Anchor Me
Page 45
“Time’s passed, and things have changed. She’s changed.”
“But what if she hasn’t? Damien, we’re going to have a baby.”
He looks as though I’ve slapped him. “She would never hurt—”
“You don’t know that.” My voice has risen in pitch.
He draws in a breath, looking shattered. “I would never risk you or the baby. Never. And if you tell me to send her away, I will. But she’s not asking to be in our life, or our child’s. All she wants is to see you. To apologize and move on.”
There’s an earnestness in his voice that I rarely hear. A vulnerability that I’m certain only I have seen.
“I know I fucked up,” he continues. “I know I hurt you. And it’s a lot to ask for you to trust me, but—”
I lunge for him, pressing my lips to his for a kiss. Because I need that connection. And, yes, because I need him to stop talking.
His fingers twine in my hair as he deepens the kiss. It’s wild. Rough. Teeth clashing, tongues warring, and when I pull back, I’m breathing hard.
“Nikki,” he begins, but I press my finger to his lips and shake my head.
“I do trust you,” I whisper. “But you hurt me.”
“I know. Baby, I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so goddamned sorry.”
I nod furiously, blinking again because those damn tears are determined to make one more curtain call. “I trust you,” I repeat, forcing the words out past the thickness in my throat. “But I’m scared.”
“You don’t need to be.” He strokes my hair, his eyes never leaving mine. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
I don’t argue, but I’m not so sure. And I don’t know if I’m being stubborn or he’s being blind. Maybe it’s a little of both. But this is Damien, and in the end, I really do trust him.
“All right,” I say, then take his hand in mine. “If you want me to, I’ll see her.”
He says nothing, just slowly inclines his head. But that’s enough. I know that he understands how much seeing her will cost me. And he understands, too, that I’m agreeing only because of him. Because I love him.
I guess in the end, that’s reason enough.
“You look beautiful,” he says. “Absolutely elegant. I like the lipstick, too.”
It’s a deep red that is not my usual color, and now I smile slowly.
“Red lips and your blue eyes. You’re like living flame.”
“But I don’t burn,” I say, then laugh. “Well, maybe just a little.”
He trails his fingertips over my bare shoulder, then down along the plunging neckline so that he is tracing the curve of my breast, making my pulse kick up, and my entire body tremble with desire. “Damien,” I say, and I see the answering smile on his lips.
“Shhh.” His hand continues down, sliding over the soft, clinging material and making me bite my lip to hold back a moan. Then he moves lower still, until his fingers find the top of the slit that reveals my thigh. “Interesting.”
“Damien,” I murmur. I’m desperately wet, and I long for a more intimate touch. For his fingers to ease upward and thrust inside me.
“I love the feel of your skin,” he whispers as he strokes my thigh from slit to knee and then back up again, touching only what the dress reveals.
I whimper.
The corner of his mouth crinkles. “We’re almost to the theater.”
I shift on the seat, spreading my legs, my entire body thrumming. “I don’t care.”
He meets my eyes, his dual-colored ones looking back at me. I see the heat flare in his amber one, but it’s the passion reflected in the depths of the pure black one that has my core clenching in response.
Slowly, he moves closer, inching toward me on the seat and then leaning over so that he can cup the back of my head with one hand and brush soft kisses on my neck while his other hand eases higher beneath the dress.
The slit is completely unreasonable, so there’s not far to go, and I close my eyes, lost in the sensation of his mouth on my neck, my ear. And his fingers so delicately tracing the soft skin between my thigh and my pubis, coming close to where I want him, but never quite reaching, so that instead of quelling the wild desire inside me, he’s fueling it.
“Tell me what you want,” he orders, pulling back from my neck.
“I want you to touch me.”
“No,” he says, a sharp command in his voice. “Tell me what you want.”
I gasp as his finger traces along the top of my panties, crossing over my pubic bone and teasing me relentlessly. I feel the shift in the limo as we exit the freeway, and I bite my lower lip. We’re close. I should tell him I want him to stop. That there’s no time, and we can finish this later.
Instead, I say, “I want your fingers inside me. I want you to make me come.”
“I like that answer,” he says, his finger slipping over the tiny triangle of my thong to find the string that is really no coverage at all.
I suck in air as he tugs it aside, then strokes my slick skin as I writhe against his touch, spreading my legs even wider.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs as his thumb finds my clit and a wild electrical shock makes me gasp, a precursor of things to come. Then he slips his fingers inside me—two, three, I can’t tell—but the sensation of being filled is overwhelming. I crave more—I crave his cock, the pressure of his body over mine as he thrusts deep inside me—but there’s definitely no time for that, and I just grind shamelessly against his hand as his thumb continues to tease my clit.
“I see the line,” he says, referring to the line of limos that is part and parcel of these kinds of events. “Come for me,” he demands. “That’s it, baby,” he says as he increases the pressure on my clit, the surprise sending thousands of electrical charges to gather between my legs, building and building and then finally exploding with all the power of a star going supernova.
I shake, gasping and clinging to Damien’s shoulders as I try to claw my way back to reality. His mouth closes over mine, and I’m vaguely aware that he’s readjusting my thong and smoothing my dress.
“I love you,” he says as he pulls away.
I smile. “I know.”
With a wicked grin, he gently traces my thigh again, this time in the opposite direction. He stops at my bare ankle, swollen today from my pregnancy. “Something’s missing,” he says.
“But what if she hasn’t? Damien, we’re going to have a baby.”
He looks as though I’ve slapped him. “She would never hurt—”
“You don’t know that.” My voice has risen in pitch.
He draws in a breath, looking shattered. “I would never risk you or the baby. Never. And if you tell me to send her away, I will. But she’s not asking to be in our life, or our child’s. All she wants is to see you. To apologize and move on.”
There’s an earnestness in his voice that I rarely hear. A vulnerability that I’m certain only I have seen.
“I know I fucked up,” he continues. “I know I hurt you. And it’s a lot to ask for you to trust me, but—”
I lunge for him, pressing my lips to his for a kiss. Because I need that connection. And, yes, because I need him to stop talking.
His fingers twine in my hair as he deepens the kiss. It’s wild. Rough. Teeth clashing, tongues warring, and when I pull back, I’m breathing hard.
“Nikki,” he begins, but I press my finger to his lips and shake my head.
“I do trust you,” I whisper. “But you hurt me.”
“I know. Baby, I know. And I’m sorry. I’m so goddamned sorry.”
I nod furiously, blinking again because those damn tears are determined to make one more curtain call. “I trust you,” I repeat, forcing the words out past the thickness in my throat. “But I’m scared.”
“You don’t need to be.” He strokes my hair, his eyes never leaving mine. “There’s nothing to be scared of.”
I don’t argue, but I’m not so sure. And I don’t know if I’m being stubborn or he’s being blind. Maybe it’s a little of both. But this is Damien, and in the end, I really do trust him.
“All right,” I say, then take his hand in mine. “If you want me to, I’ll see her.”
He says nothing, just slowly inclines his head. But that’s enough. I know that he understands how much seeing her will cost me. And he understands, too, that I’m agreeing only because of him. Because I love him.
I guess in the end, that’s reason enough.
“You look beautiful,” he says. “Absolutely elegant. I like the lipstick, too.”
It’s a deep red that is not my usual color, and now I smile slowly.
“Red lips and your blue eyes. You’re like living flame.”
“But I don’t burn,” I say, then laugh. “Well, maybe just a little.”
He trails his fingertips over my bare shoulder, then down along the plunging neckline so that he is tracing the curve of my breast, making my pulse kick up, and my entire body tremble with desire. “Damien,” I say, and I see the answering smile on his lips.
“Shhh.” His hand continues down, sliding over the soft, clinging material and making me bite my lip to hold back a moan. Then he moves lower still, until his fingers find the top of the slit that reveals my thigh. “Interesting.”
“Damien,” I murmur. I’m desperately wet, and I long for a more intimate touch. For his fingers to ease upward and thrust inside me.
“I love the feel of your skin,” he whispers as he strokes my thigh from slit to knee and then back up again, touching only what the dress reveals.
I whimper.
The corner of his mouth crinkles. “We’re almost to the theater.”
I shift on the seat, spreading my legs, my entire body thrumming. “I don’t care.”
He meets my eyes, his dual-colored ones looking back at me. I see the heat flare in his amber one, but it’s the passion reflected in the depths of the pure black one that has my core clenching in response.
Slowly, he moves closer, inching toward me on the seat and then leaning over so that he can cup the back of my head with one hand and brush soft kisses on my neck while his other hand eases higher beneath the dress.
The slit is completely unreasonable, so there’s not far to go, and I close my eyes, lost in the sensation of his mouth on my neck, my ear. And his fingers so delicately tracing the soft skin between my thigh and my pubis, coming close to where I want him, but never quite reaching, so that instead of quelling the wild desire inside me, he’s fueling it.
“Tell me what you want,” he orders, pulling back from my neck.
“I want you to touch me.”
“No,” he says, a sharp command in his voice. “Tell me what you want.”
I gasp as his finger traces along the top of my panties, crossing over my pubic bone and teasing me relentlessly. I feel the shift in the limo as we exit the freeway, and I bite my lower lip. We’re close. I should tell him I want him to stop. That there’s no time, and we can finish this later.
Instead, I say, “I want your fingers inside me. I want you to make me come.”
“I like that answer,” he says, his finger slipping over the tiny triangle of my thong to find the string that is really no coverage at all.
I suck in air as he tugs it aside, then strokes my slick skin as I writhe against his touch, spreading my legs even wider.
“That’s it, baby,” he murmurs as his thumb finds my clit and a wild electrical shock makes me gasp, a precursor of things to come. Then he slips his fingers inside me—two, three, I can’t tell—but the sensation of being filled is overwhelming. I crave more—I crave his cock, the pressure of his body over mine as he thrusts deep inside me—but there’s definitely no time for that, and I just grind shamelessly against his hand as his thumb continues to tease my clit.
“I see the line,” he says, referring to the line of limos that is part and parcel of these kinds of events. “Come for me,” he demands. “That’s it, baby,” he says as he increases the pressure on my clit, the surprise sending thousands of electrical charges to gather between my legs, building and building and then finally exploding with all the power of a star going supernova.
I shake, gasping and clinging to Damien’s shoulders as I try to claw my way back to reality. His mouth closes over mine, and I’m vaguely aware that he’s readjusting my thong and smoothing my dress.
“I love you,” he says as he pulls away.
I smile. “I know.”
With a wicked grin, he gently traces my thigh again, this time in the opposite direction. He stops at my bare ankle, swollen today from my pregnancy. “Something’s missing,” he says.
