Complete Me
Page 25
I close my eyes and say a silent prayer that he’s not leaving me here. Unfortunately for me, I know damn well that I can’t discount the possibility. “Damien?”
There is no answer.
“Mr. Stark? Sir?”
Again, the room remains silent. And I, alone and essentially naked, can’t help but wonder just how long he’ll be gone. For that matter, I can’t help but wonder what he’ll do when he returns. This may be my punishment, but I know that the reward, when it finally comes, will be astounding.
“And here I thought you had more patience.” I hear his voice, but there is no Damien.
“And here I thought you were going to fuck me. At the very least, you were going to spank me.”
Then he steps in from the bedroom, his stride long and easy, his back straight, his expression that of a man who knows damn well that the earth will rotate whichever way he tells it to. All that power, and right now it is focused entirely on me. “Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?”
“Maybe I’m feeling a little cheated,” I say.
“I promise you won’t by the time I’m through with you,” he says with such heat in his voice that it’s a wonder I don’t melt right there, and slip out of my bond like butter. “I didn’t get to take you as far as I would have liked during our limo ride. I intend to remedy that now. Slowly, and very, very thoroughly.”
He has something in his hand, and it takes me a minute to realize it’s one of his ties. “Your eyes are open,” he says.
“Ah.” I can hardly argue, as I’m looking right at him.
“Close them,” he says, and I do. I feel the brush of silk over my eyes, then the tug as he tightens the tie around the back of my head. His lips brush the corner of my mouth. “Nice,” he says. His lips brush my ear. “Now everything you hear, everything you feel, every bit of pleasure, every hint of pain will come from me. So tell me, Nikki. Does that excite you?”
“You know it does.”
His lips graze my neck, and his one simple word seems to reverberate through me. “Why?”
I swallow. It’s not a question I expected. “Because—because you know me. Because you know what I can take. You know what I want. You know my limits, Damien. And because you push them.”
“Good girl.”
He reaches up and traces his finger lightly along my collarbone, then over the strand of pearls. A moment later, he has removed the necklace, and I hear the clink of pearls against pearls as he crunches the strand in his palm, then cups his hand over my breast.
I tilt my head back and suck in air as he rubs small circles over my nipple, massaging me with the hard, slick surface of the cluster of pearls. Then he opens his hand more and I feel the brush of the necklace as he untangles it, then rubs the strand enticingly against the swell of my breast, my puckered areola, and my oh-so-sensitive nipple.
“Damien,” I murmur as he trails the tip of the strand down my belly, careful to let only the smooth surface of one stone touch my skin. The sensation is intoxicating. The cool brush of the gem. The sweet anticipation of not knowing where the next touch will fall.
I jump a little when the necklace grazes my pubis, then bite down on my lower lip, willing myself to stand still.
“Should I crush these as Cleopatra did?” he whispers.
“I don’t need an aphrodisiac,” I retort, my voice breathy.
“No, I don’t think you do. I can see the flush on your skin, I can breathe in the scent of your arousal. When I touch you, I know I will find you desperately wet for me. Won’t I, Nikki?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
“Good.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Now spread your legs for me.”
I do, then moan when he draws the strand of pearls between my legs, back and forth, the strand becoming slick with my own arousal. Each perfect gem glides over my clit, and the sensation is maddening, right where I want it, and yet at the same time not quite there. Not quite enough. I squirm, shameless, wanting more. Hell, wanting it all.
“Shhh,” Damien says. He is right in front of me, and he pulls the strand free, making me whimper in protest. Then I feel his fingers on me, stroking and opening me.
“Yes,” I say. I need to feel him inside me. I need to come, to explode, to release this maddening pressure.
I hear the crunch of the pearls in his hand again, then he rolls the cluster enticingly over my desperate sex. I am being bombarded with sensations, buried in heat. I am on edge, desperately aroused, and on the verge of simply crying out and begging.
What I’m not expecting is for him to stretch me wide and slide the pearls inside me.
“Damien! What the—”
He silences me with a kiss. “Quiet,” he says. “And stay still.”
And then he’s gone and I’m left naked and exposed and unsatisfied, my sex heavy from the knot of pearls tucked inside me, my body desperate for his touch, and my mind spinning with possibilities.
“Damien?”
At first I don’t hear him. Then I detect the slightest rattle from behind me. I strain against the bond that keeps my hands tight above me. I want to take off this blindfold. I want to see.
I want Damien.
It’s no use, though, and all my struggles do is shift the pearls even more. Little shock waves burst through me, but not enough to bring on the explosion that I so desperately crave. Damien—damn him—has brought me to the edge and left me there.
And this, I think, is part of the punishment he promised.
The pillar with which my ass is now on such familiar terms is the line of demarcation between the living area and the suite’s kitchen. We’ve eaten out or ordered room service most nights, so we haven’t had to rely on the kitchen for anything other than the storage of wine and ice cream, the latter being a late-night splurge about a week ago. I checked it out my first night in Germany, though, and was impressed to find it fully stocked.
I hear him moving about, but I can’t tell what he’s doing. There is the thud of a drawer. The clatter of cutlery. And then there is the even rhythm of Damien’s steps as he moves toward me. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?” he asks. “Your skin flush. Your nipples hard. Your lips parted as if waiting for my kiss.”
“I am waiting,” I say, and am rewarded by the briefest touch of his lips upon mine. Brief, yes, but oh so powerful. Much like the butterfly effect in chaos theory, that minuscule sensation has set off a chain reaction, sending sparks humming and dancing throughout my body. It’s deliciously sweet, but it isn’t enough.
“Turn around,” he says.
“Um . . . ?” I tug on my hands, still bound to the pillar above me.
“Cross your wrists and turn,” he says, and though I’m dubious, I manage. Now I am facing the pillar, though with the blindfold I can see nothing, and my back is to Damien. “Good girl. Now slide down a bit. That’s it,” he adds as I try to ease my hands down. I have to scoot back to manage, and I end up with my torso almost parallel to the floor. The position shifts the pearls, and I draw in a shuddering breath.
He runs his palm over the curve of my rear, and I bite my lower lip in anticipation of a firmer touch. “Beautiful,” he whispers, then slides his fingers down. I’m so wet and so ready, and his low moan of satisfaction sends another shiver through me. I swallow, expecting him to thrust his fingers inside me, but then he withdraws his hand, and I find myself whimpering—and hear Damien chuckling.
There is no answer.
“Mr. Stark? Sir?”
Again, the room remains silent. And I, alone and essentially naked, can’t help but wonder just how long he’ll be gone. For that matter, I can’t help but wonder what he’ll do when he returns. This may be my punishment, but I know that the reward, when it finally comes, will be astounding.
“And here I thought you had more patience.” I hear his voice, but there is no Damien.
“And here I thought you were going to fuck me. At the very least, you were going to spank me.”
Then he steps in from the bedroom, his stride long and easy, his back straight, his expression that of a man who knows damn well that the earth will rotate whichever way he tells it to. All that power, and right now it is focused entirely on me. “Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?”
“Maybe I’m feeling a little cheated,” I say.
“I promise you won’t by the time I’m through with you,” he says with such heat in his voice that it’s a wonder I don’t melt right there, and slip out of my bond like butter. “I didn’t get to take you as far as I would have liked during our limo ride. I intend to remedy that now. Slowly, and very, very thoroughly.”
He has something in his hand, and it takes me a minute to realize it’s one of his ties. “Your eyes are open,” he says.
“Ah.” I can hardly argue, as I’m looking right at him.
“Close them,” he says, and I do. I feel the brush of silk over my eyes, then the tug as he tightens the tie around the back of my head. His lips brush the corner of my mouth. “Nice,” he says. His lips brush my ear. “Now everything you hear, everything you feel, every bit of pleasure, every hint of pain will come from me. So tell me, Nikki. Does that excite you?”
“You know it does.”
His lips graze my neck, and his one simple word seems to reverberate through me. “Why?”
I swallow. It’s not a question I expected. “Because—because you know me. Because you know what I can take. You know what I want. You know my limits, Damien. And because you push them.”
“Good girl.”
He reaches up and traces his finger lightly along my collarbone, then over the strand of pearls. A moment later, he has removed the necklace, and I hear the clink of pearls against pearls as he crunches the strand in his palm, then cups his hand over my breast.
I tilt my head back and suck in air as he rubs small circles over my nipple, massaging me with the hard, slick surface of the cluster of pearls. Then he opens his hand more and I feel the brush of the necklace as he untangles it, then rubs the strand enticingly against the swell of my breast, my puckered areola, and my oh-so-sensitive nipple.
“Damien,” I murmur as he trails the tip of the strand down my belly, careful to let only the smooth surface of one stone touch my skin. The sensation is intoxicating. The cool brush of the gem. The sweet anticipation of not knowing where the next touch will fall.
I jump a little when the necklace grazes my pubis, then bite down on my lower lip, willing myself to stand still.
“Should I crush these as Cleopatra did?” he whispers.
“I don’t need an aphrodisiac,” I retort, my voice breathy.
“No, I don’t think you do. I can see the flush on your skin, I can breathe in the scent of your arousal. When I touch you, I know I will find you desperately wet for me. Won’t I, Nikki?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
“Good.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Now spread your legs for me.”
I do, then moan when he draws the strand of pearls between my legs, back and forth, the strand becoming slick with my own arousal. Each perfect gem glides over my clit, and the sensation is maddening, right where I want it, and yet at the same time not quite there. Not quite enough. I squirm, shameless, wanting more. Hell, wanting it all.
“Shhh,” Damien says. He is right in front of me, and he pulls the strand free, making me whimper in protest. Then I feel his fingers on me, stroking and opening me.
“Yes,” I say. I need to feel him inside me. I need to come, to explode, to release this maddening pressure.
I hear the crunch of the pearls in his hand again, then he rolls the cluster enticingly over my desperate sex. I am being bombarded with sensations, buried in heat. I am on edge, desperately aroused, and on the verge of simply crying out and begging.
What I’m not expecting is for him to stretch me wide and slide the pearls inside me.
“Damien! What the—”
He silences me with a kiss. “Quiet,” he says. “And stay still.”
And then he’s gone and I’m left naked and exposed and unsatisfied, my sex heavy from the knot of pearls tucked inside me, my body desperate for his touch, and my mind spinning with possibilities.
“Damien?”
At first I don’t hear him. Then I detect the slightest rattle from behind me. I strain against the bond that keeps my hands tight above me. I want to take off this blindfold. I want to see.
I want Damien.
It’s no use, though, and all my struggles do is shift the pearls even more. Little shock waves burst through me, but not enough to bring on the explosion that I so desperately crave. Damien—damn him—has brought me to the edge and left me there.
And this, I think, is part of the punishment he promised.
The pillar with which my ass is now on such familiar terms is the line of demarcation between the living area and the suite’s kitchen. We’ve eaten out or ordered room service most nights, so we haven’t had to rely on the kitchen for anything other than the storage of wine and ice cream, the latter being a late-night splurge about a week ago. I checked it out my first night in Germany, though, and was impressed to find it fully stocked.
I hear him moving about, but I can’t tell what he’s doing. There is the thud of a drawer. The clatter of cutlery. And then there is the even rhythm of Damien’s steps as he moves toward me. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?” he asks. “Your skin flush. Your nipples hard. Your lips parted as if waiting for my kiss.”
“I am waiting,” I say, and am rewarded by the briefest touch of his lips upon mine. Brief, yes, but oh so powerful. Much like the butterfly effect in chaos theory, that minuscule sensation has set off a chain reaction, sending sparks humming and dancing throughout my body. It’s deliciously sweet, but it isn’t enough.
“Turn around,” he says.
“Um . . . ?” I tug on my hands, still bound to the pillar above me.
“Cross your wrists and turn,” he says, and though I’m dubious, I manage. Now I am facing the pillar, though with the blindfold I can see nothing, and my back is to Damien. “Good girl. Now slide down a bit. That’s it,” he adds as I try to ease my hands down. I have to scoot back to manage, and I end up with my torso almost parallel to the floor. The position shifts the pearls, and I draw in a shuddering breath.
He runs his palm over the curve of my rear, and I bite my lower lip in anticipation of a firmer touch. “Beautiful,” he whispers, then slides his fingers down. I’m so wet and so ready, and his low moan of satisfaction sends another shiver through me. I swallow, expecting him to thrust his fingers inside me, but then he withdraws his hand, and I find myself whimpering—and hear Damien chuckling.
