Stark After Dark (11 page)

I sit bolt upright, my skin covered in a thin sheen of sweat, my breath coming hard and fast. We are on the oversized patio chaise lounge, and Damien's arm is around me. He pulls me back down to him, his voice so soft and gentle that I understand only the sentiment and not the words.
It's okay. I'm here. You're safe.

I close my eyes, letting his strength fill me. And when I have taken all I need, I turn to him. “I'm okay now,” I say. “You can let go.”

He brushes my lips with a kiss. “Never.”

I burrow closer, then smile against his shoulder. That one simple word is as comforting as a down blanket in winter, and I am content, the rough edges of the dream finally smoothed away by this man who loves me.

“Do you want to tell me about it?”

“No,” I say, then find the words coming anyway. How he was pulled away from me. How everything in the sea seemed to conspire to keep us apart. How I found him dead in water that had been comforting only moments before, but then turned suddenly menacing.

“I couldn't bring you back,” I say, feeling the tears well again.

“But you did,” he says. He pulls me close and captures my mouth with his. The kiss starts out sweet, then turns hot and hard, demanding and possessive. “You
did,
” he repeats once he has released me. “And you will never have cause to bring me back again, because I will never leave you. I was foolish enough to do that before, and it just about killed us both.”

I nod, then take another deep breath, steadying myself. Because I know the truth in what he is saying. Damien wouldn't leave me any more than I would leave him. And yet fear still clutches me, its sharp talons digging in and taking hold.

Now that I have shaken off sleep, I think I understand the nature of my fears. Despite being married—despite being taken, claimed,
possessed
by this man that I love so dearly—I am desperately, horribly afraid of losing him, no matter how determined we are to stay together.

I finger my wedding ring. I thought that I would have no fears once he slipped it on my finger. But even matrimony cannot erase reality, and I know that there are still things out there. Things like Damien's murder trial. Yes, the case was dismissed. But what if it hadn't been? He would have been ripped from me, forced to spend his life behind bars. And there is neither a vow nor a ring that can protect us from that.

The trial, thank god, is in the past. But there are still horrors lurking in the world. Things that could tear him from me. Things that could crash into our lives, trying to force us apart. His father, for one, who surely isn't done trying to get a piece of Damien. Or Sofia. I can't blame her, his childhood friend, for loving Damien, but I can damn well blame her for trying to rip us apart. She's locked away now, her past and the world having taken their own toll, and while Damien receives regular reports from the doctors that say she is improving, I don't think she will ever be well enough to hold tight to sanity in a world where Damien and I are together.

And yet at the same time, I know that Damien still loves her like a sister, even though what she did came close to destroying both of us. He declined her request to come to our wedding, and although he had sounded casual when he told me, I know that the necessity of keeping her away hurt him. I can only imagine how much it had angered her, and I stifle a shiver, more glad than I like to admit that she is far away, bound to her treatment by court order.

As if that weren't enough, there is also my mother, the paparazzi, ex-bosses, ex-lovers, the press, competitors, and god only knows who else. It's a big world, and when you cast as long a shadow as Damien, you make a lot of enemies. And Damien's enemies are mine now, too.

I was wrong in the dream, I realize. The ocean wasn't Damien. The ocean was the world. And the world is brutal.

When Damien's hand closes over mine, I realize that I have been unconsciously stroking one of the long scars on my thigh. I wince, both embarrassed and disturbed. I do not cut anymore—with Damien, I don't need to. Not even when my thoughts turn dark and fear seeps into me.

Yet here I am, groping for that pain, barely even conscious of the need to find my center, and that simple fact scares me. Because I do not understand the insecurity that has led me to touch that most horrible of souvenirs.

I wait for Damien to comment on it, but he doesn't. Instead, he gently traces my wedding ring. After a moment, he says only, “I was wrong back in Malibu.”

I frown. “What are you talking about?”

“I told you we didn't need the ceremony. That it was just a formality because you and I were already one. I was wrong.”

I cock my head. “We're not one?”

He chuckles. “About that, I was right on the money. But I was wrong about not needing the ceremony.”

“You were? How?”

“How many times have we faced the world together and survived?” he asks, and I know right now that he understands my fears. “How many times has that world tried to tear us apart? Your mother, Sofia, the past?”

I don't answer, but it doesn't matter; he is not expecting me to.

“Our wedding is our bond. Our promise and our proof. It's a symbol to the world around us that we'll fight and that we'll win. Most of all, that we are one.”

He spreads his fingers, his eyes locked on his own ring. “A simple silver band,” he says. “But it's made of titanium, and that's about as strong as it gets.” He meets my eyes, and I am awed by the ferocity reflected back at me. “There's nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart. Not anymore.”

I look down at my own ring, a platinum band accompanying a stunning diamond solitaire. “Maybe I should trade this in for titanium.”

“Not necessary,” he says, as he takes my hand, holding it so that our two rings touch. “I will always give you the strength you need.”

“I know.” I wish there was a way to fill the sound of my voice with everything that is inside me. I clutch tight to his hand and pull him toward me as I stretch out on the chaise. “I want you now,” I say. “I want to feel my husband inside me.”

His grin is slightly wicked and slightly amused. “Convenient,” he says. “Because at the moment I'm overcome by the urge to ravish my wife.”

I manage a fake yawn and pat my hand over my mouth. “
So
unoriginal. After all, you did that just a few hours ago.”

“And you have a better idea?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” I shift on the chaise so that I am straddling him. “I was thinking that I should ravish my husband.”

“Were you?” He is on his back, and I am sitting just above his pubic bone. I feel his cock twitch, teasing my ass. I rise up, then scoot backward just a bit. He is fully erect now, and I hold his cock with one hand while I wiggle my hips to position myself. I keep my eyes on Damien as I do and watch the storm building. He knows what I'm up to—how could he not?—but that doesn't stop his groan of surprise and pleasure when I quickly lower my body, impaling myself on his steel-hard cock.

“Yes,” I say in answer to his question. “I was.”

My voice is breathy, and I rock a bit as I speak, using my knees to rise up and down. I ride him hard and fast, my back arched, my breath coming in ragged bursts. I do not close my eyes, and in unspoken agreement, neither does he.

Damien Stark is as necessary to me as my blood. He is what makes me whole, what makes me alive. And as I move on him—as I feel him hard inside me, so vibrant and vital—I watch the passion burn like fire in his eyes and know with unerring certainty that it is the same for him.

“Now.” Without warning, he grasps me by the hips. I cry out as both pain and pleasure rock through me when he slams me harder against him, thrusting his cock even deeper so that I feel the shock of him through every cell, filling me until I'm right on the precipice.

“Come with me now,” he says, and the passion and need in his voice push me that rest of the way over. My sex clenches tight around him, and I cry out from the force of the explosion that rips through my body even as Damien's hips thrust up and he empties himself into me.

I fall forward, my heart pounding and my body trembling as the final shocks of both my own orgasm and his rumble through me. “Damien,” I murmur.

“I know,” he replies.

Later, we spoon together, drifting in that place that is neither sleep nor wakefulness. He is behind me, his body tucked against mine, making me feel safe and warm. So much so that I make a soft noise of protest when he pushes himself up on an elbow.

He chuckles in response to my protest, and I am about to voice my objections even more loudly when he begins to trail his finger lightly over my side, along the curve of my waist and hip. I sigh and snuggle backward, ensuring maximum contact. Right then, I feel so light, warm, and sated, so satisfied I think I could simply melt into the mattress. “Please tell me that I never have to move again.”

“I could tell you that.” I hear the hint of a tease in his voice. “I could probably even make it happen, though it would be an expensive proposition. Another couple has rented this bungalow, and I believe they're scheduled to arrive in just under five hours.”

I roll over in his arms. “Another—”

“And if you never move again we'd undoubtedly miss our plane. Not to mention the honeymoon I've planned.”

I sit up, enjoying the way the cool air caresses my heated skin.

“Well,” Damien says. “I do like this view.” He traces his finger lightly over my breast, and my already erect nipple becomes even tighter.

“Honeymoon?” I repeat. “I thought this—” But I cut myself off. Of course this isn't our actual honeymoon destination. While I had been planning our wedding, Damien had been planning the honeymoon. But our decision to elope had been last-minute, and Damien had taken care of that, too. Only now do I realize that I had been assuming the two destinations were one and the same. Clearly, that assumption sat somewhere to the left of reality.

“Okay,” I say after making all the necessary mental readjustments. “Where are we going?”

“Where? Were you not listening earlier? Honeymoon tradition. Remote location. Intense seduction.” He draws a lazy pattern on my bare breasts, leaving a trail of heat and renewed desire.

“I'm all for intense seduction,” I admit. “But if you're expecting to get me out of bed, you're going at it all wrong.”

“You may have a point.” There's laughter in his voice, and he's sporting a smug grin as he eases off the chaise lounge. “I can't tell you, but maybe a hint.”

I watch as he moves back inside, then returns moments later with a small jewelry box. He hands it to me, and I open it slowly, wanting to savor the surprise. Inside is a delicate bracelet with a single silver charm.

The Eiffel Tower.

I gasp, then throw my arms around Damien's neck. “We're really going to Paris?”

“We really are,” he says.

I laugh, delighted.
“Merci,”
I say, drawing on my rusty high school French. And though he knows it already, I add,
“Je t'aime. Beaucoup
.
”

“I love you, too,” he says. “So very much.”

The buttery leather of the Bombardier's passenger seat envelops me, and I breathe deep, frustrated by how antsy I am despite feeling at home in Damien's private jet. Correction,
one
of Damien's private jets. As best I can tell, he has a fleet of them.

Correction again—
our
private jet, as Damien keeps reminding me. I never aspired to own a jet—and I have a sneaking suspicion that Damien's accountants and lawyers and other Big Important Advisor Types would say that I still don't—but I can't deny the coolness factor. After all, not so long ago I was driving a battered Honda with an equally battered transmission. I think a private jet definitely constitutes a step up in the world.

Damien had flown us out of the resort in the prop plane, and we'd met up with Grayson, who was now in the cockpit, along with Damien and the co-pilot. Damien has co-piloted the jet before, but that is not on the agenda today. Instead, he's only gone up front to attend to something, and I am anxious for him to return.

I press my hand onto the leather of the seat beside me and am comforted by its warmth. With Damien beside me, I was fine. But now the dream has moved back in, small wisps of fear that Damien's simple presence had battled back, but which can run free and wreak havoc when he is away from me. Intellectually, I know that he is only discussing the flight plan with Grayson and generally making sure that all of our travel arrangements are in place and confirmed. But even knowing that, I can't help but think that my dream was a portent, and that no matter how desperately we might want our honeymoon to be a romantic bubble, the world is going to put up a fight.

I grimace and tighten my grip on the stack of magazines in my lap.
Yeah? Well, bring it on. Because together, Damien and I can face anything.

“Is there anything you need, Mrs. Stark?”

I jump, startled, and look up to find Katie, the fleet's senior flight attendant, smiling at me. I glance down at my hands, and see that my knuckles are white against the dark cover of this month's
Wired
magazine. I try to relax. “I'm fine. Just tired.”

“Of course,” she says, and though her face remains perfectly polite, I can't help but think I hear a hint of amusement in her voice, and my cheeks heat in response. I'm a newlywed, after all. “The stateroom is made up for you now.”

“Oh,” I say stupidly. I've flown on this jet a number of times now, so I'm perfectly familiar with the stateroom, and often spend the trip back there once we've reached altitude. What I'm wondering is why I'm going there without Damien.

My question must be all over my face, because now Katie does smile. “Mr. Stark said that he'd join you there momentarily.”

“Right,” I say, feeling a little foolish. I tuck my stack of magazines under my arm, then ease out of the plush seat and head toward the back of the plane. I think of Katie's promise that Damien will be coming soon, and my body warms with pleasant anticipation. The flight to Paris will take approximately ten hours. Considering how hard and fast we've been going since we left Los Angeles, I know that we should get some sleep if we don't want to pass out from jet lag and exhaustion right there on the rue de Rivoli
.
But even if we crash for a full eight hours, that still leaves two delicious hours all to ourselves.

I hurry the rest of the way, but when I open the door I see that once again, Damien Stark is ahead of the curve. The room glows with candlelight, an unexpected reality that makes me laugh out loud. Who but Damien would think of candlelight on an airplane?

Of course, these are faux candles, but the illumination is just as romantic, and the flickering light from dozens of scattered candles gleams off the room's polished wood and casts dancing shadows that under other circumstances could seem menacing, but tonight are both inviting and comforting.

The narrow bed is still made, the pristine white duvet covered with rose petals. I smile, thinking of the tub back in our Mexican bungalow. Our honeymoon, it seems, has a theme.

There is no champagne, but the small bedside table is topped by a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan next to two crystal highball glasses, and I grin. Before meeting Damien, my drink of choice was bourbon. More recently, though, I've discovered the pleasures of single malt Scotch.

All in all, the room is a delight, and I can't help but think that we will likely be getting less than our full eight hours, after all. Not a problem; I'm more than willing to sacrifice sleep for Damien.

I pour myself a shot of Scotch, neat, then sit on the edge of the bed and sip it, savoring the slow burn and the way I can feel the heat spreading through me. I toss back the rest, then close my eyes and let the slow buzz tingle through me. We didn't eat dinner, and the Scotch is strong. Not as strong as my thoughts of Damien, though, and between my buzz and my desire I am beginning to squirm a bit in frustration.

My nipples tighten, rubbing almost painfully against the fitted bodice of my sundress. I reach up, cupping my breasts, imagining that it is Damien's hands upon me. Damien, who knows my desires as well as I know them. Maybe even better.

I think of the way he took me in the shower. Of the tub filled with scented water and rose petals. This cabin filled with candlelight.

He did that for me. To please and seduce me.

I smile to myself with just a hint of mischief.
Now
, I think
, it's my turn.

I stand just long enough to unzip the sundress and slide the spaghetti straps off my shoulders. I wriggle it off my hips and then toss it across the room so that I am standing naked in front of the bed. I'm not wearing underwear—a nod to the game that Damien and I used to play—but he hasn't yet discovered that little secret. That's okay, though. There's plenty of time for discovery once we get to Paris.

Right now, I have a different kind of surprise in mind, and since I don't know how much longer Damien will be in the cockpit, I know that I have to hurry. I turn and assess the bed, trying to think. I have something in mind, and after a few seconds of mental gymnastics, I think I've figured out how to pull it off.

By the time I hear the light tap at the door, I am ready.

“Who is it?” I call, just in case it is Katie.

“It's me,” he says, and because I am already so desperate for him, the simple sound of his voice makes my body tremble and my sex clench with need.

“Come in,” I say, but it doesn't matter. He has already turned the knob and the door is pushing inward.

“Sorry about that,” he says, still in the hallway. “There was some mix-up with the flight plan, and—”

He breaks off, sucks in air, and shuts the door fast behind him. Then he stands frozen, his eyes taking in every inch of me, the examination so slow and methodical that I almost believe that his gaze is a physical touch.

I am naked and mostly spread-eagled on the bed. The thing about jets is that seat belts are required, and though Damien and I routinely sit in the more traditional main cabin during takeoff and landing, even the stateroom's bed has belts that can be used in the case of turbulence.

Or in the case of seduction.

It had only taken a few moments to use the straps and buckles on the far end of the bed to secure my ankles. Much trickier had been the task of securing my left hand above me. But I'd managed it. Now that arm is extended and bound, leaving me more or less immobile. Only my right hand is free, and I can tell simply from the rhythm of Damien's breathing that he is well aware of the way the fingers of my free hand are stroking my very wet, very sensitive sex.

“Christ, Nikki.”

I just grin, feeling both desirable and very, very smug. I know damn well what he is looking at, and the surge of feminine power at having both surprised and silenced Damien Stark makes me more than a little giddy.

“Hi,” I say, my voice low and sultry. “I poured you a drink. Why don't you get it and come over here?”

“I don't know,” he says. “I'm having a fine time just standing here and watching.”

“Really?” I keep my voice light, but soft. And as I speak, my fingers never leave my sex. “I'm having a nice time, too.”

“So I see.”

“Mmm.” I slide a finger deep inside myself, lifting my hips and releasing a low, desperate moan as I do. My plan may have been to get Damien worked up, but it's working equally well on me, and I'm so damned aroused right now that it is all I can do not to take myself all the way, then watch Damien's face as I shatter in front of him.

But no. This isn't a solo act. I want his hands, his mouth. I want to feel him on top of me. I want his cock inside me.

I want the wildness, the release. I want to see Damien Stark's famous control shatter, and I want to know that I am the one who did that to him.

Wife,
I think.

Damn right.

I keep my eyes on his face, then withdraw my hand. Slowly, I trail my finger up my belly, then over my cleavage. When I trace a circle around my nipple, I see a muscle tighten in his cheek. But when I bring my hand to my mouth and draw my finger in between my lips, his composure breaks and he actually growls even as he crosses to me in one long stride.

I laugh, delighted, then slowly slide my finger out from between my lips. I smile up at him, my eyes wide and innocent. “Feeling a bit desperate, Mr. Stark?”

“With you, always.”

I sigh with satisfaction. I feel exactly the same way.

He is standing even with my shoulder, his hip brushing the side of the bed. Now he reaches out to trace his fingers up my bare arm until he reaches the strap that binds my wrist in place. “Interesting,” he murmurs, then steps backward, letting his fingers trail behind him as he moves, so that he is lightly stroking my ribs, my waist, my hip.

After a moment, though, he steps away from the bed, leaving me bereft when his fingertips leave my skin. I suck in air, only then realizing that I'd forgotten to breathe. He goes to the table, picks up his glass of Scotch, then takes a sip. Throughout it all, his eyes never leave me.

I lay there—I can do nothing else—and as I do, my skin begins to tingle. There is never a time when I am not aware of Damien. When I can't conjure the sensation of his fingers on my skin or his lips upon my cheek. I have only to think of him, and I can feel him.

But this is different. This is anticipation mixed with need. This is heat. This is the knowledge that I have offered myself for him to do with me what he will—and I do not know how far he will go with that. I only know that wherever he takes me, I will go willingly.

“I wonder,” he says, and then says no more.

I try not to respond, but the word comes despite my efforts. “What?”

His smile is slow and wide and just a little devious. His dual-colored eyes crinkle a little, adding a bit more devilish flair. “I wonder what you would do if I just stood here for the rest of the flight and enjoyed the view.”

I'm not worried. He's wearing loose-fitting shorts, but they don't hide his erection. My husband wants me as much as I want him. “We've barely gotten underway,” I say. “Ten hours is a long time to stand. And there's no other seat in this room.”

He glances around as if to verify my observation. Then he moves back another step so that he is leaning against the door. “I'm sure I can make do. I'm capable of putting up with all types of self-denial. At least so long as the prize at the end is worth it.”

“Oh.” I shift a bit uncertainly on the bed. I know damn well he speaks the truth. I know even better that I am the prize—his wife, hot and wild and a little bit crazed with desire, all the more so because she has been teased and tempted, and yet denied.

I drag my teeth over my lower lip as I watch him. He's not smiling, and yet there is no denying the spark of amusement lighting his face. “You wouldn't,” I say, projecting a note of certainty in my voice that I don't actually feel.

“Wouldn't I?” He takes a sip of Scotch, studying me. “Funny, I thought you knew me better than that.”

“Dammit, Damien,” I say, not certain if I'm pissed or amused. The only thing I am certain of is the feel of my body. The way my skin seems to fit just a little too tight and my breasts are a bit too heavy. My nipples are so damn sensitive that even the faint movement from my heartbeat makes them tingle in a silent demand for more. And my sex—oh, Christ, I'm so damn wet, so swollen, so painfully, desperately, needfully turned on, that even the lightest brush of my fingertips sends shock waves through me and makes my cunt throb in demand. I want him inside me—no, I
need
him inside me. But if he's going to torment me…

“No,” he says, as I boldly stroke myself, imagining that my touch is Damien's, and then arching up as a series of sparks like tiny fireflies begin to dance inside me, a precursor to the lightning storm that is coming.

He crosses to the bed and takes my hand, his thumb brushing lightly over my sex in the process, like some form of casual torment. “No,” he says again as he lifts my hand above my head, then uses the same seat-belt strap that I'd used for the left one to bind this hand as well.

I am completely immobile now. My hands are strapped above my head, bound together at my wrists. My legs are bound on either side of the bed, leaving me wide open and ready. I am naked and helpless and entirely at Damien's mercy.

I am wild with anticipation, and so aroused that the tightness in my nipples is almost painful, and my sex is so primed for his touch that I fear I will come from nothing more than the weight of his eyes upon me.

“Well,” he says, as if to himself. “What does a man do when faced with unlimited possibilities?”

I don't answer. I'm too entranced by the expression on his face, like a man who has just opened an incredible gift. It is a look—among so many others—that I have come to know well. It's a look that says he loves me. More than that, it's a look that says he desires me.