hotel. It’s located on the second floor of the hotel just over the reception area and across from the spa. What’s intriguing, though, is that the ceiling in the reception area is three stories high. So Periscope is located along two sides of the perimeter, and has viewing screens that allow guests to see what is going on down below. Thus the name.
Damien and I are in a secluded booth right over the main entrance, so our view encompasses the entire lobby and even a bit of the casino. It’s an interesting perspective, and makes you feel a little bit godlike, or at least like royalty. As if you are floating on a throne above the little people.
The booth is shaped like a C, and I am seated right next to Damien, my thigh brushing against his.
“I’ve been looking forward to this for a very long time, Ms. Fairchild,” he says.
“Dinner?” I ask innocently.
“You, next to me. Me, touching you.”
I lick my lips. “It seems to me that you’ve touched me plenty over the last few days.”
“I’ve been looking forward to experiencing the reality, not the fantasy. Because as spectacular as the fantasy of you is, the reality is so much better.”
I start to shift so that I can face him better, but he closes his hand over my thigh, holding me very firmly in place. “No,” he says. “I like you right where you are.”
“Do you? Why’s that?”
He starts to answer, then stops when the waiter comes with our wine and appetizers. And all the while that Damien is using his right hand to lift the wine and taste it, his left is sliding very cleverly through the slit in my dress—and I am trying very hard to breathe normally. To not tremble in anticipation or longing. To not cry out with need.
But I want to do all those things. I have had the feel of his hands upon my skin so firmly burned in my imagination for the last two days that this new reality is shocking, and all I want to do is close my eyes and enjoy the sensation of his fingertips stroking my bare thigh.
“I think I like reality,” I admit as soon as the waiter has gone away.
“Good,” he says. “So do I.”
As I watch, he dips his finger into the wine, then brushes his fingertip along my lower lip. I taste it, light and fruity, and though I haven’t yet had even one sip, I already feel light-headed.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Stark?”
“Of course.”
I raise a brow. “So you can have your way with me?”
“Do you need to be drunk for that?”
“No,” I whisper. “Anytime. Anywhere.”
“I’m very glad you feel that way, Ms. Fairchild. Because I’m thinking here, and I’m thinking now.”
“I—” I’m about to ask just what exactly he has in mind when his hand stroking lightly up my thigh makes his intent sweetly, perfectly clear.
“Damien.”
“Hush. No one will know. No one can see.”
He’s right, of course. Our booth is secluded. But it’s still decadent. Naughty.
And such a delicious turn-on.
“Close your eyes,” he says.
I hesitate, but comply. I expect him to continue his fingers’ inexorable trek up my thigh, but his hand has stopped just inches from the juncture of my thigh and pelvis. I swallow, hyperaware of the pressure of his fingertips against my skin. I’m wet, and I want to squirm. I want to silently urge him to move higher. To stop this tease.
But, of course, that is the whole point.
Damien will make me suffer—and that will make my ultimate satisfaction that much sweeter.
In the meantime, of course, I am silently cursing him.
“Open,” he says, brushing something oily over my mouth. I part my lips, and he feeds me a piece of bread dipped in oil. Then a bit of shrimp cocktail. And then an olive from the antipasto plate. All delicious. All fire to my senses.
None are the touch I truly want.
“Damien.”
That’s all I say, but I sense the shift in him immediately. I have broken. I have begged.
And now I will get my reward.
That hand that has been so patiently waiting on my thigh, burning a hole in my skin, now slides up, leaving a trail of heat in its wake.
He hasn’t touched me yet, but I tremble, the anticipation almost as powerful as the touch that I expect.
And when his fingers do slip over my bare skin, I hear his groan of surprise and satisfaction. “No underwear,” he says. “Naughty girl.”
“Is that what you