Complete Me (19 page)

I meet Damien’s eyes. “She loves
Titanic,
” I say, by way of explanation.

“I hope this doesn’t mean you’re drowning,” he says to Jamie.

She just smiles and slowly shakes her head back and forth. “No, I’m in a happy place. This is so nice. Y’all are so nice.” She pushes herself up on her elbows. “Maybe we should go clubbing.”

“Great idea,” Damien says, as I gape. “But I’ve got a better one. How about we stay in?”

She cocks a finger at him. “Yes.
Yes.
” She looks at me. “He’s so smart.
And gorgeous, too,
” she adds in the world’s loudest stage whisper.

“I know,” I say, half-embarrassed for my friend and half-amused by her.

She squints at Damien. “I bet I can totally whoop your ass at poker,” she says.

Damien grins at me. “Who am I to decline a challenge like that?”

“She’s good,” I warn. She and Ollie and I spent a lot of long nights playing poker. “Of course she’s better when she’s sober.”

Jamie’s grin is lopsided. “Maybe I am sober. Maybe this is all just one big bluff.”

After four hands of five card draw, it’s starting to look like maybe Jamie really is sober. I’m losing spectacularly, Damien isn’t doing much better, and Jamie has a huge pile of chips in front of her.

“You should know that all of my illusions are shattered,” I tell him. “I don’t know if I can stay with a man who loses at poker.”

“But I do it with such charm,” he says.

Jamie lifts her hands in a what-can-you-do gesture. “I’m just that awesome,” she says. “Don’t say that I didn’t warn you.”

Damien leans back on the small love seat that he and I are sharing, his feet kicked out in front of him and his cards face down on the small glass table. “You both do realize that poker is a game that develops over time. It’s not about just a few hands.”

Jamie and I exchange glances before she looks back at Damien. “In other words, you’re sizing me up.”

I raise my brows. “He better not be,” I say archly.

We all laugh, but Jamie tosses down her cards, then flops backward onto the chaise. “Yeah, well, then the joke’s on you, because I think I have to pass out now.”

I wait, expecting her to say something else, but all I hear is a soft snore.

“Jamie?” I say stupidly.

“She’s out,” Damien says.

“It’s the whipped cream vodka,” I say. “That stuff’s dangerous.”

“Shall I move her inside?”

I consider getting a blanket and letting her sleep outside, but decide she’ll be better off with a mattress and real sheets and no sun blasting on her face first thing in the morning. “Can you lift her?”

“She’s tiny,” he says. “I think I can manage.” He picks her up easily, and she tilts toward him, curled up like a little girl against his chest. I hold the door open for him, and she wakes up just long enough to smile sleepily at him. I expect her to say something flirtatious and trademark Jamie. Instead, my heart squeezes when I hear her soft, “You’re so good for her. You know that, right?”

“She’s good for me,” Damien replies, squeezing my heart a little bit more.

“That’s what I mean,” Jamie says—and then she’s out again. Lost in her whipped cream haze.

I pause in the doorway before shutting her door, looking back fondly. As much of a wreck as Jamie can be, she’s still my best friend, and it’s times like this that I remember why.

“So tell me, Ms. Fairchild,” Damien says as I follow him to the master suite. “How much whipped cream vodka did
you
have?”

“Too sweet for me,” I admit. “But I ordered quite a few shots of Macallan.”

“Did you? That can increase a bar tab pretty quickly.”

I step close to him, relishing the way the air thickens with our proximity. “Well, maybe you can win it back at poker.”

“That’s an interesting wager,” he says. “I propose a small amendment.”

I cock my head. “Negotiating, Mr. Stark?”

“Always.” He takes another step toward me. He’s right there, so close that my breasts will brush against his chest if I do nothing more than take a deep breath. He leans forward until his lips are near my ear. We still do not touch, but his breath when he speaks sends shivers down my spine. “Strip poker, Ms. Fairchild.”

The heat in his voice matches the fire in his eyes, and I start to melt a bit.
 
But this opportunity is too delicious to squander and I match his gaze inch for inch, my lips curving into a smile when I see the bulge of his erection beneath his jeans. I lift my eyes slowly to meet his and find them smoldering. He cocks his head as if to say,
oh, yes.

I swallow. “All right, Mr. Stark,” I say, then turn and head toward our bedroom. I pause in the doorway and smile. “Prepare to get naked.”

My threat, however, turns out to be hollow, and twenty minutes later I have lost my flip-flops, the light sweater I was wearing to ward off the chill from the lake, and my T-shirt. I’m left wearing a short pink skirt, a pale purple thong, and a matching demi-cup bra that is cut so low that my very erect nipples are straining against the decorative lace that lines the top of each minuscule cup.

Damien is still fully dressed.

“Are you sure you don’t cheat?” I ask.

“As a rule, no. In order to see you naked, I would be sorely tempted.”

“Aha!” I aim a stern finger at him.

He laughs. “Fortunately, your massive consumption of Scotch saved me the trouble. You’re not playing your best, Ms. Fairchild.”

I raise my brows. “Have you considered that I’m just setting you up?”

“Are you? Well, that’s interesting information.” He nods at the cards I hold in my hands. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

I lay my cards down, feeling smug. “A pair of kings, ace high.”

“Not bad,” he says. “Too bad I have the other three aces.”

“You do not,” I say, but he lays the cards down and, sure enough, two red and one back ace wink up at me.

“Off with it,” he says.

I reach for the clasp at the front of my bra.

“Oh, no,” he says, then makes a twirling motion with his finger. “The skirt. I’ll get the zipper for you.”

I scowl, but comply, turning around to give him access. He presses his palm against my skin, his hand curved to cup my waist. With the other hand, he slowly tugs down the zipper. “Up,” he says, and I rise to my knees, then close my eyes and try not to tremble as his slowly eases the skirt down, his fingers grazing oh so softly on each bit of bare skin that he reveals during the process. “There you go,” he says, as I twist around to sit back down, pulling my legs free from the skirt as I do.

I’m dressed now only in the tiny bra and even tinier panties. It’s cool in the room—we’ve opened the door to the private patio—but my skin is burning. “Deal,” I say, trying to control my breathing, because with each breath my breasts rise and fall, and with each motion my nipples brush the lace. The sensation is driving me crazy. It’s rough and teasing and I can’t help but imagine the light nip of Damien’s teeth, the soft pressure of his mouth as he suckles me, the warmth of his hands as he cups my breasts. And the insistent press of his cock as he presses his body full against mine.

“Nikki.”

“What?” I jerk my head up, reality returning. Considering the way Damien is looking at me, I think he knows exactly what I was thinking.

“Your cards.”

I glance down and realize he’s already dealt. “Oh. Right.” I see the corner of his mouth twitch. “What?” I demand.

“I didn’t say a thing,” he says. “But if I had, I probably would have told you to move.”

I tilt my head. “To move?” I’m sitting on my heels, my knees and thighs together.

“On your bottom,” he says. “Your legs crossed.”

“I—why?”

“Because I want to see you,” he says.

I raise my brows. “Is that part of the game, Mr. Stark?”

“It is now. I want to see how wet you are. I want to know how much it turns you on sitting here across from me, slowly losing bits of your clothing, becoming more and more open to me. And all the while knowing that soon—very soon—I’m going to bury myself in you.”

“Oh.” My heart stutters in my chest, and I’m certain he can see the beat of my pulse in my neck.

“Now, Nikki,” he says. “You know the rules.”

“Is that a command, Mr. Stark?” My sex feels swollen and I am desperately wet. He must know it, but soon he will also see it.

“It most definitely is.”

“So if I don’t, I’ll be punished?”

His lips twitch. “I don’t think you’ll like the punishment I’d render tonight.”

“No? Why? What would you do?” I can imagine the sting of his hand upon my ass. The thrill of a cat-o’-nine-tails upon my sex. I try to imagine what naughty treat he could have in mind, but my mind isn’t working particularly well at the moment. I am needy and hot, and not just because of the Scotch or because I’m half naked. It’s because of Damien. Because he does this to me. Because I want him right now. “What would you do?” I repeat.

“It’s what I wouldn’t do,” he says, and that’s when I get it. Disobey, and he won’t touch me at all.

“That punishes us both,” I say.

“Rules are rules,” he says. “And I can be very strong when I want to. But if you think I’m bluffing . . . ” he adds, glancing at the cards as if in illustration.

I get the message. I’ve been losing at poker all night. Do I really want to lose at this, too?

I don’t. I shift my position so that my legs are in front of me. Slowly, I draw in my feet and spread my legs until I’m sitting cross-legged in front of him, my sex wide open. I can hide nothing now, and the truth is that I don’t want to.

I follow the line of Damien’s gaze to the damp spot on my thong. The telltale sign of just how wet—just how incredibly soaked with desire—that I am for him. Slowly, I lift my eyes to his. I see the heat, and feel a corresponding power. He may be the one making the rules, but I’m the one making him a little crazy.

I arch back a bit, my hands behind me for support.

“I like the view,” Damien says. “I like seeing how much you want me. How wet you are for me.”

“Am I?” I say innocently. I shift my weight to one arm, then lift my other hand. I trail my fingers up my own thigh, then trace it lightly over the silk of the thong.

“Jesus, Nikki,” Damien says, his voice ragged. But I show no pity. I run my fingertip along the side of the thong. I tilt my head up and meet Damien’s eyes. And then, slowly and deliberately, I slide my finger under the scrap of material and into my very wet, very swollen cunt. I gasp from the rush of pleasure as a shudder runs through my body, as if it’s a preview of an explosion to come.

And then, with Damien’s eyes still on me, I draw my finger up to my mouth and taste my own arousal. “Yes,” I murmur. “You’re right. I’m very, very wet for you.”

“Fuck poker,” Damien growls, sweeping his arm over the bedclothes and knocking the cards to the ground even as he grabs my thighs and tugs me toward him. The motion counterbalances me, and I fall backward so that I end up flat on my back, my legs spread, and Damien between them.

“Are you conceding the game, Mr. Stark?” I ask, my voice full of laughter.

“I am,” he says.

I raise myself upon my elbows. “I guess that means you lose.”

“No,” he says as he eases himself up over my body, then uses two fingers to flip open the clasp of my bra. “I assure you it means that I win.”

His mouth closes over my breast even as his hand slides down to stroke my clit through the soaking wet silk. The sensations coursing through me are incredible, a flurry of sparks originating from his hand and from his mouth, and I arch up, lost in the violent storm that Damien is creating inside me.

“You’re wrong, Mr. Stark,” I say, struggling to form words while I still have the power. “Tonight, we both win.”

I wake to a perfect morning. The man beside me. The sunshine streaming through the open door that leads to the master bedroom’s private patio. The light breeze blowing in from over the lake. The smell of pine and—

I frown and draw in another deep breath.
The smell of what?

“Damien, wake up.” I shake his shoulder. “Either we really set the sheets on fire, or something out there is burning.”

He is up immediately, grabbing a pair of jeans off the floor and heading toward the door. I pull on a robe and follow him so closely that I almost slam into him when he stops in the now-open doorway. “It’s not a fire,” he says. Now that I can smell it better, I agree. It’s an almost sickly sweet smell, like Christmas fudge that has burned to the bottom of the pan.

“I think I know what it is,” I say, then lead the way to the kitchen, where Jamie is frantically flipping pancakes on a griddle. She looks up at us, her expression a little bit wild, a little bit contrite.

“Sorry! I thought I’d make breakfast, but—” She indicates the stove and nearby counter as if that’s all she needs to say.

I force myself not to laugh. “I don’t think that pancakes are supposed to be served blackened,” I say, deadpan.

She tosses a dish towel at me. “I had a little trouble incorporating the chocolate chips.”

Damien pours himself a cup of coffee and leans against the counter. “As they say, it’s the thought that counts. So I hope you don’t mind if I just think about eating those.”

Jamie smirks and looks between the two of us. “Great. I’m trapped in the mountains with a couple of comedians.”

“Your choice,” Damien says in his corporate-problem-solving voice. “We either clean up and start over, or I’ll take you ladies out to breakfast.”

“You’re out of chocolate chips,” Jamie says. She grabs up the plate of burnt discs that bear no resemblance to pancakes and tosses them in the trash. “Give me fifteen minutes to shower and change.”

It actually takes us thirty to get out the door, because Damien makes the mistake of telling us that the restaurant not only makes fabulous waffles, but is also located in Arrowhead Village, an outdoor shopping center with both regular stores and high end outlets. And, obviously, neither Jamie nor I can properly shop if we’re not properly dressed.

Damien, of course, is ready in five minutes, decked out in faded jeans and a short-sleeved linen shirt over a plain cotton tee. His hair is vaguely mussed, as if he’s been standing in the wind. He looks sexy as hell—like a guy who just stepped off the pages of an ad for men’s cologne.