Complete Me
Page 52
Somehow, though, Damien always knew that it was there. More, he trusted that I would find it, too.
He has always seen so much. Not just the beauty queen. Not just the scars. He’s seen all of me, and no matter whether I’m in panties and high heels or the most couture of evening gowns, I am always standing naked before him.
Once upon a time, I would have found that thought terrifying. Now, I take comfort in it.
But this is not a moment for deep reflection, nor do I want to think about scars or strength or the battles that we have fought. All I want is Damien. And I want him right now.
Boldly, I take a step toward him.
“No,” he says. “Stop.”
“Stop?”
He arches a brow.
I cock my head a bit to indicate I understand, then raise a brow. “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl. Now spread your legs, just a little. That’s right,” he says when I comply. “Stay like that.”
I am about two feet from him, and breathing hard. He is sitting in the chair, which puts him about eye level with the red swath of material that barely covers my sex.
Slowly, he lifts his eyes. “There’s something I want,” he says.
Shock waves cut through my body, because I want it, too. I want Damien inside me. I want his cock in my mouth, in my cunt. I want him to whisper to me, to make love with words in that extraordinary way that he has. I want him to fuck me so hard and so deep that I cry out from that singularly exquisite pleasure that is wrapped up in pain.
Most of all, I want him to touch me.
I start to take a step toward him, but he stops me with a single shake of his head. It is a miracle that I don’t weep with frustration.
“Not that,” he says.
I swallow, suddenly uncertain. “Then what?”
“I want to watch.”
“Damien . . . ” I have touched myself for him before, but not like this. Not like a show. I swallow, a little bit embarrassed, but undeniably excited, too.
“Close your eyes,” he orders.
“Why?”
“Because I said to.”
I close my eyes.
“Good girl. Now take off your top. Do it slowly. Take the hem, and hold it as you trail your fingers up. That’s it, just like that.”
I do as he says, trying to breathe steadily as I slowly peel the silk blouse off. It’s not easy, and I feel my stomach twitch with my breath, with the intimate touch of my own fingers.
“Imagine it’s me,” he says. “My hands easing your shirt off. My hands cupping your breasts, pulling the cup of your bra down so that you spill out over the top. That’s it,” he says, as I follow his lead and adjust the cups to expose my breasts and nipples. “Do you feel my touch? The way I’m tugging your nipples? The way I’m stroking my fingertip over your areolae?”
My breasts are full and heavy, my nipples puckered with desire. I pull gently on my nipples and the corresponding tug in my sex makes me gasp.
“Damien—”
“I know, baby. You can feel it, can’t you. The way your sex throbs. How hard your clit is.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve done this before, remember? Our first night. You in the back of my limo, and I was miles away on my phone and so hard I thought I’d explode.”
I nod. It’s one of my most vivid memories. I was drunk and heady with lust, but I was alone and I could fool myself into believing that the extent of my arousal was my own secret.
Now, there is no hiding how turned on I am. And even though this is Damien, who has seen me at my most wanton, my most needy, it has always been for him that I have opened myself. Now, it is my own touch that I am craving. My touch, and his words. I feel naughty. Reckless. And, so help me, I want him to take me all the way. I want to finger myself until I come in front of him—and when I do, I want to open my eyes and see my own passion reflected right there on his face.
“I didn’t have the pleasure of watching then. I intend to enjoy it now.”
“Yes. Yes.” It’s the only word I can manage. It’s the only word that fills my head.
“Slide your right hand down. Take your time, baby. You have such soft skin, I want you to feel it. To touch it.”
Once again, I comply. I keep my left hand on my breast, almost like an anchor, then spread my right so that my palm grazes my belly, my pelvis, and then my fingers dip under the band of my thong. I bite my lower lip as my hand slides over, then moan as my fingertip brushes my clit before easing farther down to soft, slippery flesh.
“Open your eyes,” Damien orders. “Look at me and touch yourself.”
“I—” But my words die on my lips when I open my eyes and see his face—the bold heat in his eyes, the flush of his skin. His hands are on the armrests of the chair, and he is gripping it so tightly I can see the whites of his knuckles. And his cock is so hard beneath his tailored trousers that I am afraid it will split a seam.
“Fuck me,” I whisper. “We both know you want to.”
“More than anything,” he says as our eyes meet and lock. Sparks burst through me merely from the connection of our gazes, and the heat grows in anticipation of his touch. “But no,” he says, making me want to weep. “This is about you. I want you to feel it, too.”
“Feel what?”
“The pleasure I take from your body,” he says simply. “I want to watch. I want to lose myself in the vision of you.” As if in illustration of his words, his eyes drag slowly over me. “Don’t stop, baby. Slide your fingers inside. Tease your clit. Let me see it. Let me watch the way your skin moves when you’re about to come. Each tiny gasp, each shudder. The way you drag your teeth over your lower lip. The flush that colors your skin before orgasm, and the just-fucked look in your eyes after you come.”
I am so hot, so wet, and I do as he says, fingerfucking myself hard and then lightly teasing my clit. I am dizzy with lust, and I reach out with my other hand, taking it off my breast so that I can clutch the side of my desk to steady myself.
“Oh, God, Nikki. Do you know how much watching you turns me on? How hot you make me? I have only begun to memorize the bits and pieces that make up you. You are my obsession.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Oh, yes.”
The sharp shrill of my phone fills the room, and I jump. “Don’t stop,” he orders. “Just ignore it.”
I do, too lost in this sensual haze to care about something as foolish as a phone. I grind my hips in time with the rings, then keep going even after it stops. I hear the ping that indicates a voice mail, followed by the buzz of a text message.
I manage to stifle the urge to throw my phone out the window.
“Don’t even think about it, baby. Just this. Just us. You’re so close, Nikki. God, I can see it on your face, in the way your lips are parted. Imagine it’s my mouth on your cunt, my tongue stroking you, tasting you. Baby, you taste so good.”
I whimper, so close, but not quite there, and my hips grind against my own hand. Soon, soon, so very soo—
“Ms. Fairchild?”
The receptionist’s voice bursts through the speaker, and I jump, feeling guilty and exposed, even as Damien bites out a curse.
“Ignore it,” he growls, but the voice continues, unable to hear our side of the conversation.
He has always seen so much. Not just the beauty queen. Not just the scars. He’s seen all of me, and no matter whether I’m in panties and high heels or the most couture of evening gowns, I am always standing naked before him.
Once upon a time, I would have found that thought terrifying. Now, I take comfort in it.
But this is not a moment for deep reflection, nor do I want to think about scars or strength or the battles that we have fought. All I want is Damien. And I want him right now.
Boldly, I take a step toward him.
“No,” he says. “Stop.”
“Stop?”
He arches a brow.
I cock my head a bit to indicate I understand, then raise a brow. “Yes, sir.”
“Good girl. Now spread your legs, just a little. That’s right,” he says when I comply. “Stay like that.”
I am about two feet from him, and breathing hard. He is sitting in the chair, which puts him about eye level with the red swath of material that barely covers my sex.
Slowly, he lifts his eyes. “There’s something I want,” he says.
Shock waves cut through my body, because I want it, too. I want Damien inside me. I want his cock in my mouth, in my cunt. I want him to whisper to me, to make love with words in that extraordinary way that he has. I want him to fuck me so hard and so deep that I cry out from that singularly exquisite pleasure that is wrapped up in pain.
Most of all, I want him to touch me.
I start to take a step toward him, but he stops me with a single shake of his head. It is a miracle that I don’t weep with frustration.
“Not that,” he says.
I swallow, suddenly uncertain. “Then what?”
“I want to watch.”
“Damien . . . ” I have touched myself for him before, but not like this. Not like a show. I swallow, a little bit embarrassed, but undeniably excited, too.
“Close your eyes,” he orders.
“Why?”
“Because I said to.”
I close my eyes.
“Good girl. Now take off your top. Do it slowly. Take the hem, and hold it as you trail your fingers up. That’s it, just like that.”
I do as he says, trying to breathe steadily as I slowly peel the silk blouse off. It’s not easy, and I feel my stomach twitch with my breath, with the intimate touch of my own fingers.
“Imagine it’s me,” he says. “My hands easing your shirt off. My hands cupping your breasts, pulling the cup of your bra down so that you spill out over the top. That’s it,” he says, as I follow his lead and adjust the cups to expose my breasts and nipples. “Do you feel my touch? The way I’m tugging your nipples? The way I’m stroking my fingertip over your areolae?”
My breasts are full and heavy, my nipples puckered with desire. I pull gently on my nipples and the corresponding tug in my sex makes me gasp.
“Damien—”
“I know, baby. You can feel it, can’t you. The way your sex throbs. How hard your clit is.”
“Yes.”
“We’ve done this before, remember? Our first night. You in the back of my limo, and I was miles away on my phone and so hard I thought I’d explode.”
I nod. It’s one of my most vivid memories. I was drunk and heady with lust, but I was alone and I could fool myself into believing that the extent of my arousal was my own secret.
Now, there is no hiding how turned on I am. And even though this is Damien, who has seen me at my most wanton, my most needy, it has always been for him that I have opened myself. Now, it is my own touch that I am craving. My touch, and his words. I feel naughty. Reckless. And, so help me, I want him to take me all the way. I want to finger myself until I come in front of him—and when I do, I want to open my eyes and see my own passion reflected right there on his face.
“I didn’t have the pleasure of watching then. I intend to enjoy it now.”
“Yes. Yes.” It’s the only word I can manage. It’s the only word that fills my head.
“Slide your right hand down. Take your time, baby. You have such soft skin, I want you to feel it. To touch it.”
Once again, I comply. I keep my left hand on my breast, almost like an anchor, then spread my right so that my palm grazes my belly, my pelvis, and then my fingers dip under the band of my thong. I bite my lower lip as my hand slides over, then moan as my fingertip brushes my clit before easing farther down to soft, slippery flesh.
“Open your eyes,” Damien orders. “Look at me and touch yourself.”
“I—” But my words die on my lips when I open my eyes and see his face—the bold heat in his eyes, the flush of his skin. His hands are on the armrests of the chair, and he is gripping it so tightly I can see the whites of his knuckles. And his cock is so hard beneath his tailored trousers that I am afraid it will split a seam.
“Fuck me,” I whisper. “We both know you want to.”
“More than anything,” he says as our eyes meet and lock. Sparks burst through me merely from the connection of our gazes, and the heat grows in anticipation of his touch. “But no,” he says, making me want to weep. “This is about you. I want you to feel it, too.”
“Feel what?”
“The pleasure I take from your body,” he says simply. “I want to watch. I want to lose myself in the vision of you.” As if in illustration of his words, his eyes drag slowly over me. “Don’t stop, baby. Slide your fingers inside. Tease your clit. Let me see it. Let me watch the way your skin moves when you’re about to come. Each tiny gasp, each shudder. The way you drag your teeth over your lower lip. The flush that colors your skin before orgasm, and the just-fucked look in your eyes after you come.”
I am so hot, so wet, and I do as he says, fingerfucking myself hard and then lightly teasing my clit. I am dizzy with lust, and I reach out with my other hand, taking it off my breast so that I can clutch the side of my desk to steady myself.
“Oh, God, Nikki. Do you know how much watching you turns me on? How hot you make me? I have only begun to memorize the bits and pieces that make up you. You are my obsession.”
“Yes,” I whisper. “Oh, yes.”
The sharp shrill of my phone fills the room, and I jump. “Don’t stop,” he orders. “Just ignore it.”
I do, too lost in this sensual haze to care about something as foolish as a phone. I grind my hips in time with the rings, then keep going even after it stops. I hear the ping that indicates a voice mail, followed by the buzz of a text message.
I manage to stifle the urge to throw my phone out the window.
“Don’t even think about it, baby. Just this. Just us. You’re so close, Nikki. God, I can see it on your face, in the way your lips are parted. Imagine it’s my mouth on your cunt, my tongue stroking you, tasting you. Baby, you taste so good.”
I whimper, so close, but not quite there, and my hips grind against my own hand. Soon, soon, so very soo—
“Ms. Fairchild?”
The receptionist’s voice bursts through the speaker, and I jump, feeling guilty and exposed, even as Damien bites out a curse.
“Ignore it,” he growls, but the voice continues, unable to hear our side of the conversation.
