Stark After Dark (27 page)

Do I? Do I want to be naughty?

I consider Damien's question, my body tightening with the thought of what he is asking me.

And the truth is that yeah, I do.

I love Damien, and I love being married to him. But this—this extra tinge of excitement—it fills me up and makes me float. It's shiny and new and tantalizing.

And while I would never go there without Damien, if he is holding my hand and keeping me safe, then well…

“Nikki?”

I close my eyes, smiling just a little. We are still playing the game; I know that. But this is the first time he has said my name, and I understand what that means. That he will always keep me safe. That he will never push me too far.

“Yes, Mr. Stark,” I whisper. “I want to be naughty.”

I stand as he told me, then use my free hand to hold the phone. I draw a breath, smile just a little, and snap the kind of naughty selfie that I never in a million years would have believed I had it in me to do.

I find it, then message it to Damien, being very, very careful to send it to the right recipient.

“Did you get it?” I ask, and then realize I'm holding my breath until I hear his, “Oh, holy Christ, yes.”

My smile blooms. “I guess that means you like it.”

“Fuck, yeah.”

“Mr. Stark?”

“Yes, baby?”

I lick my lips, fighting shyness. “Are you looking at it now?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Are you hard?”

I can almost hear his smile in the silence.

“What do you think?” he finally says.

“I think you are,” I say, feeling emboldened. “Are you stroking yourself?” I press. “Are you pretending it's me? Are you getting off?”

“Christ, baby, you're damn sure tempting me. But no. I'm not coming until I'm deep inside you. And you don't touch yourself, either, until I tell you to. Are we clear?”

And just like that he has turned it back around. Taken what little power I'd grabbed and claimed it again with both hands.

Honestly, I can't say that I mind.

“Ms. Fairchild? Are we clear?”

“Yes.” I have to force the word out past walls of arousal. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell me you want to be fucked.”

My cunt clenches in response to his words, and I make a low, needy sound.

“Please, Mr. Stark. I want to be fucked.”

“Soon, baby. But tonight, I'm going to make you explode.”

“Yes,” I say, because right now that sounds pretty close to heaven. “Yes, please.”

“Take the shirt off,” he says. “And the bra. I want you naked.”

I do as he says, and find myself standing naked in my bedroom, my body illuminated by the lights of the Las Vegas Strip, as I wait for my husband—my lover—to tell me what to do next.

“Tell me what you packed.”

I bite my lip. “Packed?”

His low laugh rumbles through me. “I'm wondering what you tucked into your suitcase that we might find of use right now.”

“Oh.” I feel my cheeks heat and am slightly disconcerted. Which is ridiculous. Under the circumstances, the fact that I packed a vibrator is hardly going to rock Damien's universe.

“Tell me.” And though his voice is demanding, I hear the undercurrent of amusement. “I like a woman who takes charge of her own pleasure,” he adds, the words rescuing me from my slow slide into mortification.

“A vibrator,” I mutter. “A bullet. It was a gift.” I don't say that it was a bachelorette gift. He already knows that part very well. After all, we've played with this toy before.

“Interesting,” he says. “Go get it. Then get on the bed.”

I do, and I realize when I lie down that my heart is pounding so hard in anticipation that I can actually feel the bed pulse with each beat.

“Spread your legs, baby. I want you wide open. I'm right there with you, and I want to be able to kiss my way up your thighs. I want to be able to see how wet you are.”

I close my eyes, imagining just that. His lips on my skin, his breath teasing my clit.

I shiver, and realize that I am very, very close.

“Turn on the vibrator now,” he orders, and though I comply, I want to protest. Because as soon as he tells me to go anywhere near my clit with this vibrating bullet, I am going to come completely undone. And I'm not ready for that. I want this sensation to last.

But this is Damien's show, and so I say nothing.

And when he tells me to brush the vibrator lightly over my nipple, I know that I should have trusted him to understand me. To know how to play me.

I do as he asks, and the feeling is incredible.

“Tell me,” he says.

“I don't know how,” I admit. “I—I've never done this. It's kind of amazing.” My nipples are so damn sensitive that the sensation from the vibrator is sending shock waves through me, leaving my body trembling on the edge, but not going over. “It's like being suspended. Just waiting for the push.”

“Do you want to go over?”

“Yes. No. I don't know.”

He laughs. “Sounds like you want everything.”

“Yes,” I murmur as my body turns to molten lava. “Yes, please.”

“Trail your fingers down, and tease your clit, baby. I want to hear you breathing. I want to feel you getting close. Tell me you're wet,” he says when I gasp from that first stroke of my fingers over my slick flesh.

“I'm wet. I'm so very wet.”

I let the vibrator fall, and it buzzes uselessly on the mattress beside me. I no longer care. Everything in my world is between my legs at this moment. My fingers. Damien's voice. And this wild, incredible rising passion that is threatening to consume me.

“That's me touching you, baby. My fingers stroking you, my breath teasing you. You taste so good. Can you feel my tongue sliding over you?”

I try to say yes, but the sound comes out garbled.

“Come on,” he says. “I can hear your breath. I can hear your excitement. Tell me you want to come.”

“I do,” I say. “Oh, yes, please.”

“Just a little more. Find that one spot, baby, and tease it. You're almost there.”

It is intoxicating, this marriage of fantasy and reality, of being with the man who knows my body so well, while hearing the words of a new lover whispered in my ear. It's making me rise. Taking me higher. Leading me right to the edge.

And then, when Damien whispers, “Come for me now,” I burst wide open and everything inside me spills out into the night until I am hollow and exhausted, ripped to shreds, and utterly and completely satisfied.

I float, just float for a while. And then, finally, I drift back down to earth.

“Oh, god, Damien,” I say when I can find words again. Honestly, those are the only three words I can find.

“Good night, Ms. Fairchild.” His voice is soft, and although that is all that he says, what I hear is, “I love you.”

Because spring has come early and it is unseasonably warm for March, I decide to spend the morning eating breakfast and reading the paper by the pool. I bypass the cabana that is reserved for the use of my suite—I'm not interested in being tucked away behind drapes—and pick one of the lounge chairs near the waterfall.

The area around the pool is beautifully landscaped with native plants and tropical flowers transplanted to make the area look lush. There are only a few of us out here this early, and I smile as I pass an elderly man in a golfing shirt reading a Harlan Coben novel and drinking a Bloody Mary.

I'm about to sit down when I see a flash of dark hair rounding the corner near one of the changing rooms. A woman. And though I do not recognize her, I am once again struck by the feeling of having seen someone familiar.

I consider getting up and following her, but I didn't see enough to be sure and, truly, if it's someone I know then I'll leave it to them to come say hi.

Once I'm settled, I peel off my T-shirt to reveal the bikini top I'd worn in the hope that the weather would feel just this nice.

I keep my skirt on, though. Not only is it not quite warm enough to strip all the way down to a bathing suit, but I don't do bikini bottoms in public. With Damien, I am no longer self-conscious about the scars that mar my hips and inner thighs. But that doesn't mean I want to invite the entire world to take a peek.

I pull today's
Los Angeles Times
out of my tote bag and set it on the table next to me. Then I wave my hand to signal a nearby waiter, who hurries over.

He looks to be a few years younger than me, and I guess that he's working his way through college. I order a bagel with cream cheese, coffee, and orange juice, then put my sunglasses on and tilt my head back, enjoying the feel of the still-rising sun against my skin.

I don't intend to doze, but I didn't get much sleep last night, and my eyelids are heavy, especially under the weight of the sun. I let myself drift, and suddenly it's not just the sun that is heating my skin. It's the memory of Damien's words in my ear last night.

For a brief moment, I regret not simply dining on the balcony that opens off my bedroom, because the temptation to slide my hands between my legs is very, very strong. I don't, however, want to give my nearby golfer a hard-on. Or, god forbid, a heart attack.

I hear the waiter's return and ask if he could bring me a glass of ice water.

“A little warm, Ms. Fairchild? From looking at you, I would have thought you were slightly chilled.”

I open my eyes to find Damien smiling down at me. At my breasts, actually, and my rock hard nipples, very evident under my bikini top.

“You're staring.”

“I'm enjoying the view.” He takes a seat on the lounge chair beside me. “Thinking about last night?”

“Every delicious minute,” I admit, and then swallow a smile of satisfaction when I see his eyes heat with my unexpected answer.

“And you?” I ask. “What are you doing this morning? Besides staring, I mean?”

“Staring, Ms. Fairchild?” His eyes flick up to my face, and then he draws his gaze down my body, moving so slowly and with such purpose that my skin tingles in the wake of his inspection, as if he is trailing a fingertip down the entire length of my body.

“Staring?” he repeats. “No, I'm studying. And planning.”

“Planning?” I repeat. “Now I'm very intrigued. Do tell.”

“Oh, just analyzing various strategies. How I'm going to touch you. What I'll do to take you to the absolute heights of exquisite pleasure. To get you close but not let you go over, so that you are reduced to whimpering in my arms and begging me for release.” He looks at me blandly. “Things like that.”

My mouth has gone dry, and all my blood has pooled between my thighs. But even so, I manage to latch onto one key point. “In your arms, Mr. Stark?”

“Noticed that, did you?”

“I'm a very good listener.”

“I hoped that you would do me the honor of joining me for dinner.”

I tilt my head, considering. Tonight is our last night. If I want to take this flirtation to the next level, it really is now or never. And, yeah, I want to see what he has planned.

“Are you going to behave?”

“That's highly doubtful.”

I laugh, because that is absolutely the perfect answer. “In that case, Mr. Stark, I'd love to have dinner with you.”

“How did it go?” I ask Jamie as we walk through the casino toward the hotel's main shopping area.

“I think it went great. Gloria said she'd call me about more interviews, so…”

She trails off and I pull her into a hug. “Jamie, that's awesome.”

“Potentially awesome,” she corrects, but she's grinning happily.

All around us, men and women are seated at blackjack and roulette tables or standing around the craps table. Dozens of them are playing slot machines, and the din is brutal. For that matter, so is the smoke that fills the air.

It's not even lunchtime, and yet this area is buzzing as if it were late at night. I suppose that's the idea of Vegas, but my idea of decadent runs in a more private direction, and I smile to myself as I look forward to dinner tonight with Damien and every wicked thing that will come after.

We walk a bit more before I pause and glance around. We've reached an intersection, and I'm trying to figure out which way to go. As far as I can tell, the basic design of pretty much any casino is to not provide an easy exit. That way, once someone is in, they have no choice but to stay and gamble.

“Starfire Promenade?” Jamie asks, pointing toward a sign that directs us to the left.

“That's it,” I say. “Let's go.”

We reach freedom in another five minutes, and emerge from the casino's relative dark to the well-lit sparkle of this high-end shopping promenade. It takes up three levels and every designer imaginable seems to have a storefront here, along with a variety of boutiques, restaurants, and even small galleries.

“What are you shopping for?” I ask.

She glances sideways at me. “You're not shopping?”

I think of my closet back home, which is about the size of my college apartment and completely stuffed with the clothes and jewelry that Damien is always buying me. Sometimes I think he won't be satisfied until I own at least one of everything.

“I might look for a present for Damien,” I say. “Then again, in this weekend's reality, I don't have a Damien in my life.”

“You're still playing?”

“Sure,” I say. “It's fun. I take it you and Ryan aren't?”

Jamie lifts a shoulder. “Playing, sure. Pretending we picked each other up at a bar? Not anymore. Pretending other things…” Her voice trails off with a hint of a naughty lilt. “Well, a lady never kisses and tells. Or fucks and tells. Or blindfolds and tells. Or—”

“Jamie!” I slap my hands over my ears, laughing. “Stop. Please, stop.”

She shrugs good-naturedly. “Hey, you asked.”

I'm pretty sure I didn't, but I don't press the point.

“There,” she says, pointing to a display of embroidered jeans in the window of one of the fancy boutiques on the other side of this wide walkway. “Let's check it out.”

“Sure,” I say and follow her. As we're about to go in, a dark-haired woman rushes past us as she hurries to catch up with friends. Seeing her reminds me, and I turn back to Jamie. “I had that feeling again,” I say. “When I was by the pool this morning.”

“What? Someone you know?”

“I have no idea, but yeah. It's a little disconcerting.”

“It's probably nothing,” Jamie says. “Or if you really are seeing someone familiar, they're probably just snapping pictures of you for Twitter. The price you pay for being married to a god of the universe.”

I scowl, but have to concede she has a point. Since marrying Damien, I'm regularly all over social media.

“Listen, go on in,” I say, pointing toward the store. “I want to look next door.” The jewelry store window has a display of emerald and diamond jewelry, and I would love to find earrings to match the stunning anklet that Damien gave me when we first got together.

“I buy denim, you buy diamonds,” she trills. “That pretty much sums up the differences in our lives these days.”

I just laugh. “Oh, those aren't the only differences.” I start to count on my fingers. “Beach house. Limo. Private jet. And don't forget the chocolate company in Switzerland.”

“Well, now you're just being mean.” She hip butts me. “Catch you in a few.”

I grin, watching her go, then head into the store. It's larger than it looks from the outside and surprisingly crowded. A uniformed security guard stands at the door looking bored.

Glass shelving lines the walls full of pricey decorator items like handblown glass vases and porcelain statuary. The center of the space is made up of glass display cases arranged in a horseshoe, and the customers walk around the U-shape to scope out both the items on the shelves and those in the cabinets. Some are filled with brand-new pieces, others display estate jewelry. I find antique emerald and diamond drop earrings set in platinum and a matching bracelet that are almost exactly what I have in mind.

“They're stunning quality,” the man behind the counter says. His nametag identifies him as Frederick Pyle.

“I'm looking for something to match this,” I say, bending to remove my anklet. As I do, I see her again. My dark-haired shadow. And this time I am absolutely, one-hundred-percent sure that I know her. She has wavy hair that reaches her shoulders and a round face with prominent cheekbones. She's petite, and looks even smaller because she keeps herself hunched over, as if she is trying to hide from the world.

She's browsing the glass shelves, and I turn back to Mr. Pyle, both because he has brought out the pieces for me to look at, and also because I don't want to catch her eye while I'm still trying to remember her name.

Where do I know her from?

I try not to think too hard, because that is a surefire way to ensure that I don't remember. Instead, I put the anklet next to the bracelet. They are not a perfect match, but the settings complement each other beautifully. And, most important, I like them. “I'll take them,” I say. And because I'm Mrs. Damien Stark and I never, ever do this, despite Damien telling me to buy whatever I want, whenever I want, I don't even ask the price. Instead, I just tell him to charge it to my room. Then I tell him my name, show him my ID, and fight not to smile when his already polite and deferential attitude ratchets up about a thousandfold.

“Of course, Mrs. Stark. Would you like to wait? Or shall I deliver the pieces to your suite after we've cleaned and packaged them?”

“I'd love to wear them,” I admit. “How long?”

“Ten minutes. If you'd like to have a seat?” He points to a silk-upholstered divan at the back of the store. “Some wine?”

“I'll just browse,” I say. “Thanks.”

I stroll around the store, peeking into the glass cases, checking out all of the lovely, sparkly items. But my attention is only half there. Mostly I am racking my brain, trying to remember that woman's name. I'm trying very hard not to stare, too, which is good, as she keeps turning side to side, her eyes darting all over the place as if she is nervous.

Soon enough, I realize why.

She takes one of the handblown glass vases, and slides it surreptitiously into her purse.

Then she straightens her shoulders, browses the shelves for a few more minutes, and heads for the entrance. She's almost through, when the security guard steps in front of her.

“Excuse me, miss,” he says. “I'm going to have to ask you to open your purse.”

“Pardon?” Her voice rises, and even from across the store I can hear her panic. “Oh, golly,” she adds, and in that moment, I know exactly who she is. Marcy Kendall from Dallas, Texas. One of the few girls in high school that Jamie and I genuinely liked. One of the few who was nice to me and didn't think I was stuck-up and bitchy just because I entered pageants. Somehow, she saw through all the bullshit and realized that my reserve wasn't bitchiness, and that the pageants were torture.

We'd never been close, but I'd liked her. And she'd been like a mirror on the world. A reminder that there were people who would see the real you, even when you tried to hide away.

I have no idea why Marcy Kendall is shoplifting a glass vase, but I'm determined to find out. First, though, I'm going to help her.

“Marcy!” I call, and then watch as she jumps almost a foot. She turns in my direction, and her eyes go wide.

“What—”

But I interrupt before she can say something stupid. “Where'd you put the glass vase? Did you give it to Mr. Pyle? Because I haven't paid for it yet.”

For a second, her face is so awash in confusion that I am absolutely certain the guard is going to swoop down and arrest us both. But then it clears and the confusion shifts to such a profound gratitude that any doubts I may have had about helping her are firmly swept away.

“Oh,” she says. “I thought you already had. I'm sorry.” She laughs. “I told you that having mimosas at breakfast was a bad idea. I'm such a dope when I've been drinking.” She smiles up at the guard, then pulls the vase out of her bag. “Sorry. Guess it looked like I was stealing it.”

She starts to walk back toward me, and I think that all is well. But then the guard says, “Just one minute, miss,” and he plucks the vase right out of her hand. He points to me. “And I'd like to speak to you, too, miss.”

“Me? But I—”

I cut myself off. What the hell should I say?

Fortunately, Mr. Pyle chooses that moment to return. “Here you go, Mrs. Stark,” and though I know he is using his outdoor voice so that he can share with the world—or at least these customers—that the fabulously rich Damien Stark's wife actually shopped in his store, right then all I can think is that his well-projected voice has reached the security guard. And that is a good thing.