Release Me (7 page)

Then the balcony door opens, and a couple emerges, arm in arm. Damien pulls his hand back and the spell is shattered. I want to scream at the couple, and not just because I’ve been left feeling hot and needy. No, something’s been lost. I’m liking the Damien Stark who laughs and teases in the dark. Who flirts so
softly and yet so intently. Who looks at me with eyes that let me see.

But our moment is gone. And if we go inside, I’m certain his mask will go back on. I’m even more certain my own will.

I almost suggest we go back down the stairs to the beach, but he’s holding the door open for me, and his face is all hard lines and angles again. I step past him into the room, something tight and sad knotting inside me.

The party is still going strong. Possibly even stronger now that the guests are on their second, third, or fourth drink. The room is stuffy, almost claustrophobic, and I slip out of Stark’s jacket and hand it back to him. He runs his palm over the silk lining. “You’re warm,” he says, then slips it on, the movement entirely normal and inexplicably erotic.

A waitress materializes beside me, her tray full of sparkling wine. I take a flute and gulp it back. Before she can edge away, I replace my empty glass and take a fresh one.

“For medicinal purposes,” I say to Stark, who has also taken a glass, but has yet to take a sip. I am not so hesitant, and I down half of my glass in one long swallow. The bubbles seem to rise straight to my head, making me a little bit giddy. It’s a nice feeling, and one I’m not used to. I drink, sure. But not champagne, and not very often. But I feel vulnerable tonight. Vulnerable and needy. With any luck, the alcohol will quench the ache. Either that, or it will give me the courage to act on it.

Oh, no
.

I almost toss the champagne aside. Even with the aid of tiny bubbles, I’m not going there.

As I tilt my head back to take another sip, I catch Stark’s eyes on me. They’re dark and knowing and predatory, and I suddenly want to take a step backward. I clutch the stem of my glass harder and stay rooted to the spot.

The corner of his mouth quirks up with amusement as he
leans in closer to me. I breathe in the clean, crisp scent of his cologne, like the woods after a rain. He brushes a strand of hair from my cheek, and I wonder why I don’t melt right then.

My body is hyperaware. My skin. My pulse. I tingle all over, and every tiny hair on my arms and the back of my neck is standing up, as if I’m in the middle of a lightning storm. It’s his power I’m feeling, of course, and I feel it most strongly in the increasingly demanding flesh between my thighs.

“Is there something on your mind, Ms. Fairchild?” I can hear the tease in his voice, and it irks me that I am so transparent.

That bite of irritation is good—it draws me out of the haze. And, because I’m emboldened by the champagne, I look straight at him when I answer. “You are, Mr. Stark.”

His lips part with surprise, but he recovers himself quickly. “I’m very glad to hear it.” I’m only halfway aware of his words. I’m too focused on his mouth. It’s gorgeous, wide, and sensual.

He takes another step closer, and the storm between us grows more intense, the air full and heavy. I can almost see the sparks.

“You should know, Ms. Fairchild, that before the night is over, I’m going to kiss you.”

“Oh.” I’m not sure if my word is an expression of surprise or assent. I wonder what those lips would feel like on mine. His tongue forcing my mouth open. The heated exploration as hands clutch and bodies press together.

“I’m glad you’re looking forward to it.” His words jolt me from the fantasy, and this time I do back away. One step, then another, until the storm between us calms and I can think clearly again.

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea,” I say, because fantasy is all good and well, but this can only go so far, and it’s important that I remind myself of that.

“On the contrary. I think it’s one of my better ideas.”

I swallow. To be honest, I want him to follow through right then, but I’m saved from my foolish wish by Stark himself. Or
rather, by his reputation. Apparently Carl isn’t the only one who believes in the power of networking, and we’re joined by a cadre of people wanting to bask in his circle. Investors, inventors, tennis fans, single women. They come, they talk, and Stark politely sends each on his way. The only constant at his side is me. Me and a never-ending stream of waiters with more champagne, chilled so as to take the edge off the fire that’s building in me.

The room, however, is starting to sway a bit, and I tap Stark on the arm, interrupting his conversation with a robotics engineer who’s well into hard-pitch mode. “Excuse me,” I say, then aim myself toward a small bench on the side of the room.

Stark catches up to me so quickly that I imagine the engineer still pitching, unaware that his quarry has escaped.

“You should slow down,” he says in a voice that suggests I’m on his staff.

But I’m not on his staff. “I’m fine,” I say. “I have a plan.” I don’t mention that the plan involves sitting down and never getting up again.

“If it involves getting so rip-roaring drunk that you have no choice but to get off your feet by laying down, then I’d say your plan is coming along quite nicely.”

“Don’t be patronizing.” I stop in the center of the room and glance around, taking in the collection of canvases that fill the space. I pause, then deliberately turn and look him straight in the eye. “I assume you want a nude?”

I see the heat rising, struggling to burn through his mask. I force myself not to smile with victory.

He lifts a single brow. “I thought you were disinclined to help me.”

“I’m in a charitable mood,” I say. “So? Nude? Landscape? Still life with fruit? I’m assuming that since we’re here at Evelyn’s show, you’re thinking nude.”

“It’s certainly at the forefront of my mind, yes.”

“Do you see anything here that appeals to you?”

“I do, actually.”

He’s looking right at me, and I think that maybe I’ve played this game a little too cavalierly. I know I should back off, but I don’t. Maybe it’s the tiny bubbles talking, but I like seeing the desire in him. No, that’s not true. I like seeing him desire me.

It’s a simple yet startling realization.

I clear my throat. “Show me.”

“Pardon me?”

I have to force myself to sound nonchalant. “Show me what you like.”

“Believe me, Ms. Fairchild, I’d be very happy to do that.”

The hidden message in his words isn’t very hidden, and I swallow. I opened this door. Kicked it open, really. But now I have to actually walk through it. I shift my weight, uneasy—and stumble on the damn shoe.

He catches my arm, and I gasp as the shock of his touch against my bare skin rumbles through me.

“You need to take them off before you hurt yourself.”

“Not happening. I don’t do bare feet at parties.”

“Fine.” He takes my hand and leads me toward the hall with the velvet rope. He moves slowly, allowing for my sore feet, but then looks at me with a wicked grin. “Or perhaps I should simply use the caveman carry?”

My glare changes to a gape when he unfastens the velvet rope and steps into the darkened, private hall behind it. I hesitate, then follow. He rehooks the rope, then sits on the velvet-covered bench. He looks up at me without even a hint of apology, as if he owns the world and everything in it. Then he pats the seat next to him, and because my feet hurt and my head is spinning, I sit without argument.

“Now,” he says. “Take your shoes off. No,” he adds, before I can protest, “we’re behind the rope, so we’re not officially at the party now. You’re not breaking any rules.”

He says the last with a grin, and I match it without thinking.

“Move sideways,” he instructs. “Put your feet in my lap.”

Social Nikki would protest; I slide my feet up onto his trousered legs.

“Close your eyes. Relax.”

I do, and for a moment there is nothing, and I fear that he’s punking me, after all. Then his fingertip traces along the bottom of my foot. I arch back, surprised and delighted. The touch is featherlight and almost tickles, and when he does it again, I release a shuddering breath. My whole body stiffens as I concentrate only on that one spot. I feel the sparks shoot through me, and realize that I’m aroused.

I clutch the edge of the bench and let my head tilt back farther. A few tendrils of hair brush the nape of my neck. The combination of sensations—his touch on my feet, the soft caress of hair—is overwhelming. My head truly is spinning now, and not from the champagne.

He increases the pressure, using the pads of his thumbs to work the soreness out of my feet, then gently strokes the sensitive spots where my shoes have rubbed. It’s slow. It’s intimate. It’s confusing as hell.

I’m breathing hard, and I can’t deny the small knot of panic that is beginning to unravel in my stomach. I’ve let down my guard. I’ve let things progress. I’m edging dangerously close to where I never, ever go—but damn me, I don’t know that I have the strength to turn back.

“Now,” he says.

I open my eyes, confused, and the rapturous expression on his face almost does me in.

“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, and before I even have a chance to process his words, his palm is pressed against the back of my head. Somehow, he’s shifted our positions, and it’s no longer my feet on his lap, but my thighs, so that our bodies are close and he’s bent over me, his lips pressed against mine. I’m struck by how soft his mouth is, yet firm, too. He’s completely in
charge. Demanding. Taking exactly what he wants—and what I’m so willing to give.

I hear myself moan, and he takes advantage of my parted lips to dip his tongue inside.

He is an expert kisser, and I lose myself in the pleasure of it. I don’t know when, but at some point I realize that one of my hands is clutching his shirt and the other is twined in his hair. It’s thick and soft and I make a fist around a handful and use that to leverage his mouth even harder against mine. I want to lose myself in his kiss. I want to let the fire that’s spreading over my body grow. Maybe it will consume me. Maybe, like a Phoenix, I will rise again after being incinerated by Damien Stark’s touch.

His tongue strokes mine, sending erotic sparks dancing through me. My skin, already so sensitive just from his proximity, now seems like an instrument of torture, because the anticipation of his touch is simply too much to bear. A low, demanding ache builds between my thighs, and I press my legs together in both defense and in an attempt at satisfaction.

He makes a growling noise and shifts me in his arms. Suddenly, his hand is on my hip and the soft material of my skirt caresses my skin as he glides over it toward my crotch. I tense, aroused and nervous, but I don’t push him away. My body is pulsing, my clit throbbing, and I want release. I want Damien.

His entire body is hard against mine. He holds me close and deepens the kiss as his hand slopes down toward my sex, just slow enough to drive me crazy. I shift, leaving one leg on his thighs, but our position is awkward and my other leg slides off. I press the ball of my bare foot to the ground for balance even as I feel a rush of cool air find its way in underneath my skirt to tease my damp panties.

In this position I’m wide open and vulnerable, and Stark cups his hand over my sex and moans into my mouth. Even through the material of my skirt and the satin of my panties, I can feel his
heat. He strokes me through my clothes, his fingers teasing my clit, making me so wet I think I will melt.

My skirt is hitched up, but it still covers my thighs. Even so, he’s close—so close to the secrets I don’t want to share, and I know that if he tries to stroke my inner thighs that I will bolt. I’m nervous. Afraid, even. But danger and fear have added an edge to my excitement. I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life.

His fingers tease me, making a wild fever burn through me. I’m right on the edge, just a little more—

But then his hand is gone. I open my eyes, and for just an instant, his expression is warm and open, and I think that I’m the only thing in all the world that he sees. Then something alters, and his face changes as the mask clicks back into place. He shifts my position, pulling me up so that I am sitting half on his lap.

“Damien, what—”

But then I hear the voice behind me, a bright, cheery feminine voice saying, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you ready?”

Oh my God
. Did she just walk up? How long has she been there?

I look helplessly at Damien, but he doesn’t notice. He’s looking over my shoulder at whomever is speaking. “I need to see Ms. Fairchild home,” he says, and I shift on the bench so that I can see behind me—and find myself looking at Audrey Hepburn.

She nods at me, smiles at Damien, then turns and walks away.

Gently, he slides me off his legs. He stands, then holds his hand out for me. “Let’s go.”

My legs are weak—my whole body still limp from his ministrations. But I shove my feet back into my shoes and follow him without question. I’m confused and embarrassed and not entirely sure what to think.

We find Evelyn and say goodbye as we pass through the thinning crowd. She gives me a hug, and I promise to call her in a day or so. It’s a promise I mean to keep.

At the door, he slips his jacket around my shoulders. We walk down the sidewalk to where a limo waits in the circular drive. A liveried driver holds open the back door, and Damien gestures for me to get inside. I haven’t been in a limo since I was a kid, and I pause to take it all in. Black leather bench seats line the back and one side. On the other is a full bar, the crystal decanter and glasses twinkling from recessed lighting hidden in the polished wood of the bar. The floor is carpeted. The entire space screams luxury and money and elegance.

I sit down on the backseat so that I’m facing the front of the car. The leather is soft and warm and seems to hug my body. I glance at the door, waiting for Damien to enter.

Except that he doesn’t.

“Goodnight, Nikki,” he says, in the same business voice I heard him using earlier in the evening. “I look forward to the presentation tomorrow.”