"What?" he asks. "What will happen when you get home?"
"You said you'd punish me," I say, so softly I'm not sure that he can hear me.
"Did I?" There is a note of triumph in his voice, and it makes me weak. "How should I punish you?"
I lick my lips. "You should probably spank me."
"I probably should," he agrees. "Would you like that?"
"Yes." My voice is nothing more than a whisper of air.
"Why?"
I close my eyes. It's a question that I expect whenever I ask for the pain, and I know that after my dreams he will be even more careful with me. I love that he understands me so well, but it means that I have to say aloud what I want from him, and that voicing of my desires is both awkward and undeniably exciting.
"Why, Nikki? I want to hear why you want the sting of my palm."
I lick my lips, forcing them to wrap around my words. "Because of the way it feels."
"Tell me."
"Tiny pinpricks of pleasure," I say, my soft words becoming bolder even as they sizzle through my body, sparking like currents of electricity that fire my senses. "They melt into heat, into liquid desire. It makes me wet, Damien, you make me wet." I pause, knowing that my words have captured him. "Pleasure and pain, Damien, and you're the only one I trust to give me both."
For a long moment he is silent. Almost too long. And then I hear his intake of breath, followed by his slow, clear words. "There is no one else who has the power to tear me apart the way you do, Nikki. No one else who can reach in and squeeze my heart. You are my world, Ms. Fairchild, and I love you desperately."
"I know," I whisper.
"But, baby," he adds, with a lightness now coloring his words, "that doesn't change the fact that you were naughty."
"Was I?" I am breathing hard now, anticipating what is to come.
"Have you seen the Internet?"
I frown. That wasn't a question I was expecting. "Um, no."
"Your party is all over Twitter," he says, and I cringe. That I should have expected. "I imagine it'll be on TMZ by morning. The gentleman who was, shall we say, in your face looked quite energetic."
"I think he probably works out," I say dryly.
"You realize this puts me in a bit of a predicament."
I'm trying very hard not to smile. "Does it?"
"I'm just not sure how to punish you now. Considering your . . . eagerness . . . I'm beginning to think that spanking isn't quite the punishment it ought to be."
"Damien!" I'm laughing--but I'm also a little worried. Damien is nothing if not creative.
He chuckles, and it's obvious the bastard is enjoying himself.
"Maybe I should just hang up?" he says.
"No."
"No, what?" he asks, and I hear the tightening in his voice. Whatever playfulness has been between us, it's fading under the slow burn of something else. Something hot. Something dangerous.
"No, sir," I say. My breath stutters in my chest, and I know that I am already wet. I've been wet since the moment I heard his voice. "Please, sir. Please don't hang up."
"I'll stay on the line, but only if you obey. Bend my rules, and I hang up."
"Yes, sir."
"Take your skirt off. And your panties."
I unbutton the skirt and shimmy out of it. I toss it onto the floor of the limo and drop my panties on top.
"Okay."
"Are you sitting back down?"
"Yes."
"Are you wet?"
"Yes."
"I'm going to punish you, Nikki, just like you want. I'm going to make you come. I'm going to make you explode."
I close my eyes and lean my head back, lost in the power of his words.
"But it won't be fast." He pauses, then, "Tell me how wet you are."
"Very."
"No, not like that. I want you to touch yourself. Just one finger. Imagine it's mine."
"I am."
"Now slide it down the juncture of your thigh," he orders. "Let me feel how silky your skin is. How soft. How tempting."
I do what he says, trembling as much from the gentle touch as from the fantasy that it's Damien's.
"Don't touch your clit," he says, and though I desperately want to, I obey. "Now tell me."
"Like I said, I'm very wet."
He chuckles. "I'm very glad to hear it. Tell me, what's in the goodie bag?"
"I don't know. Hang on."
I tug the bag over and peek inside. "A mask, a vibrator, some sort of oil, handcuffs, a video."
"Oil?"
"Yeah." I pull out the small bottle and read the label. "Arousal oil."
"Interesting. Open it."
"I--okay." I break the seal and unscrew the cap. Immediately, I can smell the spices. "It's a bit minty. There aren't instructions."
"Dab a little on your finger," he says. "Then stroke it onto your clit."
"Are you kidding?"
"Should I hang up?"
"Right. Okay. No problem." I'm not at all sure what this stuff is, but I figure if it's in a bag from Jamie, it must be fun. I put a drop on my finger and ease my finger over my clit. I'm so sensitive that even that tiny sensation makes me shiver.
"Well?" Damien asks.
I cock my head, expecting some sort of new sensation. "Nothing."
"Hmm. All right, then, we'll move on. Does the vibrator have batteries?"
I test it out, and find that it purrs nicely in my hand. "It does," I say, and immediately cringe. I sound far too eager, and I know from Damien's chuckle that he both heard and understood.
"And the mask," he says. "Go ahead and put that on."
"All right." I slip it over my eyes, and the world goes dark. "Okay, I--holy fuck." The oil that I thought did nothing is now doing considerably more than nothing. "That oil, it's . . . well, it's very wow."
"Tell me."
"It's like mint, I guess. Like if you sucked on one of those really strong mints and then went down on me. Oh, wow. It feels amazing, sensitive--oh, God, Damien, please."
"Please, what?"
"Everything. Anything." I squirm, wanting simply to relieve this growing pressure, this demanding sensation. "Please, sir, can I touch myself?"
"Oh, yeah. We're going to use the vibrator. Your fingers. I'm going to tell you how to touch yourself, baby. And you're going to let me hear you come."
I am awash with gratitude. I've been holding the phone, but now I put it on speaker and set it beside me, peeking out from under the blindfold just long enough to make sure I push the right buttons.
"Slide your hand up your thigh," he says, "then gently stroke your clit. Are you doing it?"
"Yes." I can barely speak.
"Can you turn on the vibrator?"
"I--I think so."
"Fuck yourself with it, baby. I want it inside you. I want you imagining it's me. Holding you, fucking you, burying myself deep in you."
Oh my God. I fumble, turned on, frantic, weak with longing. I switch to my right hand, and stroke my clit with my left. The oil is amazing, and . . . "I'm close," I say. "God, Damien, I'm so close."
"I know, baby. Come the rest of the way for me. Let me hear it."
"I--" But I can't talk anymore. I've done as he asked with the vibrator, and it fills me, the dual sensation of the vibration and my finger stroking my clit coupled with my fantasy of Damien, and his voice on the phone telling me to "Come for me, baby, come for me," is too overwhelming. I let my head fall back, and grind my hips, lost to everything now but the need for release that is close, so close, so very close, and then--
I explode, and as I do, I cry out Damien's name.
"That's it, baby," he says. "That's it. Keep touching yourself. Don't stop. Don't stop, baby, you can come again."
I've turned off the vibrator and tossed it onto the seat, but I do as he says and stroke myself. I'm so desperately wet. Wet and wide open and wishing that Damien were right here.
I still have the mask on, but I can hear the mechanical sou
nd of the privacy screen starting to descend.
What the fuck?
"Damien!"
"I hear it, too. It's just the privacy screen. Don't stop. Don't put your legs together. Stay like that, baby. Open and wide."
"Are you crazy? Edward."
"I believe we agreed that you needed to be punished."
"No." I pull my legs tight together and rip off the mask even as I slide sideways, out of the line of sight of the driver.
And when I do, I realize that it isn't Edward behind the wheel, it's Damien.
He turns to glance, and I take deep, gasping breaths as I try to reconcile fear and relief and anger.
"Bastard," I finally say, though that hardly covers it.
"Slide back to the middle."
"And if I don't?"
"Suit yourself." He starts to raise the privacy screen.
"Fine." I'm pissed, but I'm not stupid. And, yeah, I'm still turned on.
As he drops the screen, I slide back to center.
"Spread your legs," he says, and as I do, he adjusts his mirror. "Now, that really is a beautiful view." There is awe in his voice, and it makes me feel beautiful. Despite being exposed, despite the scars on my thighs. Damien makes me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world, and that is just one of the things that makes me love him.
"Wider," he says. I comply, and I hear Damien's sharp intake of breath. He may be playing with me, but there's no denying that he's turned on, too.
"Are you excited, Ms. Fairchild?"
"Yes," I admit. "Except for that one moment of terror, yes."
"You should know me better. And you should listen better."
"Listen?" And then it hits me. "The bag. How would you know about the goodie bag if you weren't in the car?"
"Exactly. I gave you that clue. It's not my fault if you were too distracted to pay attention."
I manage a smirk. "Actually, I think it was your fault."
He chuckles again. "Maybe so."
I start to bring my legs together.
"Oh, no, Ms. Fairchild. That's how you sit for the rest of the ride. It's your punishment--and my reward," he adds, tapping the rearview mirror.
"In that case," I say, and strip off my sweater, shirt, and bra.
"Jesus, Nikki," Damien says, as I sit naked on the backseat, feeling suddenly very smug.
"I thought you needed to be well rewarded. After all, you earned it. I mean, you've been sitting in an empty limo all afternoon while I was inside drinking and watching hot guys."
"Best not to remind me of your infractions," he warns. "And the truth is, I wasn't just sitting in the limo."
"Oh?" I lick the tip of my finger and slowly circle my nipple. I'm pretty sure I hear a low growl come from the driver's seat. "What were you doing?"
"You were with the girls," he says, his voice unnaturally tight. "I was with the guys."
"Were you?" I let my finger trace down, down, down. Slowly, I stroke my sex, thrusting my finger deep inside, then withdrawing it to tease my clit.
I started this little show to torment Damien, but I'm also tormenting myself. "So, um, who were you with?" Honestly, it's getting hard to think.
"Alaine, Charles, Preston. Jesus, Nikki, do you have any idea how hard I am?"
I allow myself the pleasure of a satisfied smile. "Anyone else?"
"Ryan, Evan, Blaine. A few others."
"Mmm." I force myself not to drift, not to let myself come. I want him hard and hot. I want to turn the punishment around on him.
I want to keep control.
"So, um, tell me about Evan. Jamie was certainly checking him out."
"Tell her to stay away," Damien says sharply, and my hand pauses.
"Why?"
"Actually, I take it back. Don't tell her anything. Knowing Jamie, telling her to stay away would just make her more determined."
"All right," I agree. "But why? What's wrong with him?"
"Not a damn thing. I like him, a lot. But he has an edge."
"An edge? What kind of edge?"
"The dangerous kind."
"Oh." I want to ask more; however, I know better than to try to get information out of Damien that he doesn't want to give. "To be honest, I think Jamie's appreciation is more aesthetic than active. I'm pretty sure she's got her eye on another guy."
"Who?" Damien asks.
I shrug. I don't answer, but I'm thinking of Ryan.
For a moment I think Damien will press the point, but all he says is, "We're here."
I glance out the window and see that we've entered a drive-in movie lot. I laugh out loud. "Where are we?" I ask, tugging my skirt and shirt back on. I don't bother with the bra or underwear. At the moment, they seem superfluous.
"The Vineland Drive-In. City of Industry."
"Don't you have to pay?"
"I called ahead and made arrangements."
"You planned this all along," I say, which is pretty much stating the obvious. "Why?"
He opens his door, gets out, then joins me in the back.
"Why?" I repeat.
"So we could make out in a car at the drive-in," he says simply.
I laugh, because as corny as it sounds, the idea is also exciting. "Interesting. I think I'd like that."
"Would you?" He reaches over and begins to unbutton the shirt that I just put back on. I lean toward the console so that I can raise the privacy screen.
"No," he says as he peels the shirt off.
"Damien!"
His fingers unbutton my skirt, then tug down the zipper. "Do you really think that someone is going to lean on the hood, press their face to the glass, and peer all the way back here?"
"They might," I say, though I agree it's doubtful.
"They won't. But doesn't the possibility make you wet?" He slides his hand up my skirt. "Yeah," he says. "I think it does."
I lick my lips, refusing to admit the excitement that's building inside me. "I was already wet," I say.
"Mmm-hmm."
I feel my cheeks heat. "I thought you didn't do public sex."
"I don't. And I'm not going to. We're in a limo. No one's looking in. But I like the fantasy," he admits. He leans forward and kisses me, even as he slides two fingers deep inside me. "And so do you."
"I do," I admit, both because it's true and because I don't want to have secrets from Damien. "You are my fantasy, Damien. You know that, right?"
"And you are mine," he says, after kissing me softly. "We're lucky, you and I. There were so many places where our lives made wrong turns. And yet all those turns, all those horrors, all those days that we want to forget--they all add up to this moment. To you in my arms." He strokes my hair, his expression tender. "I have no regrets for the past, Nikki. And when I'm with you, the only thing I can see is the future."
"Damien," I say, the word soft like a prayer.
"Yes?"
"Kiss me."
"Whatever you want, sweetheart," he says before his mouth closes over mine and I slide down into the bliss of his arms.
Chapter Seven
I sit in the silence of the Malibu house, sipping a sparkling water as I work at a small desk in the library. The library is my favorite room in this house, and it's not really a room at all. Instead, it's a level--a mezzanine--broken into a variety of sections. The comfy chairs and coffee tables are by the wall of windows overlooking the ocean. The bookshelves line the area that is visible from the massive staircase leading up from the entrance hall. The work areas are farther back, hidden from view, and it is in one of those quiet corners that I now sit.
It is late--barely three in the morning--and Damien is asleep in our bed.
I couldn't sleep, and though I stayed in bed for hours, warm in Damien's arms as I drifted in and out of a hazy dream state, I never managed to fall into slumber. I'm not sure if it was nerves or too much bourbon or the persistent thoughts of my mother, but in the end I gave up and came down here. Now I am sitting in the light of my laptop monitor putting the f
inishing touches on the gift I intend to give Damien on our wedding day--a scrapbook of our time together.
I've been working on it for months, even before we were engaged, and have managed to gather and edit photos ranging all the way from our very first meeting at a Dallas pageant to the present. I had originally intended it to be entirely electronic, but once he proposed and I realized that this was the perfect wedding-night gift for the man who owns everything, I decided that it needed to be tangible. I bought a leather-bound scrapbook with thick, archival paper, and have been carefully pasting in the images and writing captions and notes to him with my very best effort at penmanship.
Right now I am searching the computer for a picture of the Vineland Drive-In, because that is a memory I want him to keep, though I don't think either one of us had any idea what movie was playing. Instead, we made out like teenagers in the backseat, kissing and exploring, touching and groping. And when Damien finally thrust hard inside me--when I came in sudden release and exultation--I am certain that my cry was at least as loud as the movie soundtrack.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I know without turning around that Damien is here. His walk, his scent, his presence--I don't know what it is, but there is something in him that calls so profoundly to me that I am never unaware of him. If he is in the same room, my body knows--and wants.
I gently close the scrapbook, then tuck it into a drawer before turning to him.
"I don't like waking up without you," he says.
I smile. "Now you know how I feel." Usually it is me who wakes up to find the other side of the bed cold and empty.
"What are you doing?"
"Just working on something." I lift a shoulder. "I couldn't sleep."
"Oh, really?" He lifts a brow and eyes the desk.
"Don't even think about it, mister. You'll see it on Saturday."
"Saturday," he murmurs, the hint of a smile playing around his mouth. "Seems like there's something I'm supposed to be doing on Saturday."
I laugh, and fly out of the chair to smack him playfully on the chest. He pulls me into his arms and kisses me, gently at first and then with increasing fervency. "I reached for you," he says. "You weren't there."
The words are matter-of-fact, but to me they seem thick with meaning. I lean back so that I can see his face more clearly. "What's wrong?"
"I could ask you the same thing," he says, deflecting my words but not my worry. There is something on Damien's mind. He tucks my hair behind my ear. "Tell me what's keeping you awake."