread open. Because you’re naked before me and helpless. Because I can do anything to you right now, anything at all. And because that excites you.”

His hand cups my sex, and I release a moan so soft it is little more than a breath.

“So tell me, Ms. Fairchild. If you’re not in pain or suffering or humiliated, how do you feel?”

“Turned on,” I admit, and my cheeks heat even more.

Even in the candlelight, I can see the way his face darkens with my words. I’m not the only one turned on right now.

I start to speak, but he shakes his head. “Hush, now, and close your eyes. I’m going to kiss you.”

I comply, my lips parted in expectation of his touch. But it’s not my lips upon which he presses his kiss. I feel the rough stubble of his beard on my thigh, then his tongue in the soft crease between my leg and vulva. My breath is coming in little gasps now, and whatever playfulness had been in the air mere moments ago has evaporated, replaced by want and need and quiet desperation.

His mouth closes over me, his tongue laving me in a rhythm designed to drive me completely crazy.

His thumbs tease me, never going so far as to enter, but combined with the erotic power of his tongue against my clit, it is a wonder that my body isn’t ripped apart by the force of the sensations rocketing through me.

My back is arched, my hips grinding. Instinctively, I try to
close my legs, trying to forestall this tidal wave of pleasure that is so potent it borders on pain. But I can’t. I am bound open, and I have no choice but to yield to these amazing sensations.

Damien’s hands move to hold my hips, keeping me even more immobile. I feel drunk on lust, intoxicated by desire, and I close my eyes and let my head fall back in complete surrender as Damien’s mouth and tongue work some kind of erotic magic on me, taking me higher and higher until that magic culminates in an explosion of sparks and colors and shooting stars that leaves me spent and breathless.

Slowly, reality returns to me, and I gasp, spread-eagled on the bed. My chest rises and falls, my body so sensitive that I can feel every thread of the sheet below me. I feel spoiled and pampered and adored and used. I am certain that all that is left is for Damien to untie me and then gather me into his arms as we drift off into the bliss of sleep. Because what else could be left for this night? He has utterly, sweetly destroyed me.

I should know better than to assume anything about Damien Stark.

His teeth graze my nipple, and I arch up, thoughts of sleep vanishing. I am battered, ripped asunder by his sensual assault, and yet I do not want it to end. The torment is delicious, and I would happily stay like this forever, forgoing food and friends and the world outside if I could simply escape into Damien’s arms.

I open my eyes as he arches up, and his self-satisfied smile suggests that he understands just what I’m thinking. Then he glances sideways, and the smile fades, replaced by a blank, unreadable expression.

Worry cuts through me. “Damien?” Instinctively, I turn my head, my gaze following his line of sight. There is a clock mounted to the wall amid a collection of framed photographs,
the few personal items that Damien has already moved into this shell of a house.
Oh
.

Automatically, I try to sit up, but I am still trapped, bound spread-eagled to this bed, naked and vulnerable. Somehow, though, in that moment it seems as though Damien is more vulnerable than I.

“Less than a minute,” he says, turning his head so that he is looking straight at me again. “Do you turn into a pumpkin or do I?” The words are light, but something in his tone worries me and I am unnerved.

“I don’t think I’d like you as a pumpkin,” I say, forcing out the teasing words. “And I look terrible in orange.”

He laughs, and my worries fizzle away as he straddles me, his weight on his knees and his erection rubbing provocatively on my belly. He traces my lips with the tip of his finger, and I gasp as I suddenly realize that I’ve forgotten to breathe.

He slides down my body and grazes his finger over the platinum and emerald ankle bracelet he gave me when our game began. He looks at me, his eyes burning with passion. “You’re still mine,” he whispers. And then, before I can answer, he shifts position and enters me so swiftly that I cry out in surprise and passion. We move together, making love slowly and gently, and when I feel his body shudder above mine, I close my eyes in the feminine satisfaction of knowing that he has found pleasure in my body.

He rolls off me, then curls himself beside me. “Nikki.” It is not a demand or a question. It is simply my name on his lips, and I soak it up like warm sunshine.

We lie like that, our bodies touching, until I can no longer stand my immobility. “Untie me,” I say.

He lifts his head to look at me. I still see the heat in his eyes, but there is a playfulness, too. He does not rush to release me.

“Hello?” I say, then tap my fingernails on the iron bedframe. “Did you get lost between the middle of the bed and the headboard?”

“I’m considering my options,” he says. “Why should I?”

“Because my arms will cramp up soon.”

“I’ll be happy to massage you.”

I aim a scowl at him. “And because you have a cocktail party here on Saturday, and your guests will ask questions.”

“Perhaps, but won’t it be nice to know that the guests will have plenty to talk about?”

“As much as I hate the thought of depriving your guests of interesting conversation, I would still like my hands to be free.”

“Would you?” He trails a lazy finger down my side, and I bite my lower lip to keep from writhing. The sensation is delicious, a cross between a caress and a tickle, and my skin tingles in his wake. “And what is it that you wish to do with your hands, Ms. Fairchild?”

“Touch you,” I say boldly. “I’m allowed. After all, we’re on equal footing now that midnight has passed. Aren’t we,
sir
?”

There is a pause before his head tilts down in a quick, formal nod. “Yes, madam,” he says as he leans past me to loosen the knots that hold my wrists in place. “We are.”

Once my hands are free, I sit up while he unbinds my ankles. I pull my legs close, enjoying the sensation of moving again. Then I kneel on the bed in front of Damien, who is sitting at the foot of the bed, watching me. It’s hard not to look at him. He’s even more magnificent by the glow of candlelight. I reach out, wanting to feel him beneath my fingertips. Wanting his warmth against my skin. Slowly, I lay my palm over his heart, then close my eyes as I feel it beat, strong and steady like the man himself.