Stark After Dark (17 page)

I pull him back. “Yes,” I repeat. “You need it. And so do I.” I meet his eyes, knowing that he understands the depth of my craving. The extent of my need. Knowing also that I understand that he needs this just as much as I do. “You're the only one who can take me there.”

“And the only way you will ever go there.” His voice is harsh and firm, but he is right. I will never turn to the blade again. I don't need it. I have Damien.

I do not respond; I don't have to. Whatever fears he had about my need have been either soothed or overwhelmed by his own desire. By his need to lash out and grasp firm to the strands of our life that have been whipped into a frenzy, spinning wildly out of control.

I am those threads, and by claiming me, he can take back that control. And I—I can find the center that I crave, lost in the storm that is Damien.

My dress buttons up the front and I hadn't bothered to replace the belt when we'd dressed at the club. Without warning, Damien clutches the material and rips the dress open. I gasp as buttons fly, then suck in air as he turns me around, then pulls the garment free, tossing it negligently aside before turning me around again and thrusting two fingers roughly inside me.

I arch my back, my mouth open in a moan, and I grind down on his hand, wanting him to fill me.

He withdraws, pinching my clit and sending shocks of pain colored as pleasure racing through me.

I gasp, overwhelmed by this new sensation, then cry out in surprise when he lifts me up and carries me to the sofa, bending me over the back. I start to put my arms down to balance, but he is having none of that. “Behind your back,” he says, and I use my right hand to clasp the wrist of my left. It is uncomfortable; I feel unbalanced. But I know that is how he wants me to feel. Unbalanced, shaky, off-center. Because if I am not, how can he make me whole again? He stands behind me, and I hear the metallic glide of his zipper as he strips, then feel the warm press of his hand on my ass, stroking, exploring, teasing. He slides it down slowly, sensually, then finds my core, so wet and ready for him.

“Is this what you want?” he whispers. “Do you want my fingers inside you? Stretching you, playing with you? Do you want me to fuck you, Nikki? Do you want me to take us both over the edge?”

I do—but that is not all that I want, and Damien knows it. I say nothing.

“Tell me,” he says, bending over me so that I feel the warmth of his skin over my rear and over my arms as his weight presses them down into my back. I could stay like that forever, warm and enveloped within him. But he asks the question again, his lips now brushing my ear so that his voice makes me shiver. “Tell me, Nikki. Tell me what you need.”

“You know,” I say, because I do not want to put it into words. I do not want to crave what I do—to need the pain to drive me back to center. But he already knows, because he understands me as well as he understands himself. “Please.”

“You are mine.” The words are a whisper, so soft I can barely hear them and yet those three words crash through me, full of love and hope and longing. “Mine,” he repeats, louder this time as he stands up, breaking that contact between us and leaving me longing for the warmth of his touch again. “Mine,” he says as his hand comes down sharply against my ass, sending hundreds of fiery pinpricks through me to gather between my thighs.

“Mine,” he repeats, as his palm strokes my ass, soothing before rising again to spank me over and over, the sting building inside, the fire of contact shooting out like lightning, making me cry out even as I focus on it, grabbing hold and pulling it back in, taking it over so that it is not the pain that controls me, but me that controls the pain.

“Mine,” he repeats as my body lights up with sensation and desire. He moves closer, his cock pressing against my rear as he spreads my legs and strokes my core, the touch sending shock waves rippling across my skin. “I take care of what's mine,” he says, the words spilling over me as he thrusts hard and fast inside me.

I cry out as my body welcomes him, tightening around him to draw him deeper. But this isn't slow and easy. This is hard and fast, and he pulls out, then slams into me again, our bodies coming together in a violent impact that sends me spiraling up out of myself.

He holds my hips tight with one hand, the other reaching around to stroke my clit as he pounds relentlessly into me. He is using me, and I am using him, and together we are leading each other through this horrific forest that has grown up around us.

I can feel everything inside me—everything inside him—and it builds and builds until the explosion is inevitable, and I know that if we were to explode like this without each other, we would be lost.

But Damien and I are each other's bread crumbs, and we will always lead each other back.

After, he pulls me gently to the ground. I lay on my back and look up at him as he strokes my face and then gently, so gently, enters me again. He is no longer controlling me, but controlling himself, and I submit willingly, letting him go where he needs, and letting him take me with him.

I close my eyes, lost in the sweetness as he moves in soft and subtle motions, letting my pleasure build slowly and gently until it breaks over both of us, not an explosion this time, but a gentle rainfall that washes all the harshness away.

With a sigh, I curl up beside him on the floor, my body pressed against his. “How is it that you can make my world so right even when everything is going wrong?”

“Because you love me,” he says. “And I love you. That is our talisman, our charm. We may still break a little, you and I. But so long as we are together, neither of us will shatter.”

I close my eyes and breathe deeply, because he is right. With Damien, I will always be made whole.

We lay there in silence until I cannot stand it any longer. “What are you going to do?” I finally ask.

“The news will have leaked,” he says. “Even if no bra or panty shows up on eBay, already the tabloids have heard. We'll be the story of the moment, for however long the moment lasts.”

“Add in the picture of us outside the club and you taking a swing at that photographer…” I trail off. I don't really need to go on.

“Do you want to stay?”

“Yes,” I blurt, then immediately say, “No.” I grimace. “I want Paris,” I admit. “And I meant what I said before—the scrutiny and the photographers all come with the package. I'm your wife, Damien, and I will handle whatever I have to handle because I will never give you up. But—”

“I know,” he says. “And the truth is, if my money can't buy us an escape, then what the hell is it good for?”

I prop myself up on an elbow to squint at him, wondering where he is going with this.

“I can't make the social media blasts go away,” he says. “And I can't shoo away the photographers. I can't even promise it will be better the next time we come. But what I can do is make it better now.”

His words are like a soothing balm, swathing me with hope.

“Will you trust me to make it right?” he asks, his eyes fixed on mine. He says nothing else, and I know that this man who single-handedly rules an empire is leaving this to me.

“You're my breath,” I say, telling him what he already knows. “You're the beat of my heart. You are the essence of me. And I will always trust you.”

I push my windswept hair out of my eyes and take the captain's hand. He is a huge man, his coffee-colored skin slick with sweat. His smile flashes a hint of gold as he helps me from the boat to the unstable, floating dock that shifts beneath me as I step onto the weathered wood.

Damien follows, then pauses long enough to pay the man and thank him for bringing us over.

“I be bringing your staff, too, you just say the word, mon.”

“No staff,” Damien says. “Not this trip. But I'll radio when we need you to come back for us.” He splays his hand against my back, and I can almost feel his thoughts in the pressure of his fingers.
Alone. Together. Paradise.

I turn my head to smile at him. That sounds like heaven to me.

The captain returns to his little boat as Damien and I step from the dock to the white sand. I am wearing shorts and a tank top. My feet are bare. The captain unloaded our luggage onto the dock, but we leave it there for the time being, too intent on exploring this wide-open, nearly wild island in the Bahamas.

The sand is warm beneath my feet, and Damien and I walk across it to the water's edge. There are barely any waves; instead, the turquoise water sits as still as a painting, wide-open and vibrant and never-ending, this fabulous tableau broken only by the silhouette of similar small islands in the distance.

Behind us, the sand rises toward a line of vegetation, and I see a rustic path cut through the brush. I follow it with my eyes and can just make out a small stone house.

“That's the only structure,” Damien says. “It needs a bit of fixing up, but it's perfectly livable. The cay is seven acres of undeveloped wilderness and pristine beaches. And there's not a soul here other than us.”

“You really bought it?” I'm still in awe.

“I really did.”

I wade out until the warm water hits me just below the knees, then look back at him with a grin. “I thought you didn't impulse-buy real estate.”

“I don't. But you have a way of shifting my priorities and undermining my equilibrium.”

“Oh, do I?” I reach down and scoop some water with my hand, flinging it toward him. “Should I apologize?”

“Hell, no,” he says, then splashes me right back before taking my hand and tugging me toward him. I laugh and stumble into his arms, then hold on to him as we both tumble to the sand.

Damien is on top of me, and our lighthearted playfulness changes to heated longing as easily as flipping a light switch. Suddenly I am breathing hard, my skin tingling, and my body aware of every point of contact. My blood pounds, and the island noises—the birds, the surf—are muffled by the overwhelming beat of my own heart.

“I bought it for you,” he says, his voice rough. “But I was selfish, too.”

“How so?”

He is straddling me, and his hips move now, almost imperceptibly, but enough to send sparks through me. “I want to make love to my wife on the beach. I want to walk naked in the surf. I want the freedom to take you anytime, anyplace and know that there are no cameras, no paparazzi. No one watching us. No one paying any attention to us at all.”

I nod, too overwhelmed to speak. He did this for me. He bought a freaking island for me. I'm having a hard time wrapping my head around the magnitude of that, and all I can say is what's in my heart. “I love you.”

His smile is radiant.

“But how?” I ask. “I mean, how did you find it? It was only last night that we found the room ransacked, and only this morning that we flew to Nassau. Do you keep a list of Really Expensive Places I Might Decide to Buy?”

“Something like that,” he says, his lips twitching as his fingers smooth my hair. “I looked at it about six months ago as a potential resort site. I didn't think it worked for that, but I had Sylvia call the agent last night to see if it was still available. It was—and now it's ours.”

“It's so much.” I can't even imagine how much an entire island must have cost him.

“I promise we can afford it. And what's the point of working hard to build a fortune if you don't enjoy the money once you have it?”

Since I can't argue with that, I don't. Instead, I lean up long enough to hook my arms around his neck and pull him even closer to me. I meet his eyes, so full of heat and power they rival the sun that beats down on us. “Make love to me, Damien,” I whisper, and feel the immediate tightening in his body and the concomitant awakening of my own.

“With pleasure,” he says, flashing a sexy Damien Stark smile. Then he claims me with a kiss so bold and hot and deep that it clears my mind completely, erasing everything but this moment and this man and those three simple words that I cling to with such desire and wonder—
Mrs. Damien Stark.

Now, on this island, with only the sun and the sky to witness our passion, I lose myself in the pleasure of this man that I married. And, yes, I am content.

Sunlight pours into the kitchen from the east-facing windows, and through the open glass doors on the west side of the house, I can hear the rhythmic pounding of the Pacific as it batters the Malibu shore. It is just past seven on a Sunday morning in February, and though I had awakened with both a smile and a plan, the smile is fading and my plan is floundering. I fear that it is time to face the terrible, horrible, inescapable truth—I can't cook my way out of a paper bag. And my plan to treat my husband to breakfast in bed is crashing and burning.

Or maybe just burning, I amend, as I realize that my waffles are doing just that.

I use the built-in handle to flip the waffle iron over, then open the top with the tines of a fork. The thing inside doesn't resemble any food product I've ever seen. It's black and bumpy and looks vaguely like the underside of a hiking shoe.

“Well, shit,” I say, then add on an even more colorful string of curses when I realize that the eggs are burning and that smoke from the bacon is going to set off the fire alarms any second now.

I lunge sideways toward the stove and hit the button for the vent, then narrow my eyes toward the ceiling, daring the alarm to start screeching. Because even if breakfast consists of black coffee and dry toast, I
am
going to manage it. And nothing—not a smoke alarm, not the scent of burning batter, not even my muttered cursing—is going to roust my husband of almost three weeks out of bed before I am ready to surprise him.

A heartbeat later, I know just how wrong I am.

I have not yet turned around, but I don't have to. I know that he is awake, and I know that he is standing behind me. I didn't hear him approach. I didn't catch his scent. There is nothing tangible to announce his presence to me. But that doesn't matter.

I simply know.

Maybe it's a shift in the density of the air.

Maybe it's the way that the heat from his body makes the molecules around him spin faster.

Maybe it is the simple fact that he is Damien Stark, my husband, my love, and I could no more be unaware of his presence than I am of my own body.

For a moment, I simply stand there, my back still to him. I had wanted to surprise him, and so I will admit to a small tingle of disappointment. But that is quickly conquered by the desire to see him. To savor him. To let the image of him that fills my mind now fill my reality.

I turn slowly to find him leaning against the wall that separates the third floor kitchen from the open area. He is wearing a pair of thin gray sweatpants tied loosely at his hips and absolutely nothing else. His athlete's body glows with a lingering tan, courtesy of the island that was the last stop of our honeymoon, and the light on his burnished skin highlights the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen.

Damien's prowess in business came after his fame as a professional tennis player, and looking at him, it is easy to see how he excelled at both. He is power and strength and beauty combined, and I stand like an idiot, absorbing the sight of him, then sigh with the same kind of full, sensual pleasure brought on by a sunset or a symphony or the stars filling a country sky. Damien Stark is a feast for the eyes, a concerto for the senses. And though I know him intimately—though he is mine, and I am his—I still go weak at the sight of him.

“This is an exceptionally nice scene to wake up to.” His eyes skim over my inappropriate cooking attire. Bare feet, one of his dress shirts, and a white apron with a rather unoriginal
Kiss the Cook
logo.

“Funny. I was just thinking the same thing.” That's an exaggeration, because the truth is that I'm having a hard time thinking at all. Or, rather, my thoughts are all primal in nature.
Need. Want. Take.

He closes the distance between us in three long strides, then slides his arms around my waist. His grin warms me like sunshine, but when he pulls me to him and closes his mouth over mine, I am warmed by a much more dangerous kind of heat. “Good morning, wife.”

My lips tingle from the intensity of his greeting, but I respond in kind, loving the way these words sound. “Good morning, husband.”

He trails his fingertip along my jawline. “You have batter on your face,” he says, before slipping his finger in his mouth. “Tasty.”

I roll my eyes as he leans in to kiss my ear.

“And flour in your hair.”

“I would have managed eventually,” I say. “You're the one who got out of bed and spoiled my surprise.”

He glances behind me at the brick of a waffle. “Believe me, I'm surprised.”

“Careful, mister,” I say, but I'm laughing. We both know that my cooking skills are nonexistent.

“It's the thought that counts,” Damien says. “And I like this thought very, very much.”

He pulls me in for another long, slow kiss. The kind that makes me think that getting up early on a Sunday morning was really not one of my more stellar ideas.

“I know how to fix this,” Damien says.

“Does it involve getting naked and going back to bed, and you assuring me that you didn't marry me for my culinary skills?”

“Actually, no, though I think that should definitely be added to the day's activities.”

“Oh, really?” I lean closer, relishing the way his arms tighten around me, pulling me against him so that I can feel him hot and hard and close. “And what else is on the agenda?”

He slides one hand down over my shirt until he finds my bare thigh, then slowly trails his fingers up, under the light cotton. “It's our last day before we go back to the real world.” His voice is as soft as his caress, and I moan softly as his hand moves between my thighs and his fingers stroke and tease me. “I want to spend it making love to my wife. Touching her. Caressing her. Burying myself deep inside her.”

My knees are weak, and it's a good thing that Damien is holding me up. “I approve of your plan for the day. I approve so much, in fact, that I think we should get started on that right now.”

The tip of his tongue traces the curve of my ear, sending shivers racing through me. “But first, we're going to go get breakfast.”

It takes a moment for my fuzzy brain to register his words. “Go?”

“I told you. I can fix this.” He kisses me lightly, then releases me. I sigh in disappointment at the loss of contact even as Damien nods at the rather unappetizing mess I've made in the kitchen. “Pastries and coffee and fresh-squeezed orange juice. After all, we'll need energy to survive the rest of the day I have planned.”

“I like the sound of that,” I admit. We've been back home from our honeymoon for a few days, but neither one of us has gone back to work officially yet. I've done some coding at home, but not much. Just minor tweaking of a few of my smartphone apps. And Damien, of course, has fielded dozens of phone calls and read god-only-knows how many emails. But considering all he usually handles in the course of running the universe, his work activities over the last several weeks have been nonexistent by comparison.

He takes my hand to lead me out of the kitchen and toward the bedroom, then pauses in front of the stack of cat food that I've moved from the pantry to the counter.

“Please tell me that's not your secret ingredient.”

I know he expects me to laugh, but I just can't manage it. Instead I lift a shoulder. “I'm going to box it up to take to Jamie.”

Damien presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, obviously understanding my mood. “I know, baby. I miss the fluff ball, too.”

Technically, Lady Meow-Meow belongs to both Jamie and me. More technically, she belongs to Jamie, who was the one who actually rescued her from the shelter when she was a one-month-old ball of white fur. I'd taken temporary custody when Jamie rented out her condo and set off for Texas to get her shit together.

That didn't work out as planned, though. Texas turned out to be more of a pit stop than a relocation, and not long after she'd moved in with her parents, she was back in LA. She'd come for my wedding. She'd stayed because of Ryan Hunter, Damien's security chief, who as far as I can tell is head over heels for her. And the feeling, thank goodness, is mutual.

Now, it's the two of them and the cat living in the tiny Venice Beach house that Ryan has rented for years. According to Jamie, it's a temporary arrangement until her tenant moves out in a few months. Then she'll move back to the condo.

She hasn't said as much, but I expect that Ryan will go with her. We had drinks with them the day after we got back to California; I've seen the way he looks at her. More important, I've heard the way she talks about him. And I couldn't be happier for both of them.

But that doesn't mean I'm not sad about losing the cat.

I tilt my head back and smile up at Damien. “I'm fine. It's all fine. I just saw all the food in the pantry and it made me sad. Besides, it gives me an excuse to have lunch with Jamie,” I add with a devious lilt in my voice. “I haven't seen her alone since we got back, and I have to fill her in on just how spectacular our honeymoon was.”

Damien laughs. “Two best friends discussing a honeymoon. Why do I feel like I'm facing a performance review?”

My grin is pure wickedness. “Don't worry, Mr. Stark. As always, you scored a perfect ten.”

He kisses me again, long and lingering, then pulls me close. I sigh happily and lean against him, trying as always to absorb the fact that this is my life now.
He
is my life now.

“I love you,” I say softly, then feel the tightening of his arms around me in response to my words.

“You're my everything, Nikki. And I love you desperately.” He takes my hand and leads me back to our bedroom. He tugs the apron over my head, then slowly unbuttons the shirt I am wearing. He eases it off my shoulders, and it falls gently to the floor behind us. I'm naked beneath it, and the material caresses my back as it falls, making me shiver from both the sensuality of the moment and the anticipation of Damien's touch.

He doesn't disappoint. He tilts his head down as if to kiss me, but then only brushes his lips across mine in the lightest of touches. I want to protest, but the words die in my throat as he moves to trail kisses down my body. The curve of my neck. The sensitive skin along my collarbone.

He pauses at my breast long enough to tease my nipple with his tongue. It is as if he has opened a conduit, and threads of electricity go racing through me, making my nipples tighten with need and my clit throb with demand. I close my eyes and part my lips, concentrating on breathing. On not losing all control and begging him to just take me right there.

But then his kisses move lower, and his tongue dances down my abdomen, then over my pubic bone, and then—oh, dear god—his tongue flicks over my clit, and I have to reach back and grab the iron footboard of our bed in order to remain upright.

I spread my legs, wanting and expecting more, but he pulls away, letting his fingers trail sensually up my body as he stands. I am gasping. Hot and needy. But when I reach out and brush my fingers over the erection that is straining against those goddamn sexy sweatpants, Damien just takes a step back and shakes his head. “Later,” he says, making the word sound like both torture and a promise.

“Christ, Damien. How am I supposed to do anything today other than want you?”

“Sweetheart, there's nothing else today that you need to be doing.”

I take a moment to gather myself while he heads into the bathroom. I find him in the closet, where he hands me a pair of capris and my favorite light sweater.

“I should grab a shower,” I protest as I watch Damien slide into a pair of jeans and a threadbare Wimbledon T-shirt.

“Casual Sunday morning,” he says. “And you look amazing as always. Besides,” he adds with a wicked gleam in his eye, “if you want a shower later, I'll be happy to help you out. Make sure you get very thoroughly clean.”

“I bet you would.” And though I'm laughing, I already know that's an offer I absolutely will not refuse.

We're both hungry, and so we drive to the Upper Crust, a charming local bakery about a mile up the beach. It's one of my favorite places in Malibu, and while Damien orders, I find a table on the wooden deck with a wide-open view of the ocean.

Damien's house—
our
house—has an equally stunning view, but is set much farther back from the beach. One thing that I love about the bakery is that it is built practically on top of the dunes, so that all you have to do is descend the stairs at the back of the deck to be on the sand.

I mention that to Damien when he returns with big mugs of coffee and two flaky chocolate croissants.

“Then we'll build a bungalow right at the edge of the property. I'll talk to Nathan about drawing up plans,” he adds, referring to Nathan Dean, the architect who designed the main house.

I gape at him. “I was just making conversation.”

He looks almost confused. “So you wouldn't like that? I would.” He reaches out to wipe a stray bit of chocolate from the corner of my mouth, then licks his fingertip. “I can't tell you how many times I've wanted to strip you naked on that beach, and yet I had to wait until we were all the way up the hill. But if there was a conveniently located bungalow…”

I shake my head in mock exasperation. “Clearly I'm going to have to watch what I say around you, Mr. Stark. I mean, what if I'd said that I wanted a pied-à-terre on the moon?”

“I'm certain that can be arranged.” He twines his fingers with mine, then kisses my knuckles. “I think this is my favorite part of being married.”

“Croissants?”

“Spoiling my wife.”

I only smile. As ridiculous as Damien building a bungalow because of an offhand comment might be, I can't deny that it makes me feel all warm and gooey inside. Then again, simply being with the man makes me feel that way.

“Do you want another?” I ask, nodding at his chocolate-stained plate.