Unwrap Me (8 page)

“Merry Christmas, beautiful.”

I'm still in that soft place between sleep and wakefulness, but I smile at the brush of Damien's lips against my ear and the low murmur of his voice rumbling through me.

Then the oddity of what he's saying strikes me.
Merry Christmas? Not Happy New Year?

And why am I in a bed? For that matter, why don't I feel the vibration from the jet?

Slowly, I sit up, then look around, blinking and confused. It's our bedroom in the Lake Arrowhead house. And there's Damien sitting on the bed next to me, his expression so full of tenderness it makes me want to cry.

“Damien,” I begin, then don't know what to say. “Damien, I—”

He shakes his head, then gently presses his fingertip to my lips. “I'm sorry. I should have said it last night, but I wanted you to sleep.”

“Sorry?”

“For buying the condo. I shouldn't have.”

I blink, and fat tears spill down my cheeks. “No.” My voice feels raw. Thick. “No, this one's on me. I should never have gotten upset. It wasn't fair.”

“You had every right to be annoyed. I overstepped. I moved in and took away something that you wanted to know you could accomplish yourself.”

“But I do know that I could,” I say. “I'm certain of it. Maybe it would have taken more time, maybe it would've been harder, but I know that I could do it.” I think about the fact that a company like Stark International wanted to license my app even though I'd said no to Damien. Then I frown, because I didn't say no to Damien. He's here, and he's my husband, and I'm confusing my dream with my reality.

I shake my head a little to clear the lingering cotton from my mind. “My work's good, Damien. And I'd done the math. I had the resources to purchase, I just hadn't done it yet.” I sit up straighter as I gather my thoughts. “Even if we'd never met—even if I'd never had your million as start-up money—I would have made it. Hell, I might have even licensed my web-based note-taking app to Stark International and made a small fortune. But the fact is that none of that matters, because it's not the point.”

His brow furrows, and for a moment he looks confused. Then his expression clears and he takes my hands in his. “It is the point, because we did meet, and we are married, and I should have—”

I rise up on my knees, then lean in and kiss him, just to shut him up. “You got it, Mr. Stark. We are married. You're mine, and I'm yours, and there aren't any what-ifs that could change that. No matter what, we will always find each other. So what does it matter if I buy the condo or you do? That's just timing. The important part is us. And I think I forgot that last night, just for a little bit. I'm sorry.”

“Oh, baby,” he says. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?”

“You know I do,” I say, then lose myself in his long, slow kiss that makes me tingle all over, lighting me up just like a Christmas tree.

“It's early,” he says when he breaks the kiss. “Barely dawn. But Ronnie'll be up soon, and I'd like us to do our presents first. Alone. Do you mind?”

I shake my head. “Of course not,” I say, then slip on Christmas pajamas and a matching robe while Damien puts on green and red flannel pajama bottoms. I sit on the bed and watch him dress, enjoying the way the muscles in his chest and abs move as he slides on a plain white T-shirt. When his head appears again he's grinning. “Enjoying the view?”

“Enjoying
my
view,” I retort.

He holds out his hand, and we move quietly into the great room. The world beyond the glass doors is still gray, with just the slightest hint of purple beginning to color the sky.

“I just got you the one,” Damien says. “That was our deal, right?”

In light of Damien's resources, it seemed prudent to put a limit on the whole gift exchange thing, especially considering how many presents he buys me on a regular day. And, honestly, when I think about the trouble I had coming up with the pocket watch idea, I'm glad we limited the number of presents.

“You first,” he says, handing me a small package that weighs next to nothing.

I shake it and tap it, but I have absolutely no guess as to what it could be, and so finally I just rip into the pretty red paper. I'm sitting cross-legged on the floor, and by the time I reveal the plain cardboard box beneath, there's a pile of paper and ribbon beside me.

“Any ideas?” he asks.

“Not even one.” But since I really can't wait to find out, I open the box, then clap my hand over my mouth to hide an otherwise loud squeal when I see what's inside.

It's a Looney Tunes lunchbox. The very one that I coveted throughout my childhood. Except I don't remember ever telling him about it, at least not at any time that wasn't in a dream.

But surely I must have, because here it is, and I'm holding and touching it, and hugging it to my chest.

“Damien…”

“Open it,” he orders, looking exceptionally pleased with himself.

I comply, and find what appear to be hundreds of little origami stars. I put my finger in and stir them around, then look up at Damien curiously.

“Pick one,” he tells me. “Just one, then open it.”

I do. It unfolds easily into a small strip of paper with tiny printed words. This one says
Whatever you want, whatever you need.

I swallow a gasp and feel my eyes well with tears. “Oh my god, Damien.”

He is grinning wide, clearly proud of himself. “One for every day this year.”

“It's amazing.” I lean forward and kiss him. “You're amazing.”

“I often think so,” he quips, and I have to laugh as he grabs the box I put under the tree for him. It's about the size of a laundry basket to camouflage the small present inside. “My turn,” he says, then starts to tear off the paper, leaving at least as much of a mess as I did.

My stomach is in knots, and I wish I'd somehow managed something cleverer or more heartfelt than a simple pocket watch.

Damien opens the top of the cardboard box and peers inside, then sucks in a sharp breath. I roll my eyes, knowing he's being a goof, because all that's in there is crushed up wrapping paper until he gets to the tiny box at the very bottom. But then he reaches in, and it's not paper he pulls out—it's a teddy bear.

An old-fashioned bear with soft fur and jointed limbs and a little vest with a red kerchief.

I stare, completely flummoxed, because that is not what I wrapped. And yet there it is, the bear from my dream. And peeking out from the pocket, tucked in front of the kerchief, is the gold pocket watch.

“Nikki,” he says, as he looks at the bear, touching it reverentially and smiling with what I can only assume are happy memories. “This is incredible.”

He pulls out the watch and opens the case, then reaches for my hand when he sees the engraving:

N & D 4ever,
inside a delicately drawn heart.

“It's perfect. All of it. The watch, the bear…” He trails off, looking away as his lips curve down into a soft frown, and I don't say a word, because I'm certain that I know what he's thinking.

I see it in his eyes when he turns back to me, and I know what he's going to say before the words leave his lips. “Baby, did we—”

“I think so,” I answer, my voice a whisper. A chill tingles down my spine. “I don't know how, but—”

“The party. The movies? The walk down Hollywood Boulevard? But that was a dream.” He meets my eyes. “Wasn't it?”

I press my fingers to his lips. I don't have an answer. And I say the only thing I can think of, giving him the only explanation I have. “Merry Christmas, husband.”

He glances at the lunchbox. “I just don't understand—” He shakes it off and starts again. “It's not the most extravagant present ever.”

“It's perfect,” I say. “You know it's perfect. Besides. I already have everything I need.”

I hook my arms around him, and let him pull me closer, so that I am warm and comfortable in his lap.

“So do I,” he murmurs. “I have you.”

As he kisses me, I think how true that is, and how we have each other, wholly and completely.

And soon we'll have a house full of friends and family, laughter and fun.

Yeah, I think, as I snuggle close. We really do have everything.

And it is most definitely the merriest of Christmases.

Release Me

Claim Me

Complete Me

Take Me

Have Me

Play My Game

Seduce Me

Unwrap Me

Say My Name

On My Knees

Under My Skin

Wanted

Heated

Ignited

PHOTO: KATHY WHITTAKER PHOTOGRAPHY

J
.
K
ENNER
(aka Julie Kenner) is the
New York Times,
USA Today,
Publishers Weekly, Wall Street Journal,
and #1 internationally bestselling author of over seventy novels, novellas, and short stories in a variety of genres.

Though known primarily for her award-winning and internationally bestselling erotic romances (including the Stark and Most Wanted series) that have reached as high as #2 on the
New York Times
bestseller list, Kenner has been writing full-time for over a decade in a variety of genres, including paranormal and contemporary romance, “chicklit” suspense, urban fantasy, and paranormal mommy lit.

Kenner has been praised by
Publishers Weekly
as an author with a “flair for dialogue and eccentric characterizations” and by
RT Book Reviews
for having “cornered the market on sinfully attractive, dominant antiheroes and the women who swoon for him.” A four-time finalist for Romance Writers of America's prestigious RITA award, Kenner took home the first RITA trophy awarded in the category of erotic romance in 2014 for her novel
Claim Me
(book 2 of her Stark Trilogy).

Her books have sold well over a million copies and are published in over twenty countries.

jkenner.com

Facebook.com/​jkennerbooks

@juliekenner

Available from Bantam

If I could change it, I would. The wanting him. The craving him.

I close my eyes at night and touch myself, imagining it is him. His hands stroking me. His fingers penetrating me.

I do this, and I hate myself. Because my desire isn't warm and soft, but twisted and wild and wrong.

We destroyed each other, he and I. Even now, after so many years, we're still cracked and broken.

And broken we'll remain, because without the other, we can never be whole. And yet we can never be together. Not again. Not like that.

Our desire has teeth, after all. We survived once, just barely.

But push our luck, and it just might swallow us whole….

Even by Southampton standards, the party at the nine-thousand-square-foot mansion on Meadow Lane reeked of extravagance.

Grammy Award–winning artists performed on an outdoor stage that had been set up on the lush lawn that flowed from the main house to the tennis courts. Celebrities hobnobbed with models who flirted with Wall Street tycoons who discussed stock prices with tech gurus and old-money academics, all while sampling fine Scotch and the season's chicest gin. Colored lights illuminated the grotto style pool, upon which nude models floated lazily on air mattresses, their bodies used by artisan sushi chefs as presentation platters for epicurean delights.

Each female guest received a Hermès Birkin bag and each male received a limited edition Hublot watch, and the exclamations of delight—from both the men and the women—rivaled the boom of the fireworks that exploded over Shinnecock Bay at precisely ten p.m., perfectly timed to distract the guests from the bustle of the staff switching out the dinner buffet for the spread of desserts, coffee, and liqueurs.

No expense had been spared, no desire or craving or indulgence overlooked. Nothing had been left to chance, and every person in attendance agreed that the party was the Must Attend event of the season, if not of the year. Hell, if not of the decade.

Everyone who was anyone was there, under the stars on the four acre lot on Billionaires' Row.

Everyone, that is, except the billionaire who was actually hosting the party. And speculation as to where he was, what he was doing, and who he was doing it with ripped through the well-liquored and gossip-hungry crowd like wildfire in a windstorm.

“No idea where he could have disappeared off to, but I'd bet good money he's not pining away in solitude,” said a reed-thin man with salt-and-pepper hair and an expression that suggested disapproval but was most likely envy.

“I swear I came five times,” a perky blonde announced to her best friend in the kind of stage whisper designed to attract attention. “The man's a master in bed.”

“He's got a shrewd head for business, that one,” said a Wall Street trader, “but no sense of propriety where his cock is concerned.”

“Oh, honey, no. He's not relationship material.” A brunette celebrating a recently inked modeling contract shivered as if reliving a moment of ecstasy. “He's like fine chocolate. Meant to be savored in very limited quantities. But so damn good when you have it.”

“More power to him if he can grab that much pussy.” A hipster with beard stubble and a man-bun wiped his wire-rimmed glasses clean with his shirttail. “But why the fuck does he have to be so blatant about it?”

“All of my friends have had him.” The petite redhead who pulled in a six figure wife bonus smiled slowly, and the flash of her green eyes suggested that she was the cat and he was the delicious cream. “But I'm the only one of us to enjoy a second helping.”

“All your friends?”

“How much pussy?”

“At least half the women here tonight. Maybe more.”

“Man, don't even ask that. Just trust me. Dallas Sykes is the King of Fuck. You and me? Mere mortals like us can't even compare.”

Three floors above the partygoers, in a room with a window overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, Dallas Sykes sucked hard on the clit of the lithe blonde who sat on his face and writhed with pre-orgasmic pleasure. The blonde's cries of “yes, yes!” mingled with the throaty moans of delight coming from the curvaceous redhead who straddled his waist while he finger-fucked her hard and deep.

They'd surrendered to him, these women, and the knowledge that they were his tonight—for tenderness, for torment—cut through him. A wicked aphrodisiac with an edge as sharp as steel, and at least as savage.

He was drunk—on sex, on Scotch, on submission. And right then, all he wanted was to get lost in pleasure. To let all the rest of the shit just melt away.

“Please.” The redhead's muscles clenched tight around his fingers, and a tremor ran through his body, his need for release now so potent that it crossed the line into pain. “I'm so close, Dallas. I want you inside me. Now. Oh, god, please. Now.”

He could barely understand her words, lost as they were in the wet sounds of his mouth on the blonde's sweet pussy. But he heard enough, and in one wild, rough movement, he rolled the girl above him to the side, so that she stretched and trembled on the bed, her nipples hard and her pussy slick and open and inviting.

Dallas felt his body tighten with need. With desire. But only for release. He didn't want either of these women. Not really. Their company, yes. The escape they offered, sure. But them?

Neither was the woman he craved. Neither was the girl who had both saved and destroyed him. The woman he wanted.

The woman he could never have.

And so instead he sought pleasure and passion in the violent rapture of hard, hot sex.

“Sit back,” he said to the blonde as he pushed away his dark thoughts and regrets. He reached for the crystal highball glass and downed the last of the Glenmorangie, relishing the way it burned his throat and buzzed his head. “Back against the headboard. Legs spread wide.”

She nodded, moving eagerly to obey as he urged the redhead off his waist. “Fuck me,” the redhead begged. Her green eyes flashed, her expression pleading. Her lips were swollen, her skin flushed. She smelled of sex, and the scent—so familiar, so dangerous, so goddamned compelling—made him even harder. “I want you to fuck me.” Her words were a pout—a plea—and Dallas almost smiled in response.

Almost, but not quite.

Instead he lifted a brow. “Want? Baby, this isn't about what you want. This is about what you need.”

“Then I need you to fuck me.”

His lips twitched. He liked a woman who knew her own mind, that was for damn sure. And the redhead truly amused him. He'd plucked her from the crowd downstairs because he'd liked the way she'd filled out the flirty black dress that was now crumpled in a heap on his bedroom floor. That, and the fact he happened to know that she had a cousin who worked for a government official in Bogotá, and that connection might prove handy one day.

As for the blonde, Dallas had no particular agenda with her. But he appreciated her limber little body and quiet obedience. Right now, she was sitting exactly as he'd told her, her legs wide apart and wonderfully vulnerable. She wasn't moving a muscle, but the beat of her pulse in her throat telegraphed her excitement at least as much as her tight nipples and hot, wet pussy.

He met the redhead's flashing green eyes, then nodded toward the blonde. “You want to get fucked. I want to watch. And I promise you, she wants to do whatever I say. Sounds like a perfect recipe, don't you think?”

The redhead dragged her polished white teeth over her lower lip. “I've never—”

“But you will. Tonight.” He met her eyes. “For me.”

She licked her lips as he slid off the bed and stood. She was still sitting, her knees pressed into the mattress as she sat back on her heels. He leaned forward, then took her in a long, slow kiss. She tasted of strawberries and innocence. He wanted to devour the first; he wanted to erase the second. “Hook your legs around her waist and kiss her deep. Suck her tits. Touch her however you want to. But she's going to fuck you with her fingers while you and I both imagine it's my cock. And, baby? You're going to come harder for me than you've ever come for anyone.”

“And you?”

He could hear the tremor of excitement in her voice and knew that he had her. “I'll be right here,” he said, as he took her hand and urged her toward the blonde, who was flushed pink with anticipation. He moved behind the redhead, cupping her breasts as she put her legs around the blonde's waist, then he squeezed her nipples hard as the blonde's fingers slid into her core.

Pressed against her back, he could feel every tremor of pleasure, every quickening in her pulse. And as she started to shake with a series of little convulsions, he slid his hand between her legs from behind, dipping his fingers into her wet pussy. As he did, his hand brushed up against the blonde's, whose sensual moan shot straight to his cock.

Next, he slid his now-slick finger up to tease the redhead's ass as she bucked against him, her body clearly on fire from this dual assault. “Dallas,” she moaned as her body shook with release. “Oh, god, Dallas, this is so fucked up.”

“That's the way I like it, baby,” he said. “That's the only way I play.”

It was true. He liked his sex dirty. Wild. He wanted to be reminded of who he was. What he'd become.

The King of Fuck.
He'd heard what they all called him, and he had to appreciate how apt—and ironic—the moniker was. Because God knew he was fucked up. His whole goddamn life was an act. A facade.

He was damaged goods. As broken as a man could be. But he'd turned that shit around. Claimed it. Made it his own.

Maybe he would never again have the woman he craved in his arms, but if that was his reality, he was going to damn sure make the most of it.

With his free hand he reached down to stroke his cock. The sensation of his sex-slicked palm moving rhythmically over the steel of his erection mingled with the wild, almost feral sounds of the two women. He closed his eyes, imagining another place. Another woman.

He thought of her. He thought of Jane.

But not like this. Not fucked up. Not like a goddamn evening's entertainment, as fungible as a night at the movies and at least as unimportant.

Except everything was fucked up. Him, most of all.

Goddammit. He needed to shut it down. These thoughts. These wishes.

All these damn regrets.

The sharp trill of his cellphone startled him from his thoughts, and he slid back away from the redhead who cried out in protest.

“Sorry, baby.” His voice was tense, his chest tight. “That's the one ringtone I always answer.” He grabbed his phone off the bedside table, lightly brushing both women's skin before turning his back to them and taking the call.

“Tell me,” he demanded, expecting the worst. His best friend, Liam Foster, wasn't due to report in until the next morning. If he was calling now, it meant something had happened.

“It's all good, man,” Liam said, his voice as close to excited as his military training would allow.

“The child?” Dallas had sent his team to Shanghai to recover the eight-year-old son of a Chinese diplomat who'd been kidnapped ten days prior.

“Fine,” Liam assured him. “Dehydrated. Malnourished. Scared. But he's back with his family, and physically, he should make a full recovery.”

Physically,
Dallas thought, the word sounding vile in his head. Because that wasn't all of it, was it? Not even close.

He shoved the thoughts aside, forcing himself to focus. “Then why are you—”

“Because the German asshole who grabbed him tried to trade freedom for intel. He knows, Dallas. This dickwad Mueller knows who the sixth kidnapper was.”

The words were simple. The impact on Dallas wasn't. His blood turned to fire. The room turned hot and red. He wanted to beat the shit out of the sixth man. He wanted to curl up into a ball and cry.

He wanted to finally know the truth.

There had been two in charge of the six fucks who had snatched them—and surely this sixth man could identify his employers. First, there'd been the main guy who sat back, keeping his hands clean, but who was dirtier than all of them. That man lived in Dallas's memory only as hints and impressions. He'd been smart. He'd kept his distance. But he'd been the puppeteer, the one who'd hired the six and pulled all the strings.

Dallas and Jane had come to think of him as the Jailer, and he'd spoken directly to Dallas only twice. He'd told Dallas that he deserved it all—every moment of agony, every pang of fear, every prick of humiliation.

And then there was the Woman. She was supposed to feed and tend to Dallas and Jane, but instead she brought pain and fear along with a twisted darkness and a bone-deep shame that hadn't faded even after Dallas was free of the confinement of those mildewed walls.

But he wasn't fifteen anymore, goddammit. He wasn't locked in the dark, tortured and hungry and helpless.

He might be damaged goods, but he had money and power and he knew how to wield both like a goddamn medieval mace.

“We're getting damn close to ending this thing,” Liam said. “We use this douchebag's intel to grab the sixth. We interrogate him. Get him to tell us who hired him. It's the last puzzle piece, Dallas. We get that, and you can finally say that it's over.”

Dallas closed his eyes and drew in a breath, soaking in the words. Liam was wrong, of course. It would never really be over. But he couldn't deny the anticipation that was building in him. The fantasy that he really could end this.

For himself.

For his sanity.

But most of all, for Jane.