He remains coolly collected as Edward pulls into the parking garage beneath Stark Tower.
His composure doesn’t break during the ride either to the building lobby or from the lobby to the penthouse fifty-seven floors up that houses his private office on one side and his residential apartment on the other.
It is only once the doors to the apartment slide open and we have entered the residence that Damien’s equilibrium shifts and the facade of calm vanishes. There is something desperate in his eyes, and he grabs both ends of the scarf that is still draped around my neck. “What was it you said about tying you up?”
His words are as rough as the anger that still clings to him. “Yes,” I say, because I know he needs it. He needs to get lost in the passion that is always ready to burst between us. He needs to forget what just happened—the paparazzi, his father, Ollie, and even my own refusal to meet him here tonight.
He needs to do something about that tapestry of his that is coming undone.
He needs to be in complete control—and right then, I want nothing more than to surrender to him.
“Yes,” I repeat, my voice raw. “Yes, please.”
He uses the scarf to shift our position until my back is against the wall, and he is against me, and I am breathing hard, my body quickening with excitement and expectation. With one hand, he holds both ends of the scarf while the other hand strokes slowly down my body, over my breast, down my belly, over my hip. His touch is slow, the movements designed to make me melt. It’s working. My lips are parted, my skin hot and sensitive. If I was not already leaning against a solid structure with Damien keeping me upright, I think I would sink to the floor, my body too limp and malleable to hold myself up.
He slips his hand inside my sarong skirt, his finger dipping under the string of my thong to find me wet.
I tremble, a small shiver rushing through me, as if a portent of an explosion to come.
“Why, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, “I do believe you want me.”
I bite my lower lip and say nothing; he doesn’t need to hear my answer. He already knows he’s right.
Slowly—so painfully slowly—he starts to peel me out of my clothing. The knot of the sarong. The tiny thong panties. The tank he tugs gently over my head. Even the scarf falls into a pile on the floor. I see it there, a lonely bit of pink in a sea of black, and I sigh.
“Trouble?”
“I thought you were going to tie me up.”
“Maybe I changed my mind.”
“Oh.”
“Complaining, Ms. Fairchild?”
“Never with you, Mr. Stark.”
“Good answer. For that, you get a reward.” His expression takes on a dangerous edge. “Come with me.”
I follow him to the bedroom, where he lays a blanket on the floor, then opens one of the leather trunks. He pulls out two lengths of rope and slowly twines them between his hands. I can feel my eyes go wide. We’ve moved a long way from soft pink scarves.
“What are you going to do?”
But Damien doesn’t answer. He just nods at the floor and tells me to lie down. I hesitate only a moment, and then comply, my head near the foot of the bed and my body stretched out on the blanket.
“Hands above your head,” he says.
I stretch my arms up, my excitement building along with my curiosity, and he uses the shorter length of rope to tie my wrists together. Then he fastens my bound hands to the center leg of his king-size bedframe.
“I’m going to please you, Nikki,” he says, then strokes his fingertip slowly down my arm. He starts at my wrist, then gently teases the soft flesh of my inner arm, then the bend of my elbow, his fingertip finally trailing along my upper arm to the sensitive flesh of my underarm.
I bite my lower lip and squirm. The sensation of his finger upon my skin is exquisite. It is feather-soft, almost a tickle, and desperately, wildly erotic.
“Do you see how you writhe?” he asks. “That movement lets you control the intensity so that you’re not overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations. Do you understand?”