Stark After Dark (12 page)

He pours himself another shot of Scotch, and then takes a sip, as if pondering this knotty dilemma. I continue to watch him, my breathing shallow, my anticipation building. After a moment, he steps beside me again, his glass raised. I expect him to take a sip, but instead he very slowly tilts the glass above me, allowing a thin stream of liquid to fall. It splashes on my breasts, then trickles down my belly, some pooling in my navel, and some easing over my waist to dampen the sheet beneath me.

It is not cold, but I still gasp from the shock of contact, my eyes going to Damien's. I see heat and purpose, and I watch, mesmerized, as he sets the glass aside, and then slowly removes his shirt, his shorts, his briefs.

I have little enough time to enjoy the view, though, as he tells me to shut my eyes. I consider protesting, but since I know it will only earn me a blindfold, it hardly seems worth it.

And then there is his touch.

The stroke of his hands lightly over my skin, running along my sides as if to steady me. His fingertip strokes a pattern on my stomach, circles and swirls drawn with the Scotch, cooling my heated skin as the liquid caresses me.

He is touching neither my breasts nor my sex, and yet the sensation is so wildly sensual that he might as well be. I feel his touch throughout my body. Heating the flesh between my inner thighs. Making my nipples so painfully tight.

I writhe against my bonds, wanting more. Wanting everything. Wanting Damien.

And yet I can find no relief from the growing pressure of desire. This building firestorm inside me that he is so slowly and so deliberately stoking. I can only ride this wave, losing myself to the painfully sweet torment of his touch.

“Damien, please,” I murmur, but he only brushes his lips across mine.

“Frustrated, Mrs. Stark?”

“You know I am.”

He says nothing, but I swear I can hear his smile. This is what he wants, to take me to the edge, to keep me hovering there, and then—when he finally sends me spinning into the abyss—to be there to catch me as I tumble back to earth.

He lifts his hand from my body, and I whimper a bit.

“I could stand here all night, simply looking at you.” His voice is as soft as the caress he has withdrawn, and it sends shivers over me. “Seeing the way the color changes on your skin when you are aroused. The way your nipples peak and the way your stomach muscles tighten in anticipation of my touch. Every inch of you is ripe with need for me.”

“Yes,” I whisper.

Slowly he traces his fingertip from the indention at the base of my throat all the way down to my navel. I arch up, his touch sending shock waves through me, and when he stops—so close to where I crave both his touch and the explosion I know it will bring—I moan in frustration.

“I control an empire,” he says, “and I will not deny the thrill of holding that kind of power. But it is nothing compared to the way I feel when you respond to me. When my words make you smile, when my touch makes you wet. And when you are like this, bound and open, so full of trust and desire, giving yourself so completely to me—god, Nikki,” he says, his voice quivering just slightly. “I swear it's you who has the power, because only you can break me.”

I open my mouth to speak, but there are no words. And when his mouth closes over mine, I fall hungrily into the kiss, then moan in protest when he withdraws to kiss his way down my body, his mouth following the trail of the Scotch.

The sensation is as delicious as the man, and I writhe against his touch, wanting more, so much more. And Damien, thank god, delivers.

With agonizing slowness, he kisses his way down my leg, paying particular attention to the soft skin behind my knee. My muscles are tight, straining for him, and yet I can do nothing but withstand the storm of his touches.

When he reaches my ankle and undoes the bond, I have to bite back a protest. I want the freedom to move, yes, but there is no denying the pleasure of being at Damien's mercy.

I hear his soft laugh and realize that he knows exactly what I'm thinking. “Don't worry, sweetheart. I'm not even close to done with you.”

He releases my other ankle, then eases onto the bed so that he is between my legs. I am spread wide open for him, and though he is my husband—though he has seen me this intimately countless times—I cannot help the heat of a blush that spreads over me.

“Beautiful,” Damien murmurs as he lifts my legs to his shoulders. He tries to tug me closer, but I am immobile thanks to the bonds on my arms, and so he leans in, driving me crazy when he gently blows on my clit, making me gasp and squirm and then cry out as his mouth closes over my sex and his tongue sets my senses on fire.

I arch up, because it is too much, but he refuses to relent. He sucks and laves, his expert tongue teasing and tasting, pushing me higher and higher until I am so close that I can almost taste the sweetness of the coming explosion, and I long for it, pushing toward it, wanting and craving it.

And then he stops—and that swirling disk of pleasure that has been hurtling toward me fizzles, dissolving in front of me in the dark abyss of lost pleasure.

“Damien.” His name is a curse, a protest, but my words neither wound nor move him.

“Soon,” he says calmly. “Anticipation, remember?”

“Bastard,” I tease, but the word catches in my throat as he starts to lower me so that my rear is on his thighs and his fingertip skims lightly over my sex.

“I haven't fucked you like this,” he says. “You on your back, legs up, helpless. Me on my knees, holding you close, slamming deep inside you. Tell me, sweetheart, would you like that?”

I say nothing—his finger is wreaking too much havoc with my senses to let me lasso the power of speech—but my answer is in my body, and Damien well knows it. With a small chuckle, he leans sideways and opens one of the small drawers that line the cabin-side of the bed.

He reaches in and pulls out a familiar bag. It takes me a second to recognize the gift that my best friend, Jamie, and my other girlfriends presented me at my bachelorette party.

“Damien! Oh my god.”

“A goodie bag of sex toys seemed like something we should take on our honeymoon.”

We've not had the chance to play with the contents, and now he peers inside and pulls out a bullet-style vibrator and some lube. Considering how wet I am, the lube is hardly necessary. Unless…

“Damien…”

“Shhh. You're mine, remember. To have. To fuck. To do with what I will. Isn't that why you greeted me the way you did, laid out and bound for my enjoyment?”

I lick my lips. The man does have a point.

He is kneeling on the bed, and my legs are spread open on either side of him. Now he turns on the bullet and it softly vibrates in his hand. He palms it, then slides it slowly along my inner thighs. The sensation is incredible, all the more so when he brings it to my sex, teasing near but not actually stroking my clit.

Pleasure swirls around me, lifting me higher and higher as Damien teases me with the bullet until, yes, I'm literally begging to be fucked.

“Every way,” he says. “All the way.”

I nod. “Yes. Oh, god, yes.”

“Legs up,” he says, then lifts my hips and guides himself inside me. I've not been in this position with him, and as he thrusts into me, his eyes looking into mine, I have to admit I like it. I am on my back, my ass rubbing his thighs, the contact on my clit as he enters taking me higher and higher with each powerful thrust.

“Do you want more?” Damien's voice is low and sensual and rolls over me like a touch.

“I want everything.”

I hear the buzz of the vibrator, then feel the cool gel on his fingertips as he readies my ass. I bite my lower lip in anticipation, forcing myself to relax as he inserts the bullet. I sigh with pleasure from the sensation of being completely filled by both Damien and this toy, and also from the exquisite tingle of the vibrations dancing inside me, growing stronger with each of Damien's thrusts inside me.

“Dear god,” he says, and the deep groan that lights his voice lets me know that he can feel it, too.

The sensation builds, growing so wild and burning so hot that I am not entirely sure if it is pleasure or pain. All I know is that it lifts me. That it takes me. And that it is not just this jet that is making me soar. It is the man inside me.

Harder and harder he thrusts, and I meet each motion, drawing him in, deeper and deeper. I want to get lost in him. Already I do not know where I end and he begins. All I know is pleasure. All I know is Damien.

Damien, who sets the world spinning wild around me.

Damien, who commands the earth, the stars, the universe, and me.

Damien, who has brought me to the brink.

“Damien,”
I cry as everything that I am shifts and tilts and bursts in a wild cacophony of light and sensation that wash over me with such violence and joy it is a wonder that I can survive.

And yet I do, and it is Damien who pulls me back. Whose soft touch strokes me. Whose gentle kisses bring me down. Who holds me close and keeps me safe. “Damien,” I murmur, as the softness pulls me under and I succumb to the warm, languid pull of exhaustion.
I am his,
I think.
I am loved.

When I come back to myself, Damien cleans me up and frees my arms, and I stretch, reveling in the sensation of once again having the use of all my limbs. The bed is small, but I like it. I curl up behind him, my face snuggled up against his shoulder and my legs twined with his. I am floating somewhere in that state between waking and dreams, and idly wondering if it is really necessary to ever move again. At the moment, I think I could stay like this forever, drifting through the sky with the man I love.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“For what?” His voice is soft, too, and I think that if I close my eyes and let go, I will find him right next to me in that dream world.

“For loving me.”

He is silent for a moment, then rolls over so that we are facing each other. Gently, he brushes a stray lock of hair away from my eyes. “I've seen what's in your heart,” he says. “How could I help but love you?”

I let his words glide over me, as warm and soothing as a blanket. “You're very good at that, you know.”

“At what?”

“At making me feel as special with your words as you do with your body.”

“How many times have I told you, Nikki? I will always give you what you need.”

I ease forward and press a soft kiss to the tip of his nose. “Thank you for this honeymoon,” I say. I'm not sure what answer I expect. A smile, perhaps. Or a tease. Even some romantic words.

Instead, I see a shadow in his eyes.

“Damien?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry. I was just thinking about our hotel in Paris.”

“Problem?”

“I certainly hope not.”

I frown. I'm still confused, but tell myself that there must have been some sort of snafu that was troubling him. But even that seems odd, because Damien is the kind of guy who simply tells someone to fix something, then forgets about it, knowing damn well that his staff will make it happen. Then again, this is our honeymoon. So perhaps he's taking more of an interest in the details. I snuggle closer, the thought pleasing me.

“Don't go to sleep just yet,” he says, though his voice sounds as lazy as I feel.

“I'm not sure I have a choice in the matter. You've thoroughly relaxed me.”

“I know the feeling, and while I do want you well rested for when we land, the fact is that Katie will be here soon with our dinner. And before she comes, I have a present for you.”

“Really?” Despite the fact that I'm already feeling deliciously spoiled, I'm as delighted as a child at the idea of a gift. I sit up. “What?”

He chuckles, obviously amused at my eagerness. He sits up as well, then trails his fingers casually over my bare thigh before standing and moving to the door. There is a leather folio on the ground. It wasn't there before, so he must have entered with it, and I was too lost in a sensual haze to notice.

I make a small noise of satisfaction as he bends over, naked, to pick up the folio. “If my present is this view, I like it already,” I say.

“Minx,” he counters, making me laugh.

He returns to sit by me, then places the notebook in my hands. It is leather bound and zips around the edges. On the cover, embossed in the leather, are the words,
To Nikki. Because you are my world, I give you the world.

My heart seems to skip a beat, and I look up at him, my eyes wide so as to prevent the tears that I know are inevitable.

He brushes a soft kiss over my lips. “Open it.”

I unzip the case and open it, revealing the map of Europe he gave me the day he asked me to marry him. On that day, there were stickers only on Munich and London. Now the map is splattered with stickers, as if a wash of confetti has fallen atop it.

I tilt my head to look at him, pleased but not entirely sure I'm seeing the bigger picture.

From the twinkle in Damien's eye, I think he understands my confusion. He reaches over and turns the page, revealing a map of North and Central America. South America is on the next page, then Asia, then Africa, then Australia.

“I only gave you Europe, when I'd wanted to give you the world.”

“You gave me that a long time ago,” I say, feeling sappy and romantic and warm and loved. I flip back to the page with Central America and put my finger on the dot covering Mexico. “It was a beautiful wedding,” I say. “And an exceptional wedding night.”

His arm goes around my shoulders and I lean against him. “Are there more stickers?”

“In the back,” he says, and I flip to the end and find a little pocket with a sheet of colorful dots. I peel one off, then find the page for Europe again. The continent is as colorful as a rainbow, and the only real gap is directly over Paris, the one major destination we didn't spend any time in during our Grand Tour. I'd expected we would—after all, Damien had taken me there to meet the man who designed my wedding dress—but we'd gone straight from the airport to Favreau's studio, then spent a night in a nearby hotel before I returned to the studio the next day to try on the basted-together dress that Favreau had worked on through the night. Once both Favreau and I were satisfied, Damien had whisked me back to the jet.

When I'd asked why we were rushing off to Italy, Damien had been surprisingly vague. I had considered telling him that I wanted to stay—that I wanted to see the sights and soak in the atmosphere of that famous, vibrant city. But I had seen something in Damien's eyes, and so I had remained silent, confident that wherever Damien took me, simply being with him would be enough.

Now I carefully put the dot over Paris.

I tilt my head so that I am looking at him again and grin. “I can't wait,” I confess. “I've always wanted to explore Paris.”

His smile seems hesitant, and for just the flicker of an instant, I think I see shadows in his eyes again. I take his hand. “If you'd rather go someplace else, that's okay. We didn't do Japan, and you sounded pretty keen on that.”

His brow furrows in what I recognize as genuine confusion.

“I just mean—it's our honeymoon. I want us to go somewhere that we both like….” I trail off, now as confused as Damien looks.

His expression fades quickly enough, though, and he laughs out loud, all trace of the earlier shadows erased. “Sweetheart, I love Paris.”

“Oh.”

“I would say I'm sorry that we didn't spend time there on our last trip, but I'm not,” he adds, making me even more confused. He knows it, too. And he's enjoying himself, the bastard.

I narrow my eyes and cross my arms over my chest, trying to look stern but probably not managing too well. “You love it? Then why on earth didn't we sightsee or go to restaurants or take a stroll along the Seine when we were there? I mean, we traipsed all over Europe. We couldn't squeeze in an extra day or two after my dress fitting?”

“One, I don't traipse,” he says, making me laugh out loud. “And two, I wanted to save it.”

“For what?”

“For you.”

I am truly baffled now. Smiling, Damien lifts my hand and kisses each of my fingertips. “Paris is light and love and romance,” he whispers. “And so are you. I knew from the first time I touched you that I would explore Paris with you. But only as my wife.”

His words squeeze tight around me, constricting my chest with the force of our shared emotion. I open my mouth to say his name, but my throat is too thick, and even that one simple word cannot escape.

Slowly, a tear trickles down my cheek. I think of everything that fills his world, from high-level, high-stress business deals to the employees who rely on him for their livelihood, and yet there is never a time when he doesn't put me first. When he doesn't make me feel treasured and special.

He gently brushes the tears from my face. “That's not the reaction I was hoping for,” he says, his smile as soft as his voice.

“You fill my heart, Damien.” The words come in a whisper, but on their heels a laugh bubbles out of me. “Don't mind the tears,” I say. “I'm just overflowing.”

He takes me in his arms and I hug him tight, my face pressed against his chest, the steady rhythm of his heart like a coded message, promising me that nothing can ever, ever come between us.

I'm not sure how long we stay like that—possibly a few minutes, possibly an eternity—but we move only in response to a sharp knock at the door and Katie's crisp voice saying from the hall, “I'm so sorry to interrupt, but there's a satellite call from Ms. Brooks,” she says, referring to Damien's assistant, Sylvia.

Damien sighs as he stands and runs his hands through his hair. “I thought I was clear, Katie. Unless there's an emergency, I'm not to be disturbed.”

“I know, Mr. Stark. But the call isn't for you. It's for Nikki—I mean, for Mrs. Stark. And Ms. Brooks is convinced that it's urgent.”