Stark After Dark (9 page)

“I am alone with you,” he says. “And at the same time, neither of us will ever be alone again.”

I blink away the tears. “It's perfect,” I say. “You could have searched forever and still not found a better place for us. It—it fills me up.” The words are inadequate, but when he squeezes my hand and says, “I know,” I think that perhaps he understands.

When we arrive at the bungalow, my thoughts are still on Damien's words and this place. I meant what I said about the location being perfect. Ever since his murder trial, things have been just a little crazy. And he's right, this is a well-deserved respite for both of us. Time to be alone together. A chance to stop the movement of the earth for just a little bit. I grin at the thought.

“What's that for?” he asks, brushing the corner of my mouth with his fingertip.

I lift a shoulder casually as he opens the bungalow door for me. “I was just thinking about how easily you control the universe. Stopping the earth's rotation is no mean feat.”

He chuckles. “Is that what I do?”

“Mmm-hmm.” I take his hands and pull him inside. “But right now, I don't want the earth to stop. Just the opposite. Make the earth move for me, Damien,” I say, pressing my body against his. I draw in a deep, self-satisfied breath as he shifts against me, his erection hard against my abdomen. “I want you to make me fall apart,” I whisper. “Please, Damien. I want you to make me scream.”

“As you wish,” he says, in the kind of low voice that makes me tingle in anticipation. “After all, Mrs. Stark, this is your wedding day.”

As it turns out, I don't scream. Instead, I squeal as he scoops me up and holds me tight against his chest, my arms hooked equally tight around his neck. I laugh and kick as he carries me toward the bedroom.

“I'm not going to make you scream, Mrs. Stark,” he whispers with mischief in his voice. “I'm going to make you beg.”

“Because you like it when I beg.” My voice is breathy as I repeat what he said to me on the beach.

His mouth curves into a grin, but he doesn't answer in words. Instead, I see the truth in his eyes.
Oh yes,
I think.
This is going to be fun.

I expect him to deposit me on the bed, and I'm prepared to cling to his shirt and pull him down on top of me if he even thinks about stepping away, even if only to undress. Instead, he surprises me, moving through the bedroom to a sliding wooden door. He shifts his grip on me just long enough to open it, revealing the most spectacular bathroom I've ever seen.

I'd seen enough of it last night to know that it is amazing, but it had been dark when we arrived, and I'd been more interested in the man I was eloping with than in architecture and plumbing, no matter how incredible.

This morning, I'd had no occasion to come through these doors. Damien had roused me before sunrise and handed me over to two local women who had hurried me into the living area, which had been converted into a makeshift dressing room. They'd washed my hair in a portable beauty shop–style chair, then did my makeup in the smaller, but still luxurious, bathroom off the kitchen.

I was primped and polished, then decked out in my wedding dress and hustled to the beach for a sunrise ceremony so quickly and efficiently that my memory of this morning before the vows began is a blur.

Then, as now, I'd wanted only Damien.

Now, however, my desire for the man is both underscored and enhanced by the scene in front of me. “Damien.” The word comes out as an awed whisper. The room is romantic. Magical.

As perfect as the man himself.

I tilt my head up to find him smiling down at me, and in that moment my heart is so full that I have to cling to him more tightly for fear that it will burst.

This is like no room I've ever seen before, and I am a bit in awe. Last night, in the dark, I hadn't really thought about the floor, and if I had I would have assumed it was solid. Instead, it is slate leading up to a rectangular wading pool that fills most of the bathroom, but extends beneath a sliding glass wall to dominate the back patio as well. Beyond its infinity-style end is the ocean, and from the perspective of someone standing inside the house, the rocky shore that slopes down from the bungalow is completely invisible.

In some ways, this space reminds me of Damien's house in Malibu.
Our
house, I think, mentally correcting myself. It's similar in appointment and elegance, and yet it's different, too. Exotic. It is the perfect place for a honeymoon, and I whisper as much to Damien even as I continue to gaze around in delighted awe.

A small stone bridge stretches across the pool to the giant, modern tub that sits in the middle like an island.

But it is not these architectural enhancements that have stolen my breath and teased my heart. Instead, it is what Damien has made of the room. Because it is awash in rose petals. They cover the floor and they peek out from the bubbles that fill the tub. Incredibly, they also float on the water of the infinity pool. Beside the tub, a tripod champagne bucket rises from the water. A bamboo tray rests across the tub. On it sit two champagne flutes.

The tub has no shower, but I can see that there is one outside. Right now, the room is open, with the glass wall pushed aside so that the breeze flutters in, cooling my heated skin.

Unlike the room, which is more stone flooring than pool, the patio is mostly pool with only a few stone islands. One supports a chaise lounge that is little more than an outdoor bed, and which has, for that reason, drawn my attention. The other stone island is near a freestanding wooden wall from which a showerhead protrudes, as well as some hooks on which hang loofahs, bottles of shampoo, and other spa-style bath items.

Because the patio is completely open, there is no privacy here other than that offered by the stretch of empty beach and the wide open sea. It is wild. It is free. It is civilization stripped bare, and everything about this room—from its appearance to its rose-petal scent to its promise of decadent pleasures—has captured me utterly.

As Damien said, we are completely alone, and the knowledge that he can take me here with the ocean breeze kissing my skin and the wide open sky witnessing our pleasure makes me so weak with longing that I am even more grateful that Damien is holding me, as I doubt I could stand otherwise.

He crosses the stone bridge, then puts me down gently near the edge. I start to move, but he shakes his head, then slowly reaches behind me to untie the two knots that hold my bikini top in place. It falls into the water, and though I raise a brow in surprise, Damien simply continues.

His fingers skim lightly over my breast, making me draw in air, then shiver as his caress continues down my side and over my waist, making my skin prickle with need and anticipation.

He unties the sarong and lets it fall, as well. It floats on the surface of the water, and I watch as it flows outside, the sunlight catching it and making the fibers sparkle.

“The rest,” Damien says, and I lick my lips as I comply, easing the bottoms down over my hips to pool around my ankles. I step out of the tangled fabric, then stand naked in front of my husband.

He smiles, soft and easy and full of promise, then pulls me to him. With practiced ease, he lifts me up and then gently places me into the tub. The temperature is perfect, and I sigh in ecstasy, letting the slightly oiled water sluice over my skin. I scoot back to lean against the smooth side of the tub and make room for Damien to join me.

Except, of course, he doesn't.

“Damien,” I protest.

“Hush. Let me take care of you.” He takes the champagne and opens it, very deliberately letting the cork fly out of the room, and sending foaming bubbles splashing down upon me.

I laugh. “Isn't that the uncouth way to open champagne?”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But it's much more fun.” He fills the two flutes, then hands one to me before picking up the second. His eyes skim over me, but the humor I'd seen only moments before is gone, replaced by something both soft and deep.

“Damien?”

His eyes meet mine, then, and I see the heat—and the love. He raises a glass in a toast. “You are my heart,” he says, his gaze never leaving mine. “You are my blood. You are the air that I breathe and the strength inside me. You are not just my wife, Nikki, you are my soul. You are my world. You are my life.”

I draw a shaky breath, nodding foolishly as if that will keep the tears at bay. “And you are mine,” I say, then extend my flute to clink with his. “I love you,” I add, wishing that I had his eloquence, but knowing that he understands what is in my heart even if I can't quite find the words.

“I know,” he says as he moves to kiss the top of my head.

“Will you join me now?” I ask. I want his touch. I want him wrapped around me, lost with me in this warm and wet embrace.

Instead of answering, he sets down his champagne flute and picks up a glass container and pours some scented oil onto his hands. Then he moves behind me as I make a low noise of protest. But not as adamantly as I could have—while I do want him in the tub with me, I certainly can't deny the appeal of being bathed by Damien.

“Lean back,” he says. “Close your eyes.”

I comply, then sigh in utter delight as he gently rubs my shoulders. His fingers are strong and hot, and I lose myself in the pleasure of his touch and the rich scent of vanilla. He is tending me, seducing me, and right then I am more than willing to be seduced.

“Are you familiar with how honeymoons got started?” he asks, lifting my arm out of the tub and focusing on my hand.

I shake my head, too aroused by both the gentle pressure he is now exerting along each finger and by the not-so-gentle direction of my thoughts to form words.

“Years ago—back in tribal times—a man would take the woman he claimed for his wife to a secluded spot, where he would very thoroughly seduce her.”

As he speaks, he draws his oil-slick hands up my arms, then eases them down over my collarbone until his palms cup my breasts. I draw in a stuttering breath as my nipples tighten, wanting more.

Thankfully, Damien doesn't disappoint. He moves his hands in small circular motions so that his palms brush lightly over my erect nipples, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through me. I shimmy a bit in the tub, trying to quell the need that started out as a soft hum between my legs but is now a throbbing demand.

“She probably wanted to run,” Damien says, and I can't help the small sound of demur. Certainly
I
have no desire to run.

My eyes are closed, but I can still hear the chuckle in Damien's voice as he continues. “But he wants her, and in his determination, he keeps her for a month. One full cycle of the moon.”

“Honeymoon,” I murmur.

“It's a long time to be a captive,” he says. “Most likely she wanted to hate him.” He slides one slick hand from my breast down into the water. He continues south, teasing my abdomen until his fingers brush the line of trimmed hair at my pubic bone. “But he was determined to ensure that she would stay. And so he set out to satisfy her.”

His hand slips between my thighs to stroke me lightly. “She was probably scared,” he comments as I gasp, arching up toward his touch as the first electrical sensations of an orgasm dance through me in a glorious hint of more pleasure to come. “But he did his best to soothe her.”

“Yes,” I say, feeling deliciously soothed. My head is tilted back, my eyes still closed. My breathing is shallow now, my body primed.

The pad of Damien's finger traces small circles on my sex, teasing my clit in a way that makes me whimper, but which doesn't bring the satisfaction I now crave.

Frustrated, I shift my hips, seeking gratification as I silently beg for more. I am wild with need, shameless with desire.

“All of his focus was on erasing her fears. On making her warm and weak and wanting.”

I want. Oh, dear god, I want.

He eases a finger inside me, and I release a moan of both demand and pleasure as I arch up, then fall back into the tub. Water sloshes over the sides, undoubtedly soaking Damien, but I don't care. All I want is this moment. All I want is for him to take me there.

“His every thought was on her,” he says, thrusting another finger inside me even as his thumb teases my clit in the most subtle of motions. “His only goal was this woman.”

“Yes,” I whisper. I slide one hand down between my legs and press my palm over his hand, silently urging him to go deeper. Harder.

He does, thrusting those two fingers roughly inside me as the tip of another finger dances along my perineum. I gasp, writhing with pleasure, my body poised to explode. I'm close, so very close, and I slide my hand up to grasp my own nipple, tugging hard in an attempt to force myself over the edge even as Damien teases and torments me.

But this is Damien's show, and as he uses his free hand to cup my breast and still my fingers, I open my eyes to see my own wildness reflected back at me in Damien's expression.

“Please,” I say, but he simply shakes his head, his mouth curving into the kind of arrogant smile that I know only too well. The kind of smile that promises abundant pleasure and unimaginable delights—but all on Damien's terms. And Damien is a man who knows how to prolong a seduction.

“He would take her to the edge,” Damien says slowly. “Making her crave him. Making her want him. Pushing her to the very height of sensual pleasure, promising her the explosion. Taking her so far that she would surrender to him, give herself over to the promise of pure pleasure in the arms of this man.”

“Yes,” I say. “Oh, yes.”

He withdraws his fingers from my sex, and my muscles tighten in protest, my body wanting to draw him back in. He cups his hand there, the pressure making it hard for a cogent thought to form in my head.

“And only when he is sure does he claim her fully, take her completely.” He draws his hand away, and I have to bite my lip to stifle a moan of protest.

He reaches into the tub and scoops me up, one arm beneath my knees, the other around my back. I hook my arms around his neck and snuggle against him, wanting to be as close to this man as humanly possible.

“He plies her with softness and seduction,” Damien says, and I murmur a protest against his throat. “What?” he asks.

I tilt my head back and look at him through heavy lids. “I'm not complaining,” I say, “but I'm not so sure that men in history saw it entirely your way.”

His lips twitch. “No?”

“I think they just took what they wanted, and the woman be damned.” I lift an eyebrow, teasing, and he dips his head to kiss my forehead.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Or perhaps I'm not finished telling you my story. It's one thing for him to make her crave him. It's another thing entirely for him to finally claim her. For her to truly understand that she is his.”

“Oh,” I say, as a sensual tremor cuts through me.

“The height of pleasure,” he says slowly, the words so heavy with meaning they make me weak. And, yes, they make me wetter. “The precipice of passion. He would take her there, again and again, until she was desperate with longing, all resistance lost, all hesitation erased. She would know only him. Want only him. And she would beg for the relief and explosion that only he could bring her.”

We're on the patio now, and he carries me to the shower, then puts me down. He turns on the tap, and pleasantly warm water begins to fall from the rain-style showerhead. I tilt my head up, enjoying the way it washes over me, then look down to watch as the last remnants of the bubbles that clung to me from the tub are washed away down the drain.