Complete Me (27 page)

“Spread your legs—that’s my girl. Now stay still for just a moment.”

My skin prickles, as if my body is anticipating his touch and is protesting that his hands aren’t upon me and his cock isn’t deep inside me. Then his eyes drift lower still. I don’t move, even though I know what he is seeing. The scars. Not too long ago, I would have curled up on the floor and cried if someone looked at me so intently. Hell, that is exactly what I did when Damien did that very thing. Sometimes it amazes me how fast my world has changed with Damien in it. And not just my world, but me. He’s my anchor. Something to hold on to as I dig deep inside myself to find a strength I never even knew existed.

Somehow, though, Damien always knew that it was there. More, he trusted that I would find it, too.

He has always seen so much. Not just the beauty queen. Not just the scars. He’s seen all of me, and no matter whether I’m in panties and high heels or the most couture of evening gowns, I am always standing naked before him.

Once upon a time, I would have found that thought terrifying. Now, I take comfort in it.

But this is not a moment for deep reflection, nor do I want to think about scars or strength or the battles that we have fought. All I want is Damien. And I want him right now.

Boldly, I take a step toward him.

“No,” he says. “Stop.”

“Stop?”

He arches a brow.

I cock my head a bit to indicate I understand, then raise a brow. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Now spread your legs, just a little. That’s right,” he says when I comply. “Stay like that.”

I am about two feet from him, and breathing hard. He is sitting in the chair, which puts him about eye level with the red swath of material that barely covers my sex.

Slowly, he lifts his eyes. “There’s something I want,” he says.

Shock waves cut through my body, because I want it, too. I want Damien inside me. I want his cock in my mouth, in my cunt. I want him to whisper to me, to make love with words in that extraordinary way that he has. I want him to fuck me so hard and so deep that I cry out from that singularly exquisite pleasure that is wrapped up in pain.

Most of all, I want him to touch me.

I start to take a step toward him, but he stops me with a single shake of his head. It is a miracle that I don’t weep with frustration.

“Not that,” he says.

I swallow, suddenly uncertain. “Then what?”

“I want to watch.”

“Damien . . . ” I have touched myself for him before, but not like this. Not like a show. I swallow, a little bit embarrassed, but undeniably excited, too.

“Close your eyes,” he orders.

“Why?”

“Because I said to.”

I close my eyes.

“Good girl. Now take off your top. Do it slowly. Take the hem, and hold it as you trail your fingers up. That’s it, just like that.”

I do as he says, trying to breathe steadily as I slowly peel the silk blouse off. It’s not easy, and I feel my stomach twitch with my breath, with the intimate touch of my own fingers.

“Imagine it’s me,” he says. “My hands easing your shirt off. My hands cupping your breasts, pulling the cup of your bra down so that you spill out over the top. That’s it,” he says, as I follow his lead and adjust the cups to expose my breasts and nipples. “Do you feel my touch? The way I’m tugging your nipples? The way I’m stroking my fingertip over your areolae?”

My breasts are full and heavy, my nipples puckered with desire. I pull gently on my nipples and the corresponding tug in my sex makes me gasp.

“Damien—”

“I know, baby. You can feel it, can’t you. The way your sex throbs. How hard your clit is.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve done this before, remember? Our first night. You in the back of my limo, and I was miles away on my phone and so hard I thought I’d explode.”

I nod. It’s one of my most vivid memories. I was drunk and heady with lust, but I was alone and I could fool myself into believing that the extent of my arousal was my own secret.

Now, there is no hiding how turned on I am. And even though this is Damien, who has seen me at my most wanton, my most needy, it has always been for him that I have opened myself. Now, it is my own touch that I am craving. My touch, and his words. I feel naughty. Reckless. And, so help me, I want him to take me all the way. I want to finger myself until I come in front of him—and when I do, I want to open my eyes and see my own passion reflected right there on his face.

“I didn’t have the pleasure of watching then. I intend to enjoy it now.”

“Yes. Yes.” It’s the only word I can manage. It’s the only word that fills my head.

“Slide your right hand down. Take your time, baby. You have such soft skin, I want you to feel it. To touch it.”

Once again, I comply. I keep my left hand on my breast, almost like an anchor, then spread my right so that my palm grazes my belly, my pelvis, and then my fingers dip under the band of my thong. I bite my lower lip as my hand slides over, then moan as my fingertip brushes my clit before easing farther down to soft, slippery flesh.

“Open your eyes,” Damien orders. “Look at me and touch yourself.”

“I—” But my words die on my lips when I open my eyes and see his face—the bold heat in his eyes, the flush of his skin. His hands are on the armrests of the chair, and he is gripping it so tightly I can see the whites of his knuckles. And his cock is so hard beneath his tailored trousers that I am afraid it will split a seam.

“Fuck me,” I whisper. “We both know you want to.”

“More than anything,” he says as our eyes meet and lock. Sparks burst through me merely from the connection of our gazes, and the heat grows in anticipation of his touch. “But no,” he says, making me want to weep. “This is about you. I want you to feel it, too.”

“Feel what?”

“The pleasure I take from your body,” he says simply. “I want to watch. I want to lose myself in the vision of you.” As if in illustration of his words, his eyes drag slowly over me. “Don’t stop, baby. Slide your fingers inside. Tease your clit. Let me see it. Let me watch the way your skin moves when you’re about to come. Each tiny gasp, each shudder. The way you drag your teeth over your lower lip. The flush that colors your skin before orgasm, and the just-fucked look in your eyes after you come.”

I am so hot, so wet, and I do as he says, fingerfucking myself hard and then lightly teasing my clit. I am dizzy with lust, and I reach out with my other hand, taking it off my breast so that I can clutch the side of my desk to steady myself.

“Oh, God, Nikki. Do you know how much watching you turns me on? How hot you make me? I have only begun to memorize the bits and pieces that make up you. You are my obsession.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “Oh, yes.”

The sharp shrill of my phone fills the room, and I jump. “Don’t stop,” he orders. “Just ignore it.”

I do, too lost in this sensual haze to care about something as foolish as a phone. I grind my hips in time with the rings, then keep going even after it stops. I hear the
ping
that indicates a voice mail, followed by the buzz of a text message.

I manage to stifle the urge to throw my phone out the window.

“Don’t even think about it, baby. Just this. Just us. You’re so close, Nikki. God, I can see it on your face, in the way your lips are parted. Imagine it’s my mouth on your cunt, my tongue stroking you, tasting you. Baby, you taste so good.”

I whimper, so close, but not quite there, and my hips grind against my own hand. Soon, soon, so very soo—

“Ms. Fairchild?”

The receptionist’s voice bursts through the speaker, and I jump, feeling guilty and exposed, even as Damien bites out a curse.

“Ignore it,” he growls, but the voice continues, unable to hear our side of the conversation.

“Mr. Stark’s assistant is on the phone,” she says, as cold fingers of dread trail up my spine. “Apparently a Ms. Archer has been trying to reach you. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

Chapter Seventeen

I release Damien’s hand and burst through the door to Jamie’s tiny room on the third floor of the San Bernadino hospital, then sag with relief when I see her sitting up in bed watching
SpongeBob
. There’s a nasty bruise rising on her left cheek, and a white bandage taped across her forehead. Other than that, though, she looks intact, and for the first time since Sylvia called, I breathe easily.

“I’m sorry!” she says the second she sees us. “I’m so, so sorry.”

“But are you okay?” Thanks to Damien’s helicopter, it didn’t take us that long to get here, but I still spent the entire flight imagining the worst. Now I rush to her side and wince at the bruise that covers one arm, then disappears under her hospital gown.

“I’m banged up, but I’ll be fine. Really. But—I mean—oh, shit.” She glances Damien’s way. “Oh, God, Damien. The Ferrari’s toast. I totally fucked up.”

“You’re not badly hurt,” he says, moving to my side. He twines the fingers of one hand with mine, then takes Jamie’s hand in his other. “That’s all that matters.”

“Is the other driver okay?” I ask.

“It was just me,” she says, her voice as anguished as I’ve ever heard it. “I’m such a fucking loser.”

I am fighting hard not to cry. “You’re not, and you know it. It was an accident,” I say, but Jamie just shakes her head and doesn’t meet my eyes.

I frown and glance at Damien, who looks at least as concerned as I feel.

“So tell me what happened,” I say gently. I ease up to sit on the edge of the bed and Damien pulls up a chair. I put my foot on the seat cushion beside his leg, and he rests his hand on my ankle, just below the platinum and emerald bracelet. I focus on his touch, grateful for his strength and so desperately relieved that he is here with me.

Jamie sniffles and drags the back of her hand under her nose. “I went down the mountain to go check out some happy hours,” she says. “I mean, I had this frigging awesome car, so why not, right? And I met this guy and he was so totally hot.” She looks toward Damien and shrugs almost apologetically.

“Would you like me to step out?”

Her eyes widen. “No! I mean, you deserve to know how I totaled your car. And it’s not like my reputation doesn’t precede me, right?”

Damien, wisely, stays silent.

“Go on,” I prompt.

“Well, there were sparks, you know? And I haven’t banged anyone since Raine except for that one time with Douglas,” she says, referring to our horndog of a neighbor. “Honest,” she adds, holding her hand up in a Boy Scout salute. “I was practically a nun while you two were in Germany. Anyway, he needed a ride home, and I was happy to oblige because, well, why wouldn’t I be? And that part was great. And the part after was great, too,” she adds, cutting her eyes toward Damien.

I get it. For that matter, I’m sure Damien gets it, too. She fucked the guy. A perfect stranger. But this isn’t the time for yet another lecture, and I bite back my reprimands and instead say simply, “Go on.”

“So I’m lying there, right? And it’s nice. I mean
he’s
nice. Or at least, I think he is. Until this alarm clock beside the bed goes off. Then he sits up and starts pulling on his clothes.”

I catch Damien’s eye. I do not like the direction this is heading, and I already know that it ends badly.

“I ask him why he’s getting dressed, and he snaps at me to hurry. Because his wife—his fucking
wife
—is going to be home soon and I need to get the hell out of there.”

“Oh, Jamie . . .”

“I know, I know. Believe me, I know. But right then I was just pissed. And scared, because he tells me his wife’s a cop. I mean, seriously, it’s like a goddamned movie of the week or something.” She draws in a deep breath. “So I’m hurrying, right? And he’s pushing me to move faster, and he’s basically turned into this total asshole. And I swear, if she wasn’t a woman who carried a gun I would have stayed and told her that her fucktard of a husband screwed around. But I’m not keen on getting shot and he’s practically screaming at me by now.”

“And somehow the wife caused the accident?”

Jamie shakes her head. “Other than by coming home and scaring the crap out of me? No. But I pull out of his house and I head down the street to get out of the subdivision and back to the main road. I’m distracted, and I know I’m driving faster than I should, and—oh, Damien—I’m so, so sorry. But that was it. Just too fast. I wasn’t being reckless, I swear to God. But when I turn the corner, this other car is pulling out. They couldn’t have planned the timing better if they tried. I mean, it was like they were just waiting for me to come, which is stupid, right, but that’s just the kind of day I was having. So I swerve, and I lose control and I wrap the car around this huge stone fence that marks the edge of the development. The airbags did their thing, but I still managed to bang my head.” She presses her fingertips to the bandage on her forehead. “I’m not even sure what I hit it on.”

Her shoulders rise and fall as she takes a deep breath. “So that’s it. The whole thing was my fault. I was pissed off and driving too fast and the whole goddamn thing is because I spread my legs for some fucking stranger who only wanted a quick lay while his wife was off catching bad guys.”

I know she wants me to console her. To tell her it wasn’t her fault at all. And sure, that kind of accident can happen to anyone. But Jamie has fucked around for too long, with me and everyone else telling her that it can only end in trouble. I’m not about to say “I told you so,” but I’m also not going to tell her it’s no big deal and that it could have happened to anyone.

“You scared the shit out of me, James,” I finally say, and feel the tears well in my eyes again. “What would I do if something happened to you?”

Jamie got lucky—that’s the basic, bottom-line, absolute fact. A few inches in another direction, a few miles per hour faster, a little bit of oil on the road—just one tiny change and things could have been much, much worse.

I shiver, unnerved by the direction of my thoughts. By the knowledge that I could not stand to lose my friend. And by the certainty that if the worst happens, it is the sharp steel of a blade that I will crave—and if Damien is not beside me, then it is a blade that I will turn to.