“Don’t you even think about it,” I laugh, even though I know he’s joking. Or, at least, I’m pretty sure he’s joking …
“No?” he asks, as he starts to push my skirt up my body. “You don’t want to stay like this, in my bed, constantly ready to be fucked by me?”
“Now that you put it that way,” I say, and then close my eyes with pleasure as he starts to kiss his way up my thigh. It is sweet torment, because Damien knows exactly how to drive me crazy. His breath teasing my sex, his lips making me wild.
I struggle under his ministrations, as with each touch he finds some new sensation, some new way to make me writhe and beg. Even the way his finger strokes my ankle and his tongue licks the back of my knee sends ribbons of pleasure curling through me.
I twist and turn on the sheets, but the cold metal that surrounds my wrist prevents me from escaping the sensual onslaught that is coming so near to driving me out of my mind.
The cuff digs into my skin, and with each turn, with each motion, I tug hard at it. I want the pain. I want the pressure. I want a bruise to rise there. And not because I want to escape the horror of this afternoon—that, in fact, is the least of it.
No, I want it because it represents now. This moment, with Damien’s mouth on my naked body. With his fingers exploring every inch of me, finding all sorts of erogenous zones and erotic secrets.
I want the bruise because it is a physical reminder of how Damien makes me feel.
A bruise will be proof when he is London that I was in his bed—and a reminder that he will come back to me.
And so I struggle against my bonds, not because I want to get free, not even because I want the pain. I want what it represents. That I am Damien’s.
Bound to him. Marked by him. Claimed by him.
And right now, that is all I want to be.
21
It’s the middle of summer, but with Damien gone this might as well be a cold, wet Saturday in December. I know that he will be back Sunday afternoon, and that the trip is a quick one, but on my end it doesn’t feel quick at all.
I am restless and lonely. Damien texted me when he landed. He’d asked how I was, and I’d smiled and gently rubbed the bruise that now rings my wrist like a bracelet. “Thinking about you,” I’d said. “Missing you.” All true, but what I didn’t tell him was that I was bored out of my mind. Knowing Damien, he’d hire Cirque du Soleil to come into the living room and entertain me.
Jamie texted me cyber-hugs in response to my SOS, but she is roller-skating in Venice with Raine. I hope she manages to fall on her ass less than I did. I consider calling Lisa, but I don’t know her well enough yet, and I think we should start with a simple coffee before I hit her up to provide me with entertainment on a lonely Saturday evening.
I’m left with either work or photography, and since my camera is still at the Malibu house, I decide to go with work. Now is as good a time as any to finish the coding on my two smartphone apps that are almost ready to market. That, of course, means a quick trip to my condo. Since I have no car at Damien’s apartment, that’s not as easy as it sounds.
The phone in the kitchen acts as both a regular phone and an intercom to Damien’s office. I’ve seen him use it a dozen times, and I press the button to operate the speaker. “Hello?” I say tentatively.
“Yes, Ms. Fairchild? Can I help you?” I grin. This really is pretty cool.
“Um, yeah. Is this Ms. Peters?” I ask, scraping my memory for the name of Stark’s weekend assistant.
“How kind of you to remember. It is. What can I do for you?”
“I don’t have a car and I need to go pick up something at home. Could you arrange a taxi or—”
“I’ll have Edward bring the limo around. If you take the elevator to parking level C, he’ll meet you right there.”
“Oh. Okay. Thanks.” I end the call and shimmy happily in the kitchen. Yes, there are definitely perks to having money.
As Ms. Peters had predicted, Edward is waiting for me.
“Thanks so much,” I say.