“Did you know you glow?” he asks. He is trailing kisses down my cleavage, to my belly, to the waistline of my skirt. I tense, afraid he’s going to slide the skirt the rest of the way down over my hips and leave me exposed in the tiny bikini panties I put on that morning.
He doesn’t, though, and I glory in the brief reprieve. Instead, he pulls me roughly to him, then shifts our positions, so that he is the one leaning against the bar, and I am in front of him. “Turn around,” he says roughly, but doesn’t wait for me to comply. Instead he turns me, and I feel his mouth tug at my earlobe even as one of his hands closes over my naked breast.
His other hand snakes around my waist, and he pulls me tighter against him. I gasp, both in surprise from the quick motion and from the pressure of his denim-clad cock against the swell of my ass.
“Damien,” I whisper, my voice a plea. But whether I’m begging him to stop or continue, even I don’t know.
His mouth is at my ear, his voice so carnal, so full of lust, it makes my clit throb. “I’m going to fuck you, Nikki. Pleasure? We’re going to blow the roof off pleasure. I’m going to make you beg for it. I’m going to claim you. I’m going to tease you. I’m going to torment you. And you’re going to come for me like you’ve never come in your life.”
I can barely breathe I’m so turned on by the power of his words. And as he’s talked, his hand has been snaking down under the waistband of my skirt, over my panties to cup my swollen, dripping cunt.
“You’re so wet,” he whispers. “Oh, baby, you’re soaking.”
I make some sort of rough noise in my throat. Maybe a response, I’m not sure. I’m shifting my weight shamelessly, wanting to feel his fingers against my swollen clit. What was it he’d said about making me beg? I was on the verge right then.
He roughly yanks my panties to the side, and in what feels like one movement, he slides two fingers into me. “Tell me you like that.” His voice is rough, demanding.
“Yes. God, yes.” My vagina spasms around him as his fingers move in and out, finger-fucking me, teasing my clit, and sending me higher and higher until I’m close, so close, so close.
I cry out as he pinches my nipple, and the delicious pain triggers my release. I come in violent, shuddering waves, his fingers still inside me, my body trying to draw him in, to keep him there, to hold on to the moment.
“Nikki,” he whispers, gently pulling out of me. He turns me around—I am a limp rag—and his mouth closes over the tender nipple. He suckles it, pinching and pulling at the other one, the sensation of near-pain keeping my sensitive sex throbbing. Slowly, he kisses his way down my cleavage, my belly. I’m still in my skirt, and as his tongue dips into and out of my belly button, I hear the rough scrape of his palms over the raw silk of my skirt.
I am jelly. I am lost in a haze. I am floating.
But even here in my new heaven, that low rumble of fear is growing. I know what’s coming, and even though I want it—want him—I don’t think I’m strong enough yet to stand it. But maybe … maybe …
He wants you. Your snark. Your attitude.
I cling to Jamie’s words, hoping, even as Damien whispers that I’m beautiful, beautiful, so very, very beautiful. “I have to taste you,” he says. “I want to lick all of that sweetness up and then kiss you. I want you to know how fucking amazing you taste.”
His hands have reached the hem of my skirt, and now his fingers graze along my stockings as he pushes the skirt up, up until he’s reached the band of my thigh-high stocking, and I’m no longer breathing and holding so tight to his shoulders that I fear I may break a bone.
And then his hands are on my flesh, rising above the tops of the stockings, and he’s stroking the soft inner thigh, and I know the hard, swollen ugliness he’ll feel as his hands climb higher and higher. I tense, fighting shame and fear and pain and memories. They beat their way in, through the haze of lust and desire. Through the sweet moment of being in Damien’s arms.
I try to battle it back, the voice in my head that tells me to run. I don’t want to run. I want to try. I want to stay and I want to feel and I want to get lost in Damien’s touch. I’m so hot and I almost believe what Jamie has said about him wanting me, me, me.
But then he whispers the one word that destroys everything. The one word that makes the fantasy disappear.
“Perfect,” he says. “Dear God, Nikki, you’re perfect.”
12
I jerk away, twisting sideways and banging my thigh against the side of the bar as I shove free from Damien’s embrace.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t look at him. “I have to go. I’m sorry.” I yank my skirt down and reach back to zip it. My fingers shake as I button my blouse. I don’t bother with my bra, but hold my jacket closed with one hand as I hurry toward his foyer.
“Nikki—”
There’s pain and confusion in his voice, and I feel like shit because I’m the reason it’s there and he doesn’t deserve this. I should have cut this off sooner. Hell, I should have cut it off last night.
“I’m sorry,” I say again, even though it’s lame. I’m at the elevator, and the doors open the instant I press the button. I’m relieved; I was afraid I’d have to wait for it. But then I realize that Damien is on the premises, so of course his elevator is going to be parked wherever he is.
I step inside and stand erect until the doors shut tight. Then I melt against the glass panel and let the tears flow. I have fifty-seven floors to get them out of my system. No, sixty, because my car’s on the third parking level.
When the car eases to a stop, I hastily wipe my face and stand up straight, sliding my mask back into place as I fluff my hair and flash a quick smile at the mirror. Perfect.
But my act isn’t necessary. There’s no one waiting when the doors open. Still, I keep the mask on and the act up as I make the long walk across the Stark Tower side of the parking structure to the area beneath the bank building wherein C-Squared is housed. My car is on the far side, and I’m walking fast now, because I can feel the cracks all over me. I’m going to shatter soon, I know it, and I need to be in my car when I do.