He reaches up and traces his finger lightly along my collarbone, then over the strand of pearls. A moment later, he has removed the necklace, and I hear the clink of pearls against pearls as he crunches the strand in his palm, then cups his hand over my breast.
I tilt my head back and suck in air as he rubs small circles over my nipple, massaging me with the hard, slick surface of the cluster of pearls. Then he opens his hand more and I feel the brush of the necklace as he untangles it, then rubs the strand enticingly against the swell of my breast, my puckered areola, and my oh-so-sensitive nipple.
“Damien,” I murmur as he trails the tip of the strand down my belly, careful to let only the smooth surface of one stone touch my skin. The sensation is intoxicating. The cool brush of the gem. The sweet anticipation of not knowing where the next touch will fall.
I jump a little when the necklace grazes my pubis, then bite down on my lower lip, willing myself to stand still.
“Should I crush these as Cleopatra did?” he whispers.
“I don’t need an aphrodisiac,” I retort, my voice breathy.
“No, I don’t think you do. I can see the flush on your skin, I can breathe in the scent of your arousal. When I touch you, I know I will find you desperately wet for me. Won’t I, Nikki?”
“Oh, God, yes.”
“Good.” I hear the smile in his voice. “Now spread your legs for me.”
I do, then moan when he draws the strand of pearls between my legs, back and forth, the strand becoming slick with my own arousal. Each perfect gem glides over my clit, and the sensation is maddening, right where I want it, and yet at the same time not quite there. Not quite enough. I squirm, shameless, wanting more. Hell, wanting it all.
“Shhh,” Damien says. He is right in front of me, and he pulls the strand free, making me whimper in protest. Then I feel his fingers on me, stroking and opening me.
“Yes,” I say. I need to feel him inside me. I need to come, to explode, to release this maddening pressure.
I hear the crunch of the pearls in his hand again, then he rolls the cluster enticingly over my desperate sex. I am being bombarded with sensations, buried in heat. I am on edge, desperately aroused, and on the verge of simply crying out and begging.
What I’m not expecting is for him to stretch me wide and slide the pearls inside me.
“Damien! What the—”
He silences me with a kiss. “Quiet,” he says. “And stay still.”
And then he’s gone and I’m left naked and exposed and unsatisfied, my sex heavy from the knot of pearls tucked inside me, my body desperate for his touch, and my mind spinning with possibilities.
“Damien?”
At first I don’t hear him. Then I detect the slightest rattle from behind me. I strain against the bond that keeps my hands tight above me. I want to take off this blindfold. I want to see.
I want Damien.
It’s no use, though, and all my struggles do is shift the pearls even more. Little shock waves burst through me, but not enough to bring on the explosion that I so desperately crave. Damien—damn him—has brought me to the edge and left me there.
And this, I think, is part of the punishment he promised.
The pillar with which my ass is now on such familiar terms is the line of demarcation between the living area and the suite’s kitchen. We’ve eaten out or ordered room service most nights, so we haven’t had to rely on the kitchen for anything other than the storage of wine and ice cream, the latter being a late-night splurge about a week ago. I checked it out my first night in Germany, though, and was impressed to find it fully stocked.