Release Me (34 page)

I take one hand off the glass and reach down to stroke my clit as Damien fills me.

“That’s it, baby,” he whispers. The world is getting dark outside, and I can see our reflections now in the glass. I meet his eyes as the orgasm rockets through me, making me clench tight around him, drawing him out, making him come in deep, long spurts inside of me.

I gasp, shaken by the power of the orgasm, my body still pressed slightly forward, my hips still high, and Damien’s cock still deep inside me.

“Look outside,” Damien whispers. “What do you see?”

“It’s sunset,” I say playfully as I look over my shoulder to once again meet his eyes.

He presses his mouth to my ear, and there’s nothing playful in his tone. “Never, baby. Between us, the sun is never going down.”

“No,” I whisper, feeling safe and satisfied. “Never.”

Because Damien has to spend the next day in San Diego and Blaine is off dealing with some sort of gallery crisis in La Jolla, I’m back at my apartment before eight in the morning, and am surprised to find Jamie already awake.

“What the hell?” she says, by way of greeting. “You just vanished into thin air.”

“I know,” I say. “I’m a terrible roommate, but I’ll make it up to you. Breakfast. My treat.”

“And you’ll tell me everything?”

“Swear,” I say. And I cross my heart for effect.

We end up at Du-par’s on Ventura Boulevard, and after I tell her about Bruce and about what Ollie said and about Damien’s explanation, she proves that she is in fact worthy of best friend status by siding with me one hundred percent. “Ollie’s like an overprotective brother. And Damien’s just too damn hot to stay mad at. Besides, it’s not like he told Bruce to hire you. He just told Bruce about your resume.”

“Exactly,” I say. And since Damien and I worked through our issues rather thoroughly last night—as my soreness this
morning can testify to—I shift the conversation. “This is my last week among the unemployed,” I say. “Wanna catch a movie?”

We end up seeing two, because what’s the point of being a lazy bum if you don’t do it up right, then head back to the apartment in a popcorn-and-soda-induced haze.

Jamie immediately heads to her room to change into pajamas even though it’s not yet four. I’m about to do the same when I’m stopped by a sharp knock at the door. “Hang on,” I say. If it’s Douglas, I’m totally shooing him away. For that matter, Ollie will get shooed, too.

It’s neither. It’s Edward.

“Ms. Fairchild,” he says, and though he keeps his professional face on, I see the smile in his eyes. “Mr. Stark asked me to deliver a personal apology that he wasn’t able to spend the day with you in celebration of your new job.”

“He did?” I bite back a grin. We’d done a bit of celebrating last night. Celebration sex. Make-up sex. We’d pretty much run the gamut.

“And may I extend my congratulations on your new job as well?” Edward adds.

“Thank you,” I say. “But he really didn’t need to send you. He already congratulated me when I saw him last night.”

“Yes, but I’m to deliver your gift. Or, rather, deliver you to your gift.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m afraid I have very specific instructions that forbid me from actually telling you.”

“Oh. Um, okay. Let me just tell my roommate.”

“Ms. Archer is invited as well, of course.”

“Really?” This was getting interesting. I give a shout toward her room. “Hey, James. Change of plans. We’re going … somewhere.”

She pops her head out of the door, while still only half in her
T-shirt. She tugs it down, and peers at Edward. “Huh? Where are we going?”

“Edward won’t say. But it’s a present. From Damien.”

“And I’m invited, too?”

“Absolutely,” Edward says.

“How fab is that? Well, shit,” she says to me, “I’m not turning down a mystery present from a guy with billions. That’s just not something I’m programmed to do.”

“Fair enough. I guess we’re going,” I add to Edward.

Jamie switches the pj bottoms out for jeans, and we grab our purses and follow Edward down to the limo. I wonder if Damien requested it, or if Edward decided to drive the limo instead of the Town Car simply to give Jamie a thrill. If so, it worked. She’s checking out every seat, poking into the bar, and examining each and every gadget on the console.

“Wine?” she asks, finding a chilled bottle of Chardonnay in a mini-refrigerator. Shows how much I pay attention. I didn’t even know the limo had a fridge. Then again, I was a bit distracted each time I took a ride in it.…

Edward takes us out onto I-10 and then heads east, which surprises me, as I’d been expecting us to head for the beach. “Where do you think we’re going?” I ask Jamie, who’s riffling through the CD collection that I’ve never bothered to look at.

“Who cares?”

I consider that, and decide she has a very good point.

Fifteen minutes later, it’s clear we’re heading out of Los Angeles, I’m on my second glass of wine, and Madonna is belting out “Like a Virgin.”

“So
totally
retro,” Jamie says, half-dancing in her seat. I consider overruling her choice, but it’s fun and loud and what the hell.

By the time we pass the windmill farms that mark the desert near Palm Springs, we’ve played classic rock, classic country, and
a varied selection from current artists. We’ve danced—as much as you can in a limo—and sung and have basically turned the limo into party central. We’ve laughed so hard we’ve almost cried, and I think it’s the best time Jamie and I have had together since we skipped out of Friday classes our freshman year and drove from Austin to New Orleans.

I am
so
going to show Damien my gratitude when I see him.

Finally, Edward exits the 10 for a smaller highway, then a regular street, then a caliche road. I’m beginning to think that our destination must be a campsite when I see the sunset glowing against the white stucco of a low building nestled near the foothills of the rising mountains. We pass through a security gate, and I realize that what I thought was one building is a collection of several smaller ones, all surrounded by palm trees reaching up to brush the sky.

Jamie and I are pressed to the windows now, and she sees the sign first. “Holy shit,” she says. “We’re at the Desert Ranch Spa.”

“Seriously?” I don’t know why I sound so surprised. The Desert Ranch Spa may be one of those insanely expensive resorts where celebrities go for a little alone time, but it’s not like Damien can’t afford it.

“Are we staying the night?” Jamie asks. “Or maybe we’re just here for dinner? God, I hope we’re staying the night. I’ve never stayed in a place like this.”

The limo winds its way to the front entrance, and I gulp down the rest of my wine and slide toward the door, so that I’m ready to go the moment Edward opens it. When he does, there’s a woman beside him in pencil-thin trousers and a silk tank top. “Ms. Fairchild, Ms. Archer. Welcome to Desert Ranch,” she says, with an accent I recognize only as Eastern European. “I’m Helena. Come. I’ll take you to your bungalow.”

Bun-ga-low
, Jamie mouths with eyes wide. We follow her down a landscaped path, me doing my Worldly Nikki routine—
why, of course I get out of limos and go to expensive desert resorts all the time—and Jamie practically bouncing. “For the record,” she says as Helena opens the door and we get a glimpse of the inside of the bungalow, “I am totally in love with your boyfriend.”

Boyfriend
. I grin. I like the sound of that.

The bungalow is small but exceptionally well-appointed, with two bedrooms, a kitchenette, a living room with a comfy couch and chairs, and a fireplace. But the best part is the back porch, which looks out on the mountains without any sign of the resort. “You will have dinner in your room, yes? And then tomorrow we begin at eight.”

I almost hesitate to ask, but I break down. “Begin what?”

Helena smiles. “Everything.”

We’re awakened by gentle alarm clocks at seven-thirty, and it’s surprisingly easy to wake up despite having stayed up late sipping wine and talking after the most amazing dinner of Chilean sea bass and some type of risotto. We mainline coffee, sip orange juice, and put on the spa robes that we’ve been told to wear today.

When our liaisons, Becky and Dana, arrive at our doorstep, we’re eager to see what’s in store for us. As it turns out, Helena wasn’t exaggerating. We start with dips in the mineral waters, then move inside for facials and waxing and—because Becky whispers to me that Mr. Stark requested it—I even submit to a little more intimate wax. Not Brazilian, because ouch, but by the time I leave the waxing room, I have a neat landing strip that looks more professional than the shaving and Nair job I’ve managed all these years. My legs are smooth, my brows are fabulously shaped, and we move on to our choice of mud baths or seaweed wraps.

I go with the mud, because my mother never allowed me to play in the mud as a kid, and the tubs are outside. Jamie does, too, and so we lay back in our squishy beds of mud with glasses
of sparkling water in our hands and cool cucumbers on our eyes. We don’t talk—by this time we’re both limp and relaxed—but it’s amazing just soaking up the luxury. So much so that I almost moan in protest when they help us out, scraping the mud off us with things that look like miniature shower squeegees, and then lead us to another mineral spring, which relaxes us even more and cleans us off.

After that, a cold dip wakes us up again, and then Jamie and I are led inside for a delicious lunch. Afterward we get to sit side by side for manicures and pedicures.

The last official spa treatment for the day is a massage. After that, we’re told we can go back to our bungalow or look over the activity list. Everything from hiking to horseback riding to yoga to golf. Fresh clothes will be waiting for us. Linen slacks and tops courtesy of the resort.

We part ways to go to our private massage rooms, and the masseuse, a woman with arms so defined I’m sure she must have been a professional athlete at some time, guides me to the table. She picks out an oil with just a hint of spice and I nod agreement. It’s unusual, but edgy, and it reminds me of Damien.

Oh yes, he is getting such a thank-you for this surprise
.

I strip down and slide under the sheet. The table is the kind with a cutout for your face, and I lay limp, eyes closed, my body more relaxed than it’s been in a long time. “Just my back and arms and calves, please,” I say. “Not my thighs.”

“Of course.” She puts on music, and we begin. Her hands are like magic, and as she works the tightness out from along my spine, I’m pretty sure that I’ve gone to heaven.

Her touch is strong, but not so much as to be uncomfortable, and soon I’m drifting. Not really asleep, but not really there, either. I feel it when she takes her hands off me, then hear the clink of bottles as she gets more oil. I hear another click I can’t identify, and I lay still, waiting for her to continue with the massage.

When she puts her hands back on me, they feel different.
Larger. Stronger. My body realizes the truth before I do, and my pulse kicks up.
Damien
.

I smile at the floor but say nothing as his oiled hands glide over me, working the kinks from my body, making me relaxed, making me squirm with desire.

He works my arms, paying attention to each little finger, which turns out to be so desperately erotic that I feel the tug of each stroke between my legs. Then he eases his strong hands down my back and over the towel that covers my ass and thighs. He draws his hands firmly down the back of each leg, then strokes the sole of each foot, and now I do moan with pleasure.

He drives me just a little bit crazy before moving on to each toe and then, finally, turning his attention to my calves. Long, gentle strokes, higher and higher until I feel his fingers grazing the edge of the towel, then easing my legs apart so he can direct his strokes even higher.

I am going completely crazy now, and it’s all I can do not to lift and twist my hips. I’m wet and I want him and I’m determined not to say anything but to just lay there and enjoy the moment. But oh, God, I want to feel him inside me.

I’m sure he knows how much he’s teasing me, and he pushes the towel up to massage my hips with firm, even strokes. He does the same to my inner thighs, coming so deliciously close to my cunt that I think I’m going to scream with frustration every time he dips near but doesn’t touch me.

Then I feel the soft brush of his fingers against my sensitive clit. The firm stroke of his hand over my slick heat. His fingertip dances circles over my clit and I can’t help it, I moan with the pleasure of it. And then it’s as if the world has slipped away and I’m nothing but this tiny point of sensation concentrated between my thighs, building and building, higher and faster, until I can’t take it anymore and I shatter in his hand.

“Damien,” I whisper. I am spent. My body is liquid. There’s no way I’m ever moving again.

I hear his low chuckle, then feel the press of his lips at the nape of my neck. “I can’t begin to tell you how happy I am that you knew it was me.”

When I am no longer a limp noodle and can actually compel my limbs to function, I get off the table and back into my robe. Damien and I leave at the same time, and Jamie’s door opens as we’re passing. She looks between me and Damien, then glances sideways at her masseuse, a tall blond man with large, capable-looking hands.

“You know,” Jamie says dryly, “nothing personal, but I don’t think I got the same level of service that she did.”

To his credit, the masseuse smiles. “Come,” he says, gesturing for her to follow.

“That’s the problem,” she mutters to me as she passes, “I didn’t.”

Back in the bungalow, I start to change into the linen outfit, but Damien has brought a peasant style skirt and matching blouse for me. I put it on, enjoying the way the loose cut of the material feels over my newly polished and primped skin.

He taps on Jamie’s door and tells her that he’ll be seeing me back to Los Angeles. She’s welcome to stay another night. Edward will be back to fetch her at nine in the morning. Jamie’s thank-you is so enthusiastic it borders on embarrassing, but Damien just tells her she’s very, very welcome.