Play My Game (10 page)

“There’s Steele,” I say, pointing to the shore. I look at the sky. “Sun’s straight overhead. No shadows right now.”

Damien laughs, but after a moment, his expression turns thoughtful.

“Damien?”

He cocks his head and flashes a wry smile. “No shadows,” he says, repeating my words. “Steele doesn’t know the half of it.”

He sounds so distracted that I’m getting a bit concerned. “What are you talking about?”

“Steele doesn’t want to be in my shadow—doesn’t want to ride on my coattails.”

“Right.” I’m still not following him.

“Whoever our blackmailer is wants exactly that. He wants to hide. Wants to stay in the dark, hidden in the shadows, secure in the belief that he knows me so well.” Damien meets my eyes. “So damn certain that now that I’m married, I won’t want a spotlight shining on my wife or her friends. And that I’ll pay to keep all sorts of shit in the shadows.”

“Are you saying you won’t?” My words are tentative; I’m afraid to hope.

“No,” Damien says. “I won’t. I can’t.” I see the worry fill his eyes. “Once I do, it won’t ever stop. Baby, tell me you understand.”

I’m in his arms immediately. “I’ve been telling you that. So has Jamie. No matter what hits the tabloids, we’ll survive.”

He pulls me close and hugs me tight before easing back and then pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. “I’m still going to try to keep it from getting out.”

“How?”

His smile is tight. “I’m going to play a hunch. And then I’m going to negotiate.”

“You mean you’re going to threaten.”

“Sweetheart,” he says. “You know me so well.”

He pulls out his phone.

“What’s the hunch?” I ask before he can dial.

“I’m willing to believe that Douglas isn’t the brains behind this—that man couldn’t find his dick without a woman or a map—but his claim that releasing the tape will destroy him is bullshit. That tape gets out, and suddenly he’s the guy who screwed Nikki Stark’s best friend. That’s worth something to a worm like him.”

“You think someone approached him?”

“I do,” Damien says.

“Who?”

He shakes his head. “I have a few ideas, but no confirmation.”

I swallow, and though I say nothing, my fear is that Damien thinks his father—a man who has about a million recent reasons to hold a grudge—is behind this.

“Will Douglas tell you who it is?” I ask.

“To be honest, I believe Douglas when he says he doesn’t know.”

“So someone approached him anonymously?”

“That’s my guess. Which means that at the very least, Douglas has a way to get a message back to them.” He pulls out his phone. “And I’m going to insist that he deliver mine. That he tell his handler that if Valentine’s Day passes with no photos released to the media, then I will ignore this lapse in judgment on their part. But if a single photo turns up where it doesn’t belong, I will not stop until I’ve made the life of every person involved a complete living hell.

“And then,” he adds, with the scary kind of smile that makes me remember why he does so damn well in the shark-infested waters of corporate America, “I’ll invite law enforcement to the party, just to add a little spice to the mix.”

After Damien puts the fear of God into Douglas, he suggests that we put it away and enjoy the rest of our last day. After all, tomorrow is Valentine’s Day, and we’ll know soon enough if it worked.

“I think that’s a wonderful idea, Mr. Stark. What do you have in mind?”

“Actually,” he says. “I thought I’d teach you a bit about sailing.”

As it turns out, I’m a hopeless student. I’m much more interested in watching Damien move, all masculine and athletic grace. His second item on the agenda, snorkeling, is much more my speed, and I follow him into the warm water as soon as the boat is anchored. The reef is teeming with color and life, and I watch all of it, mesmerized, and then delighted when Damien points out both a manta ray and a sea turtle.

Back on the boat, I sit on the deck, a towel wrapped around me as the sun sinks toward the horizon.

Damien is expertly maneuvering us back to the island, and I feel completely at peace out here on the wide, blue sea. Despite the dicey start to the morning, everything is calm now. We’ve both pushed it aside, I think. Hopefully, there will be no pictures released tomorrow, but if there are, we’ll deal. If there’s one thing I’m certain of, Damien and I can handle pretty much anything so long as we are together.

I’m surprised when he maneuvers the boat past the rental dock from where we’d departed. Instead, he follows the shore, and then brings the boat in to the small dock that extends from our private beach.

“Door-to-door service?”

“Only the best for you,” he answers.

It’s only once I’m off the boat and back at the bungalow that I see how seriously he means those words. The small pool in the bungalow courtyard is filled with floating candles, turning it into a magical fairyland. A bottle of wine is open beside a giant, round lounge chair designed for two. And beside the wine is a plate filled with cheeses and meats and covered with a clear glass lid to protect it from the elements.

Beside the pool, the hot tub bubbles, and I remember what I’d said about wanting to take a bath in the Jacuzzi tub. This, I think, is just as appealing.

“How did you do this?” I ask.

“I believe I’ve mentioned that I have a rather large bank account which allows me to purchase a surprising variety of goods and services.”

“Must be nice being you,” I tease, then slide into his open arms.

“It’s better now that I have you,” he says, and I almost melt from the depth of emotion that fills his voice.

He tugs me to the lounge chair, and then slowly undresses me before telling me to lay back and close my eyes.

I do, and my reward is Damien’s touch.

I cannot count the different ways that he has touched me since we have been together, but his touch tonight is deceptive, its simplicity hiding a power to drive me over the edge.

All he uses is a finger.

Slowly, he traces his forefinger over my leg, drawing soft patterns. Teasing me behind my knee. Stroking gently up my inner thigh, but not quite high enough. And though I moan a bit and squirm in silent demand, he does not stroke my sex.

Instead, his finger trails only in that soft area between thigh and genitals, but that is enough to send tremors running through me, shifting the rest of my body into a state of hyperawareness so that innocent touches are suddenly anything but. Even his finger slowly circling my belly button makes my sex clench with longing.

Featherlight touches continue upward, caressing every inch of me and paying extra attention to my breasts until my nipples are so hard and tight that I have to bite my lower lip so as to not beg him to close his mouth over me and suck my breast until I come.

Finally, that wonderful, damnable finger traces my lower lip, then teases its way inside my mouth. “Suck,” he demands, that one word holding a world of erotic possibilities.

I do, drawing him in, and feeling the shock of sensation travel through me like an electric current that runs from my mouth to my cunt. There is no part of me now that isn’t open to him. Desperate for him.

“Please,” I whisper, and then tremble with need as he stretches out beside me so that his body is pressed against mine and all those erogenous zones that he has created sparkle and fire in anticipation.

“Tell me what you want.”

“You know,” I say. “I want to feel you inside me. Please, oh please, Damien.”

“Anything you want, sweetheart,” he says, slowly rolling onto his back and urging me on top of him. “Anything you need.”

What I need is him. He has ministered to my body for what feels like an eternity and every cell in my skin is humming with desire.

And yet in all that time he has neither penetrated me nor touched my clit. I feel swollen with need, so ready to be filled by my husband that I fear I will go crazy if I don’t have him right this very second.

I move to straddle him even as he moves onto his back. His cock rubs against me, teasing my rear, and I bite my lower lip, wanting everything. Wanting Damien.

Slowly, I rise up on my knees and then lower myself onto him. I gasp as he fills me, then cry out as his hips pivot up even as his hands on my hips push me down so that he fills me hard and fast and completely.

“Kiss me,” he demands, and I lean forward, our bodies moving together as my mouth closes over his and my breasts brush against his chest, teasing my already sensitive nipples.

His hand slides between our bodies, and now his fingers do touch me, stroke me. He teases my clit as my body tightens around him, the muscles of my sex clenching to draw him in, hotter and deeper, and I can feel the tension building inside both of us until I can’t stand it anymore, and I pull myself back up, then arch back so that I’m facing the sky as the force of my orgasm rocks through me and I grind against him, my muscles tightening around his cock and bringing Damien the rest of the way with me so that he calls out my name and I close my eyes as it echoes through the night.

When my body stops spasming, I fall down upon him again, then sigh as his fingers stroke my hair.

“It’s midnight,” he whispers, and I lift my head to meet his eyes. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Mrs. Stark.”

Damien wakes me before dawn, though that is not an easy feat. It’s his fault that I got so little sleep, and I feel no guilt about sliding down the bed even as I pull the covers higher.

I know we are on a schedule. But I also know that the plane won’t take off without Damien. What’s the benefit of being an ultra-rich lord of the universe who owns a fleet of planes if you can’t adjust departure times in order to let your wife grab a few extra minutes of sleep?

I want to explain that, but all I manage is a murmured, “Fifteen minutes. Sleepy.”

I hear the soft pad of his footsteps as he moves away from the bed, and I slide back into sleep, secure in the belief that I’ve succeeded in begging more time.

Soon enough, I realize I’m wrong. He’s back, and he’s gently tugging the covers down. I peel open my eyes, and this time I pay more attention to my surroundings. My husband is already dressed in jeans and a crisp button-down. Behind him, I see his running shorts and a T-shirt on the floor near a half-packed suitcase. I put the clues together easily enough—despite not actually going to sleep until almost three in the morning, Damien is not only awake, but has both gone for a run and started packing our things.

Clearly the man is superhuman, but since I am a mere mortal, I still feel no guilt about closing my eyes again and trying to claim another minute.

He, however, is having none of it. He pulls the covers down, then scoops me into his arms. I protest for form, but it’s warm and comfortable in his embrace, and so I simply snuggle closer. All too soon, though, he sets me on my feet, and then helps me into a robe. “Trust me,” he says, then kisses me softly before leading me outside to our private beach.

“Damien.” His name is little more than a breath. “It’s wonderful.”

I’m looking at a table draped with white linen, atop which sits a number of covered trays and a very large pot that I assume is filled with coffee. Tiki-style torches have been placed at each of the four corners of the mat upon which the table sits, providing a relatively sand-free surface. The sun has barely started to peek above the horizon, and the torches cast a golden glow over the tableau, making it seem all the more magical.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” Damien says. “Since we’re spending most of the day traveling, I thought we should start off with something special.”

I smile up at him, feeling sappy and loved. “Every moment with you is special, Damien. Don’t you know that?”

He doesn’t say anything, but the tenderness I see on his face answers for him.

I take his hand and let him lead me to the table. And as we enjoy a breakfast of eggs and coffee and flaky croissants, we watch the sun rise on our first Valentine’s Day together.

Because of our early departure and the time difference, we arrive home not long after noon. Damien has been checking social media since the sun rose in California, and so far he has seen no evidence that the photos or tape have been leaked.

We are cautiously optimistic.

Unlike the plane ride to the Bahamas, during which I’d managed to sneak in some work on my Valentine’s Day present to Damien, I had no secret project on the return trip. So I spent the flight reading, napping, and trying to do a little bit of coding.

“Try” is the operative word, though, because Katie kept the mimosas flowing, and since it’s Valentine’s Day, I didn’t hesitate to take them as fast as she wanted to bring them.

Which meant that the napping part of the plane ride soon overtook all other activities. And now, as we walk through the doors of the Malibu house, I am very well rested.

Damien takes my hand as we head up to the third floor, and as soon as we are high enough on the stairs to see the room, I gasp.

The entire space is filled with flowers. Not only that, but our bed—the lovely iron bed that was a prop for the portrait of me and that now lives in our bedroom—is back in this open area where Damien and I spent so many delicious hours together.

I turn to him, my smile so wide it hurts. “How did you do this?”

“Gregory. Sylvia. I have my ways.”

“It’s a wonderful Valentine’s Day surprise.”

His mention of Sylvia makes me wonder if with this minor redecoration she still did what I asked and left the package for Damien on the bed. From here, I don’t see it, and I wonder if she put his present on the dresser in the bedroom.

But as we get closer, I see that the box is there, so flat and white that it blends in with the bedclothes, the only splash of color being a thin red ribbon.

Damien sees it, too, and glances at me curiously. He moves to the bed and lifts the package, then checks the tag. I know what it says, of course. Sylvia may have arranged to have the present wrapped, but I’d written the tag.

For my husband. For my love.

“Looks like I wasn’t the only one who had the help of Valentine’s Day elves.”