Stark After Dark (26 page)

The bar closest to our bank of elevators is called Rain and has a water theme, including walls that feature streams of water running down them in what appears to be a permanent loop.

Jamie and I sit at the bar, which is made of a hollowed out slab of marble filled with water and covered with glass. Goldfish swim in the water, back and forth in this makeshift river. It's whimsical and fun, though I have to wonder what the fish think about the whole thing.

“They love it,” Jamie says. “I mean, they're goldfish. Usually the most they can aspire to is a bowl in some kid's bedroom. This is the big time for them.”

I laugh and have to concede that she has a point. And then we both raise our glasses and toast the fish.

We've been down here for an hour, chatting and drinking and trying to firm up our plans for tomorrow.

“So shopping is definitely on?” Jamie asks. “I'm in the mood to do serious damage to my credit card. And you get some sort of discount here, right?”

“Only in the hotel stores. We go out into the mall, and you're on your own.”

“Fair enough.” She sips her martini. “After lunch, then? I have the first interview at ten and the next at eleven. And after that, I'm done.”

“Are you ready?”

“Absolutely.” She'd read over her prep material a little bit in the limo and then again before we came down here. “And I'll get up about six to give it another go-over. Don't worry. This isn't my first time playing a reporter.”

“I just want you to rock it,” I say. “This might lead to a full-time job, right?”

“Maybe. Gloria kind of hinted around. But I'm not going to get my hopes up. I'm just going to take my check for this gig and run. Straight to Michael Kors,” she adds with a laugh.

I roll my eyes.

“You should come down with me tomorrow. Watch the interview. Or at the very least, scope out the trade show. It's mostly about games geared toward smartphone users.”

“I'm tempted,” I admit. “But I've pretty much decided that my goal for the weekend is to be as unproductive as humanly possible. So while you're slaving away, I'm going to be drinking mimosas by the pool.”

“You bitch.”

“And completely proud of it.”

Jamie grins, then slides her hand into her purse. She stops mid-motion, then catches my eye, her expression sheepish.

I know exactly what she was doing—she was going to check her phone to see if she'd missed a call or text or email from Ryan.

I know, because I've done the same thing a half dozen times since we arrived at the hotel. And there hasn't been a single word from Damien.

“We're pathetic,” I say. “Two fabulous, smart women out on our own, and we can't even go an hour without checking for a message from our significant others. Seriously, how girly and needy are we?”

“I'm not being girly and needy,” she says firmly. “I just keep expecting him to ask me what I'm wearing under my clothes.”

I raise a brow as I take another sip of my drink. “And what are you wearing?”

Her grin is slow and devious. “I'll never tell.”

I laugh and we clink glasses. But I remain silent on my own relative state of undress. And, yes, I do feel naughty.

Which reminds me…

I reach into my purse and pull out my phone. “Not girly and needy,” I tell Jamie, who is giving me The Look. “We need a selfie.”

“Oh! Totally! With the drinks,” she adds, which is easy for her to say. I end up leaning way back, holding the drink in my left hand and the camera in my right. Honestly, it would be easier to ask the bartender to take it, but Damien told me he wanted selfies, and for this particular game, I'm all about following the rules.

“Did you get us?” Jamie asks as I open up my photos.

“Hang on.” It's a reasonable question. Photography is my hobby, but that doesn't translate to selfies. I tend to shift at the last second and mess them up completely. “Oh, check it out. This one's not too bad.”

I pass her my phone, now open to the image of us, smiling and holding our glasses. Instead of shifting to the side, though, I apparently lifted my arm, because we don't fill the frame the way I had planned. Instead, we're in the bottom third, and the crowded tables in this popular bar are in the background. I figure that's even better, since it gives a sense of location.

“Nikki!” Jamie's voice is a low, startled whisper. “Did you look at this?”

“At what?”

“The picture. What's behind us.”

“I—no.” I frown. “What are you talking about?”

She slides the phone back to me. “Look.”

I do—and then I turn toward her and grin.

“Don't turn around!” she says, as if I were planning to.

Of course, now that she has said that, the urge is powerful. Because now I know who's behind us. Now I know why neither of us have received any sexts.

Now I know that this weekend is going to be more interesting than I anticipated.

“I have to look,” I admit.

“Yeah, me, too.”

We both shift on our stools. And there, just sitting and talking as if they haven't got a care in the world, are Ryan and Damien.

They look up at the same time, and Damien's eyes meet mine. At first, his expression is flat. Corporate. Then his mouth curves up and his eyes darken, and I can see such promise of heat and pleasure that my stomach turns to butterflies and my mouth goes dry.

I expect him to say something. I expect him to come over.

I expect him to do anything but what he does next, which is turn his eyes away and continue talking to Ryan, as if I wasn't sitting right there at all.

I smile, suddenly understanding.

And this, I think, is going to be so much better than sexting.

Beside me, Jamie still isn't with the program. “Should we go sit with them?”

“No,” I say with a grin. “That's not the game.”

“The—
oh.
”

Just as realization dawns, the bartender sets fresh drinks in front of us. “From the gentlemen,” he says with a jerk of his chin, and we both turn to raise our glasses in a silent gesture of thanks. Damien, however, is the only one at the table.

I give him a little nod, then turn my back to him, hiding my grin.

Beside me, Jamie is about to lean toward me, presumably to ask where Ryan is. But that's when I see Ryan approaching her. He takes a seat on the open stool beside her, and I casually reach for my drink, then take a sip as I eavesdrop on my best friend.

“Haven't I seen you on television?” he says.

Jamie turns to him, her body language suggesting she gets this question all the time and is bored with it. “It's possible.”

“I'm Ryan.”

“I'm not the kind of girl who picks up strange men in hotel bars.”

“No? I'm not a strange man.”

“Too bad.” Jamie's voice holds as much heat as a small nuclear reactor. “I like strange.”

She slides off the stool. “You'll have to excuse me,” she says politely. “I need to go to the ladies' room.” She glances at me, her expression playful. “I'll be right back.”

She walks away, and Ryan is left sitting alone at the bar.

“She's very particular about the men she dates,” I say. “And she'll only fall for a truly spectacular guy.”

Humor flashes in his eyes. “I'll keep that in mind.” He inclines his head, then leaves. I take another sip of my drink and plan to tell Jamie that we really need to move on to food. Too many drinks and too little solid food is starting to mess with my head.

As I'm thinking about my increasing state of inebriation, someone moves up behind me. I know without turning that it is Damien, and when he asks, “Is this seat taken?” his low, familiar voice sends shivers through me.

“I suppose it is now,” I say as he sits.

I turn to find him looking at me, his dark eyes burning with so much desire that it whips in fiery swirls all through me. I raise my glass, then take a sip. Frankly, I need it to cool down.

“I was hoping that drink would buy me an introduction.”

I extend my hand. “Nikki Fairchild.”

He takes it, and despite every way that he has touched me, this simple brush of palm against palm sends shock waves skittering all through me. “It's a pleasure, Ms. Fairchild.”

I pull my hand away, feeling strangely unsettled. I want to play this game. And that means keeping my cool.

“Why did you want to buy an introduction?”

“I was hoping you'd have dinner with me.”

“Were you?” I run my finger along the rim of my glass, my eyes never leaving his. “Why?”

He doesn't hesitate. “Because I was hoping you'd spend a few hours after dinner with me.”

He reaches for the toothpick in my drink, then lifts it to his mouth, casually biting off the olive.

He has, I think, an absolutely perfect mouth.

“Ms. Fairchild?”

“I'm sorry,” I say. “You have me at a disadvantage. Mr….?”

“Stark,” he says. “Damien Stark.” I like the way he says his name. He says it as though it belongs to me.

I put on one of my plastic smiles, the kind I practiced in my pageant days. “I've heard of you, Mr. Stark.”

“Should I be flattered?”

“Tennis player. Entrepreneur. Womanizer?” I say the last as a question.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “Apparently I have quite the reputation.”

He's put the toothpick on a napkin on the bar. Now I pick it up and brush it lightly over my lower lip, gratified when I see his gaze dip to my mouth. “Are you denying it?” I ask.

“Not at all. I've fucked a lot of women in my life, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Oh.” I lick my lips. “And do you want to fuck me, too?”

“Desperately. That, and so much more.”

It takes a superhuman amount of effort, but I manage not to squirm. I am, however, hopelessly wet. And I'm quite sure that Damien knows it.

I draw a breath, gather myself, and look deep into those dual-colored eyes. “I'm not interested in being one of many, Mr. Stark.”

“And any man who thought of you that way would be a fool. I'm not a fool, Ms. Fairchild.” He takes my hand and presses light kisses against it, and it is as if coils of pleasure shoot straight from my fingertips all the way to my clit.

I can't help it, I actually moan. And when I do, I see victory dance in his eyes.

Bastard.

“About dinner,” he says, trailing a fingertip lazily over my palm and driving me just a tiny bit crazy. “You still haven't answered.”

I tug my hand away, then mourn the loss of contact.

“Sorry,” I say. “I have plans with my friend.”

His eyes narrow. “I don't believe you do.” He nods, indicating something over my shoulder.

I turn, then see Jamie walking away from the bar with Ryan's arm around her waist. I stifle a laugh. Even when we're playing at seduction, Jamie is quick to jump into a man's bed. But what the hell. With Ryan at least, it's as safe as it gets.

I, however, am enjoying the chase too much to give in.

I reach into my purse and put a fifty dollar bill on the bar before sliding off my stool. “I barely know you, Mr. Stark, and it's been a long day. Thank you for the drink, but I think I'll just order room service.”

I see genuine surprise on Damien's face, and as I turn to walk away, I don't even bother to hide my grin.

Yes, I think, this is going to be fun.

I don't hurry to the elevator. Instead, I stroll past the hotel's stores, taking in the jewelry, the dresses, the designer handbags. I never turn around, but once or twice I see the reflection of Damien walking behind me, and I add a little swing to my step. I don't know what he has planned, but I do know it will be interesting.

When I finally reach the elevator bank, I turn into the elegantly appointed alcove, swipe my room key over the panel to call the elevator for the top floors, and then step on as soon as the car arrives. I press the button for my floor, then move back, waiting for the inevitable rise.

The doors are just about to close when Damien appears. He thrusts his arm through the gap to stop the doors, and then slides his whole body inside the car with me.

A car that suddenly seems much smaller than it is.

“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, stepping toward me so that I am forced to either move backward into the corner or give up my personal space.

Damien's wife wouldn't move.

Nikki Fairchild—who is still being seduced—does.

His smile is slow, and suggests that he knows exactly what I'm thinking. He leans toward me, then reaches out to press his palm against the polished metal paneling just over my shoulder. “I'm not sure you understand the kind of man I am,” he says. “I don't like hearing no.”

I lift a brow. “In that case, I hope you're the kind of man who can handle disappointment. Because I'm not a woman who says yes easily.” The elevator slides to a stop on the thirty-fifth floor, and I ease past him.

“I do love a challenge,” he says as I step from the car and into the hallway.

I turn back, looking at him before the doors close and block the view. He looks magnificent in a tailored gray suit and an ice-blue tie. He looks like a man in control. A man who takes what he wants. And seeing him like that makes me feel a burst of feminine power that fuels both my desire for the man—and for this game.

“I'm glad,” I say as the doors start to close. “Because you definitely have your work cut out for you.”

I'm not certain, but I think I see him smile before the doors block my view.

In the suite, I head first to Jamie's room, but she has tied a red ribbon on the doorknob, and I have to laugh—it's our old symbol for Man in the Room. And while I'm a little jealous that Jamie has her boyfriend in her bed tonight, I'm not jealous enough to call Damien and end this.

I'm too curious to see how it plays out.

Since I'm alone, I decide to watch a movie in bed instead of in the living room, and I'm scrolling through a selection of truly uninteresting choices when my phone rings.

I glance at it, but it's not a number I recognize, and I'm really not in the mood to chat with a telemarketer.

I let it go to voicemail.

A moment later, a text flashes on my screen from that same number:

Answer your phone—D

I lick my lips and snuggle back against the pillows. Well, okay, then.

I wait. And then I wait a little longer.

And then—just when I've decided that he's intentionally tormenting me—my phone rings again.

“Mr. Stark,” I say. “How did you get this number?”

“I have a knack for getting the things I want, Ms. Fairchild.” The words are simple, but they are spoken in such a low, sensual tone that their effect on me is anything but. Quite the contrary, actually, and I close my eyes and just let the pleasure of his voice curl through me.

“Do you?” I ask, then lick my lips. “What is it you want?”

“I think we already covered that, Ms. Fairchild. What was it you said I wanted?”

I lick my lips, surprised that I find myself a little bit shy. This is Damien, after all.

Not now, though. Not tonight.

Right. I draw in a breath. “You said you want to fuck me.”

“Very good. What else?”

“And so much more,” I say dutifully.

His low chuckle rumbles through me. “Someone was paying attention.”

“It was a very intriguing conversation,” I admit. “So what is the so much more?”

“Where to begin? I want to touch you,” he says. “Run my fingers over every inch of you, and then do the same with my tongue. I want to suck on your nipples until they're almost too sensitive to be touched, and then I want to do the same to your clit while I hold you fast in place. You'll want to squirm, to move, but you'll be trapped, a slave to every manner of pleasure that I can imagine, and all of it aimed at my ultimate goal of making you come.”

I bite back a moan as I squirm on the bed, every inch of my skin on fire from his words.

He pauses, and the silence brings a sense of loss as potent as if he had taken his hand from my body. I don't admit that, though. Right now, I'm not ready to admit anything. Instead, I feign nonchalance. “Oh,” I say, “is that all?”

He bursts out laughing. “Oh, no, Ms. Fairchild. I'm not buying it at all.”

“Buying what?”

But all he says is “Mmm.”

I shift on the bed, wanting his voice again. Just wanting more. “Mr. Stark?”

“I'm here. What are you wearing?”

“The same thing I was in the bar. A skirt. A blouse.”

“Are you wearing a bra?”

“Yes.”

“Underwear?”

I lick my lips. “No.”

“No? How very naughty of you, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Maybe I like to be naughty.”

He makes a rough sound in the back of his throat. “Do you? I'll have to keep that in mind.”

I hold the phone tighter, wondering just what that will entail.

“How naughty would you like to be tonight?” he asks.

“I don't know.”

“There are rules,” he says, reminding me of our first night when he sent me home in a limo with a cellphone. “And the first one is that you don't lie to me. Do you understand?”

I hesitate just a beat. “Yes,” I say. And then because I do know some of the rules of this game, I add, “Yes, sir.”

I can almost hear the smile of approval in his next words. “Now, answer the question. How naughty do you want to be tonight?”

“Very,” I say. And then, because I'm feeling bold, “I want to get you hard.”

“Baby, I'm already there. Put the phone on speaker and set it beside you. I want you to have both your hands free. Have you done it?”

“Yes,” I say, glancing to where I've placed the phone just below the pillow.

“Now unbutton your shirt, just let it lay open on your skin. Are you doing it?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl. Now I want you to stroke your exposed skin. Slowly, up and down, from your waist to your breasts. Gently,” he clarifies. “Just let your nails trail over your skin.”

The sensation is incredible, and I close my eyes and enjoy this sweet caress.

“How does it feel?”

“Amazing,” I say. “Like it should tickle, but it doesn't. Like I'm coming alive.”

“Tell me where you feel it.” His voice is husky, raw with need.

“Everywhere.”

“Are your nipples hard? Straining against your bra?”

“Yes.”

“Is your cunt wet? Are you throbbing, wanting to be touched? To be fucked?”

I don't answer. I can only manage a whimper.

“Tell me, baby.”

“Yes. God, yes.”

“Pull the cups down on your bra. I want your nipples free. Then tease them with your fingernails, too. Just the same, very lightly.”

I do, and I feel the pathways of pleasure opening up all through me.

“Now harder. Pinch yourself. Imagine it's my mouth on your breast. My tongue teasing you. My teeth scraping, biting.”

It is all I can do not to cry out from the pleasure.

“You like that.” It's a statement, not a question, but I still admit what he already knows.

“Very much.”

“Suck on your finger. Harder, baby. Use your tongue. Imagine it's my cock. Christ, baby, I'm so hard.”

I groan, but I don't stop sucking, and I can feel the pull all the way through me, all the way to where my muscles clench in demand, needing to be filled, to be fucked.

I imagine Damien touching me, stroking me. I imagine him filling me, and when his voice comes on the line again, a tremor of pleasure cuts through me, a tiny hint of the explosion to come.

“Draw your finger over your nipple next,” he says. “Get it wet. Are you doing it?”

“Yes.” The sensation is intense. Every inch of me is an erogenous zone, but my nipples are so sensitive I think I would come if Damien closed his mouth over my breast and sucked.

“Good girl. Now tilt your head down and blow lightly across your breast.”

I hesitate, but then comply. And
ohmygod
.

I arch up, the unexpected sensation wreaking havoc with my already heightened senses, setting my body on fire, making me gasp with longing and need.

“I think the lady liked that,” he says, when I stop saying, “Oh fuck, oh wow.”

“Yes,” I agree. “The lady liked that a lot.”

“I want to see you,” he says. “I want to see how wet you are. How flushed your skin is.”

“Do you want to come to my room?”

He is quiet for just a little too long. Then he says, “So much I can't even tell you. But not tonight. Tonight, I want you to do something for me.”

“What?”

“Stand up,” he says, and since that's easy enough, I comply. “Now take your skirt off.”

I reach behind me and find the zipper. I pull it down, then ease the skirt over my hips until it drops to the ground.

“Are you still wearing the shirt? Is it unbuttoned?”

“Yes.”

“And your bra? It's still on with your breasts exposed?”

I nod. Then find my voice. “Yes, sir.”

“Go to the window. Take the phone.”

I do as he says, then stand there, half-naked, looking probably like some girl in a window in a red-light district. Only I'm thirty-five floors up and there's no one out there to see me.

“Send me a picture,” he says, “just like that. Your breasts exposed. Your hand on your cunt.”

I think I make a mewling sound.

“I want you in front of the window. I want to see the city spread out behind you.”

“I—”

I close my mouth, unsure of what to say.

I want to do this, but at the same time I want to protest. I know it's a game, but at the same time…

“Come on, Ms. Fairchild.” His voice, low and enticing, envelops me. “Don't you want to be naughty?”