Release Me
Page 33
“I can give you what you want, Nikki,” he says, and his voice is so gentle that I begin to think I’ve won. Maybe Damien does see what no one else does. Maybe he sees through my mask.
The thought both terrifies and excites me. Slowly, I shake my head, then manage an insolent smile. “Will you be orchestrating world peace today or later this month?”
“I’ll pay you for the portrait,” he says, his words seemingly a non sequitur. “I’ll pay you. I’ll pay the artist. I’ll arrange a studio space. You’re a businesswoman, Nikki. Isn’t that what you ultimately want? Your own business?”
I gape at him, too surprised that he knows this to respond. Who the hell has he been talking to about me?
“This is a chance to kick-start your career.”
I shake my head, ignoring the small knot inside me that is excited by his proposition. “I’m a businesswoman, not a model.”
“You’re my model. And everyone has a price.”
“I don’t.”
“No?” He steps closer, his body full of challenge and confidence. “One million dollars, Ms. Fairchild. You get the cash, and I get you.”
14
One million dollars. The words surround me, tempt me, and it’s that temptation that pushes me to react.
I lurch back out of his grasp, then lash out and slap him hard across the face.
He looks at me, his eyes burning with something I don’t recognize. Then he grabs my wrist and pulls me to him. His arm is around my waist, my wrist still clutched tight in his hand so that my arm is twisted painfully behind me. His body is hard against mine, and all I’m aware of is Damien. In that moment, I’m totally his, and we both know it. He can hurt me. He can have me.
My body quivers with desire. My lips part. I’m breathing fast. I don’t understand my reaction to him. It’s primal. Fierce. I am overwhelmed by the urge to simply surrender.
No.
I focus on his face. “I think you should leave.” I’m not sure how I manage to keep my voice steady.
“I’ll go,” he says. “But I will get my painting.” I start to snap out a retort, but he presses a finger over my lips. “I’ll get it because I want it—because I want you. And I’ll get it because you want it, too. No,” he says before I can speak. “Remember the rules. Don’t lie to me, Nikki. Never lie to me.”
And then he’s kissing me. He releases my arm and buries his fingers in my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth covers mine. I moan as his tongue roughly explores my mouth, and my arm snakes around his neck. I don’t know if he’s pulled me closer or if I’ve moved against him, but I can feel the hard press of his erection against my thigh. He’s right, damn him. He’s right. I want this, I want this, I really shouldn’t want this.
Then he releases me, and I feel so loose and weak I’m surprised that gravity doesn’t suck me down to the ground. He shoots me one final, smoldering look and then strides to my door. He opens it and disappears over the threshold before my heart rate has returned to normal.
I reach out and clutch the back of the dining table chair, then slowly lower myself until I’m sitting. I bend forward, my elbows on my knees, wanting to hate him for the offer he made and for the things he said. True things, but they’re a truth I wish I could ignore. That I will ignore.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but I’m still at the table when Jamie waltzes in, hair mussed and no bra. I’m certain she was wearing a bra when she left; I would have noticed if she’d been sitting half-naked with Damien.
“Douglas?” I ask. I hadn’t heard the familiar bang and thump, but I’d been a bit preoccupied.
“God no,” she says, and for a moment I’m relieved. I have no theory as to how she misplaced a bra, but at least I know she wasn’t out grabbing a fast fuck. “Kevin in 2H,” she says, and my relief turns cold and icy.
“You fucked him?”
“Trust me, that’s all he’s good for. The guy’s really not a brain trust, and we don’t have a lot in common. Well, except for an excess of energy.”
“Jesus, Jamie.” My problems seem petty and stupid compared to the complete randomness of Jamie’s conquests. “Why sleep with him if you don’t even like him?”
“Because it’s fun. Don’t worry. He’s not going to go all stalker on me. We both know it’s a no-strings kind of thing.”
“It’s dangerous, James,” I say, the nickname from our childhood signaling that this is a Serious Conversation.
“Bullshit, Nicholas,” she counters. “I told you. He’s not the dangerous sort.”
“I’m not talking about only him. But just because you think he looks nice doesn’t mean he’s not a whack job. And how do you know you won’t catch something? Were you careful?”
“Christ, already. Are you my mom? Of course I was careful.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” I move the five feet into our living room and flop onto the sofa. “You’re my best friend. I worry. I mean, you do these guys, and then they’re out of your life.” I frown, thinking of Damien. “Do you ever think about dating?” I ask, more harshly than I intend.
“Do you?”
I struggle to remain level. “This isn’t about me.”
“No, but it could be. I fuck around. You don’t fuck at all. It’s like we’re that Emily Dickinson poem.”
I stare at her, utterly confused.
“The candle,” she clarifies. “You burn at one end, and I burn at the other.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”
She shrugs. Sometimes Jamie is profound. Sometimes she’s not. She doesn’t much care either way. It’s one of the reasons I love her, and one of the things I admire about her. No matter what else she might be, at the end of the day, Jamie is always Jamie.
Not so, me.
Or Damien Stark, I think.
I wonder if that’s why I find him so alluring.
“That smile isn’t for me,” Jamie says. “And I seriously doubt it’s for Kevin or Douglas. So let’s see … hmmm … could you be thinking about the sexy hunka hunka billionaire who just left our little shack of a condo?”
“I could be,” I admit.
“So what was the present? More important, why aren’t you two in your bedroom fucking your brains out?”
“We’re not dating,” I say.
“Like you have to date to fuck?”
“He wants me to pose for a nude portrait,” I say, though I hadn’t intended to tell her a thing. “And he’s willing to pay me one million dollars to get it.”
She gapes at me. I have actually flummoxed Jamie Archer. This is a first.
“A million dollars? Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“So? Are you thinking about it?”
“No,” I say automatically. “Of course not.”
But even as I say the words, I know I don’t mean them. I am thinking about it. About being naked on that canvas. About Damien Stark standing in his living room and looking up at me.
A shiver runs through me. “Let’s go,” I say.
The thought both terrifies and excites me. Slowly, I shake my head, then manage an insolent smile. “Will you be orchestrating world peace today or later this month?”
“I’ll pay you for the portrait,” he says, his words seemingly a non sequitur. “I’ll pay you. I’ll pay the artist. I’ll arrange a studio space. You’re a businesswoman, Nikki. Isn’t that what you ultimately want? Your own business?”
I gape at him, too surprised that he knows this to respond. Who the hell has he been talking to about me?
“This is a chance to kick-start your career.”
I shake my head, ignoring the small knot inside me that is excited by his proposition. “I’m a businesswoman, not a model.”
“You’re my model. And everyone has a price.”
“I don’t.”
“No?” He steps closer, his body full of challenge and confidence. “One million dollars, Ms. Fairchild. You get the cash, and I get you.”
14
One million dollars. The words surround me, tempt me, and it’s that temptation that pushes me to react.
I lurch back out of his grasp, then lash out and slap him hard across the face.
He looks at me, his eyes burning with something I don’t recognize. Then he grabs my wrist and pulls me to him. His arm is around my waist, my wrist still clutched tight in his hand so that my arm is twisted painfully behind me. His body is hard against mine, and all I’m aware of is Damien. In that moment, I’m totally his, and we both know it. He can hurt me. He can have me.
My body quivers with desire. My lips part. I’m breathing fast. I don’t understand my reaction to him. It’s primal. Fierce. I am overwhelmed by the urge to simply surrender.
No.
I focus on his face. “I think you should leave.” I’m not sure how I manage to keep my voice steady.
“I’ll go,” he says. “But I will get my painting.” I start to snap out a retort, but he presses a finger over my lips. “I’ll get it because I want it—because I want you. And I’ll get it because you want it, too. No,” he says before I can speak. “Remember the rules. Don’t lie to me, Nikki. Never lie to me.”
And then he’s kissing me. He releases my arm and buries his fingers in my hair, tilting my head back as his mouth covers mine. I moan as his tongue roughly explores my mouth, and my arm snakes around his neck. I don’t know if he’s pulled me closer or if I’ve moved against him, but I can feel the hard press of his erection against my thigh. He’s right, damn him. He’s right. I want this, I want this, I really shouldn’t want this.
Then he releases me, and I feel so loose and weak I’m surprised that gravity doesn’t suck me down to the ground. He shoots me one final, smoldering look and then strides to my door. He opens it and disappears over the threshold before my heart rate has returned to normal.
I reach out and clutch the back of the dining table chair, then slowly lower myself until I’m sitting. I bend forward, my elbows on my knees, wanting to hate him for the offer he made and for the things he said. True things, but they’re a truth I wish I could ignore. That I will ignore.
I don’t know how long I sit there, but I’m still at the table when Jamie waltzes in, hair mussed and no bra. I’m certain she was wearing a bra when she left; I would have noticed if she’d been sitting half-naked with Damien.
“Douglas?” I ask. I hadn’t heard the familiar bang and thump, but I’d been a bit preoccupied.
“God no,” she says, and for a moment I’m relieved. I have no theory as to how she misplaced a bra, but at least I know she wasn’t out grabbing a fast fuck. “Kevin in 2H,” she says, and my relief turns cold and icy.
“You fucked him?”
“Trust me, that’s all he’s good for. The guy’s really not a brain trust, and we don’t have a lot in common. Well, except for an excess of energy.”
“Jesus, Jamie.” My problems seem petty and stupid compared to the complete randomness of Jamie’s conquests. “Why sleep with him if you don’t even like him?”
“Because it’s fun. Don’t worry. He’s not going to go all stalker on me. We both know it’s a no-strings kind of thing.”
“It’s dangerous, James,” I say, the nickname from our childhood signaling that this is a Serious Conversation.
“Bullshit, Nicholas,” she counters. “I told you. He’s not the dangerous sort.”
“I’m not talking about only him. But just because you think he looks nice doesn’t mean he’s not a whack job. And how do you know you won’t catch something? Were you careful?”
“Christ, already. Are you my mom? Of course I was careful.”
“Sorry. I’m sorry.” I move the five feet into our living room and flop onto the sofa. “You’re my best friend. I worry. I mean, you do these guys, and then they’re out of your life.” I frown, thinking of Damien. “Do you ever think about dating?” I ask, more harshly than I intend.
“Do you?”
I struggle to remain level. “This isn’t about me.”
“No, but it could be. I fuck around. You don’t fuck at all. It’s like we’re that Emily Dickinson poem.”
I stare at her, utterly confused.
“The candle,” she clarifies. “You burn at one end, and I burn at the other.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That makes no sense whatsoever.”
She shrugs. Sometimes Jamie is profound. Sometimes she’s not. She doesn’t much care either way. It’s one of the reasons I love her, and one of the things I admire about her. No matter what else she might be, at the end of the day, Jamie is always Jamie.
Not so, me.
Or Damien Stark, I think.
I wonder if that’s why I find him so alluring.
“That smile isn’t for me,” Jamie says. “And I seriously doubt it’s for Kevin or Douglas. So let’s see … hmmm … could you be thinking about the sexy hunka hunka billionaire who just left our little shack of a condo?”
“I could be,” I admit.
“So what was the present? More important, why aren’t you two in your bedroom fucking your brains out?”
“We’re not dating,” I say.
“Like you have to date to fuck?”
“He wants me to pose for a nude portrait,” I say, though I hadn’t intended to tell her a thing. “And he’s willing to pay me one million dollars to get it.”
She gapes at me. I have actually flummoxed Jamie Archer. This is a first.
“A million dollars? Seriously?”
“Yup.”
“So? Are you thinking about it?”
“No,” I say automatically. “Of course not.”
But even as I say the words, I know I don’t mean them. I am thinking about it. About being naked on that canvas. About Damien Stark standing in his living room and looking up at me.
A shiver runs through me. “Let’s go,” I say.
