“Yes—oh, God, yes.”
“Good,” he says. And then releases the cord.
The friction stops and my eyes fly open.
He’s looking down at me, his smile a little too smug. “Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?”
“No,” I lie, but even I can hear the petulant whine in my voice.
He laughs, then kisses my nose. “Patience, sweetheart. Right now, I have a treat for you.” He presses a button on the table and a light above the panel door shifts from red to green.
I glance at Damien curiously. “The panels lock to allow guests their privacy. When the food arrives, the server presses a button on the outside and the button turns red.”
“And green unlocks it,” I say. It’s an interesting system—and also makes me realize that we would have had complete privacy if Damien had actually stripped me bare and fucked me against the window, just as he’d described.
I imagine the feel of the cool glass against my back. Of Damien’s hands on my breasts. Of his mouth on my neck. And of his cock filling me as he thrusts deeper and deeper inside me until I explode in a cacophony of colors that rival the shining lights of the Pier in the distance.
“Nikki—”
My head jerks up and I realize that the waiter is setting a fondue pot on the table and Damien is gesturing for me to sit down. Although the waiter seems oblivious, I am quite certain that Damien knows exactly where my thoughts had wandered.
Naughty, he mouths.
I flash him my most innocent smile, then bat my eyes for effect.
There is a pattern in the middle of the tabletop that turns out not to be a pattern at all. It’s a heating element, and onto it the waiter puts a heavy stone pot—le caquelon—filled with partially melted chocolate. Another waiter has a basket of all sorts of dippables, ranging from juicy strawberries to tiny squares of cheesecake. I grin at Damien like a kid in heaven. “Chocolate fondue?”
“I had considered cheese,” he says, after the waiters have slipped out and shut the panel door again. “But this way will ensure that I’m not punished by the withholding of sex.”
I must look confused, because he continues. “Alaine imports the chocolate from the Swiss subsidiary I mentioned earlier.”
“Really?” I peer into the pot. “I already know you’re delicious. I suppose your chocolate will be, too.”
As if to prove the point, I reach for a strawberry, but he gently smacks my hand. “No, no,” he says.
I stare at him. “Um, hello? Chocolate.”
He laughs. “Close your eyes.”
I narrow them but don’t close them.
“Disobedience, Ms. Fairchild? You do live dangerously …”
I smirk, but I also close my eyes. After a moment, I feel something soft brush my cheek, then cover my eyes. A napkin or a handkerchief? I’m not sure, but whatever it is, Damien is using it as a blindfold.
“What—” But my question is stalled by his finger on my lips.
“I made you a promise, Ms. Fairchild.”
I nod, my nipples tightening and my sex clenching as I recall Damien’s words. “You’re going to make me come.”
“That, too,” he says, and I can hear the laughter in his voice. “I also said I was going to feed you. Conveniently, I think the two may go together very well.”
For a moment, I feel nothing. Then the cord that is still between my legs tightens as Damien tugs gently at it from behind. I gasp, and when I do, something cold brushes my lips. “Open for me,” Damien says, and I do. He brushes the mystery item over my lips again. It’s soft and rough at the same time, and though I try to catch a scent, the heady smell of chocolate in the room is overpowering.
“Now bite,” he says, and when I do, I moan with pleasure as the sweet strawberry bursts in my mouth. Juice dribbles down my chin, and then there is Damien, the tip of his tongue stroking up, dipping into the corner of my mouth, tasting the juice that escaped and teasing me mercilessly in the process.
“I thought you weren’t going to touch me,” I say, turning my head to try to find his mouth. I want his kiss. I want his touch.
“Holding me to my promise, after all?” he asks as he once again tugs at the cord. I whimper, my hips shifting on the seat. I can feel how wet I am, how slippery the cord is. It’s so close to my clit, but not quite there, and I’m craving that sweet, specific attention.
“No,” I breathe. I want to beg him to touch me, promise be damned.
He chuckles. “Ah, but I’m a man of integrity. But let’s agree that I’ll keep to the spirit of my promise and not the letter. Do you want me to gently press my fingertip against your clit? To feel that hard nub beneath my finger? To tease it, stroke it, to play with it until you come?”
“I—”
“Shhh. You don’t speak, Nikki. Not until I say that you can. Do you understand?”