“I—I could say sunset.” The words blurt out of me, and he freezes at the mention of our safeword.
“You could,” he says. “Are you going to?”
“I—I—” I draw in a breath, then gather my courage. “No,” I finally say, not because I want Katie to come in, but because I don’t want Damien to know he’s reached my limit. He wants me to face my fears? If that’s what he thinks I need, then, goddammit, I’m going to trust my husband.
“No,” I repeat more firmly, then hold my breath, waiting.
He doesn’t push it. Instead, he pulls his hand away. “I’m not going to push it,” he says, and I sag with relief. “You are.”
“What?”
“You heard me. Are you afraid?”
“Yes. No. Embarrassed,” I say, finally corralling my emotions.
“That’s a type of fear. A fear that people will look at you a certain way. Think of you a certain way. A fear that you’ve acted outside the accepted parameters.”
“Yeah, well, that applies to me,” I say as he slips his hand between our joined bodies.
“Baby, you’re so fucking wet. I think you like it.”
“The fantasy,” I admit. “Not reality.”
He says nothing, but he slides his finger between us, making it slick. Then he reaches behind me, teasing my ass with his fingertip, making me suck in an excited breath as he enters me. “You like this,” he whispers and I whimper in acknowledgement. “Hold my shoulders,” he demands. “Rock your hips. Ride me hard. Your ass, your cunt. I own every bit of you, Nikki. Tell me.”
“You own me.” I have to work to get out the words. He’s deep inside me, hitting that magical spot with both his finger and his cock, and pushing me so close—so incredibly fucking close.
“Please, Damien. I need—”
“Do you want me to tease your clit? Push you that last little bit over?” With his free hand, he does just that. As light as the brush of a butterfly wing, but the effect on my body is astounding. It pushes me to the edge, but not quite over, and I’m so ready, so turned on that I don’t know if I can even survive the next few minutes if he doesn’t give me that release.
“Please,” I beg.
“Push the button,” he whispers, and I’m too far gone to even be shocked by his words. “Forget embarrassment, forget fear. Forget everything but the pleasure I can give you. Push the button if you want to come.”
I’m beyond caring. Hell, I’m beyond thinking. I want release. I want to satisfy Damien.
I want to prove to him I can fight my fears.
Most of all, I want him to take me over.
I push the button. And the moment I do, he increases the pressure to my clit. I press my lips together, fighting a scream of deep pleasure as I shake with the force of the orgasm, my body clenching so tight around his finger and cock it’s a wonder I don’t cut off his blood flow.
I don’t care about anything but riding this out, about absorbing the pleasure that he’s giving me.
And then I hear the electronic ding that signals the opening of the door from the galley into the passenger side.
It’s like a splash of cold water, and I grip his shoulders, trying to bring myself back down to earth. I am embarrassed, but that’s okay. I can handle it. Damien’s my husband after all, and the fact that we have a sex life is hardly breaking news.
I bite my lip as I glance at Damien’s stoic expression. He’s looking over my shoulder, and I twist at the waist to look behind me, expecting to see Katie shocked into stillness.
But there’s no one.
For a second, I’m confused. “You rigged it. Katie never saw the call. And the door never unlocked.”
He lifts a shoulder in silent confession, and I realize in that moment that some part of me knew it. Because I know Damien, and he knows my limits.
But maybe my limits are inching out. Slowly, I think. But maybe I’m getting bolder. More fearless.
The bottom line, of course, is that I pushed the button—and he made sure that if I did, absolutely nothing would happen. I flash a triumphant grin. “I guess that makes you the one who’s afraid,” I tease.
“Careful. We still have most of a transatlantic flight to go. Who knows what else I’ll come up with?”
I ease off of him, my body tingling. “I think we should go to the state room and explore all the various possibilities.” I let my gaze dip to his still-hard cock. “Sir,” I add with a devious smile.
“And I think that’s one of the best ideas I’ve heard in a very long time.”
Chapter Seven
It’s just past one in the afternoon when we land at an executive airport on the outskirts of Paris. It takes hardly any time to deal with all the administrative details surrounding international travel, and soon enough we’re in one of the Stark International limos, and the driver is whisking us to our hotel.
I settle back beside Damien and watch the sights of Paris flash by. When we were here for our honeymoon, Damien booked us into a charming little hotel on the rue du Faubourg Saint-Honoré. He’d told me that he wanted us to disappear, and so he’d selected a small hotel that was absolutely stunning—and entirely unconnected to Stark International.
This trip, however, is all about work, and so the limo whisks us from the airport to the Stark Century Paris, located on the Place Vendôme, right across from the historic Ritz Paris hotel.
As far as I’m concerned, the travel details are the best part of being Mrs. Damien Stark. Everything from private planes to hotel limos to the ease of checking in. I’ve enjoyed those perks since my first days with Damien, but today they are lifesavers. I am, after all, still wearing nothing but a trench coat, and though I may have been self-conscious in the chopper and initially in the Bombardier, I’ve settled into what is starting to feel like a permanent state of naughty arousal. I wouldn’t have wanted to tug my luggage off of a baggage claim carousel—not with the lingering possibility of the belt loosening and the coat falling open—but I’m not above opening it myself in the privacy of our limo.
Damien, however, doesn’t take the bait.
On the contrary, when I sit across from him, part my legs, and start to unbutton the coat, all he does is lift a brow and say, “No.”
“No?” I repeat.
He studies me. “Then again, you do look appetizing. Do you want me to order you to open the coat? To spread your legs the way you did in the plane? Do you want me to watch while you finger yourself, teasing you
r clit until you explode for me?”
I whimper. I honestly hadn’t thought that far ahead, but what he is saying sounds pretty damn good to me. “Yes, Sir. Yes, please.”
“That would be nice. I like seeing you hot. Aroused. Wanting me. I like the way your skin flushes before you come, the way your nipples tighten and your lips part. I like knowing how wet you get exposing yourself to me. And after you’ve gone over the edge, I love the way your cunt feels around my cock when I fuck you all the way to another, bigger orgasm.”
He pauses, and I swallow, realizing my mouth is painfully dry.
“Do you like all that too, baby?”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Good. Now tighten the sash on your coat and remember that on this trip, I’m the one who decides when and where and how. Not you.”
A flash of anger cuts through me, but it’s underscored by an even deeper arousal. And though I won’t admit it if he asks—not easily, anyway—I can’t deny to myself how much I like this game he’s playing.
I resign myself to watching the city go by, then draw in an awestruck breath as we approach the Place Vendôme and I see the famous column originally erected by Napoleon.
The Stark Century and a few of the other buildings that line this historic square were created from several of the magnificent residences that once graced the area. The whole square is breathtaking, but the entrance to the hotel has such a regal quality to it that for a moment I have to stop and simply absorb the stunning façade that is part of the history and beauty of this lovely city.
We’re escorted inside, bypassing the checkout process in the elegant lobby. Just as well, I think, as I notice a tall man with white-blond hair arguing about something with a calm-looking clerk, who obviously has more patience than I do. Really not the kind of vibe I want spoiling the mood of our afternoon. And whatever the guy’s problem is, I’m sure Damien’s staff will handle it brilliantly.
I force my attention away from the reception desk and return it to the interior of the lobby. The intricate woodwork. The stunning art. The glass cases showcasing the incredible jewelry on sale in the various mezzanine-level stores. I try not to gawk—after all, as Damien’s wife, I should be used to this kind of luxury. And to an extent I am. But the history and beauty that now surrounds us takes my breath away.