I’d laughed, and in the end we’d managed to avert global economic disaster (the shoes he bought me are truly awesome) and let me have my orgasm as well. Three, actually. Damien is nothing if not generous.
As for the phone, he’d been true to his word. Despite the constant vibrations, he’d ignored it until we’d pulled up in front of the Malibu house and I’d insisted he take pity on whoever was being so persistent. I’d hurried inside to meet Blaine, and Damien had lingered behind, reassuring his attorney that the world hadn’t collapsed despite Damien’s temporary absence from the cellular airwaves.
I am so lost in my thoughts that I don’t realize that Blaine has approached me. He taps my lower lip with the end of his paintbrush and I jump.
“Damn, Nikki, you were in the zone.”
“Are you done?” I do not mind posing, and Blaine has become a good friend. But right then, I just want him gone. Right then, all I want is Damien.
“Almost.” He holds his hands up, looking at me through his makeshift frame. “Right here,” he says, using the brush to indicate. “The light on your shoulder, the way your skin glows, the mix of colors …” He trails off as he walks back to the portrait. “Damn,” he finally says. “I am a fucking genius. This is you, kid. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you could walk right off the canvas.”
“So you’re done? I can come look?” I turn without thinking, realizing too late that he probably wanted me to stay still. But suddenly I don’t care. All thoughts vanish. Blaine, the painting, the world around me. Because it’s not the painting that I see. It’s Damien.
He is right where I’d imagined him, standing on the top step, leaning casually against the wrought-iron banister and looking even yummier in real life than he did in my mind. I might have spent the entire afternoon with him, but it doesn’t matter. Every glimpse of him is like ambrosia, and I will never get my fill.
I soak him in, my eyes lingering on every perfect feature. His defined jaw highlighted by the shadow of stubble. The wind-tossed black hair, thick and smooth and so familiar to my fingers. And his eyes. Those amazing dual-colored eyes that are focused so intently right now that I can feel the weight of his gaze upon my skin.
He is dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt. But even in such informal attire, there is nothing casual about Damien Stark. He is power personified, energy harnessed. And my only fear is the knowledge that one can neither capture nor hold on to a lightning bolt, and I do not want to lose this man.
His eyes meet mine, and I shiver from the shock of the connection. The athlete, the celebrity, the entrepreneur, the billionaire persona all fall away, leaving only the man and an expression that makes my blood heat and my insides curl with longing. An expression that is so raw and primal that were I not already naked, I’m certain that every stitch of clothing would have turned to ash, burned away by the heat in his eyes.
My skin prickles, and I have to force myself not to move. “Damien,” I whisper, unable to resist the feel of his name upon my lips. The word seems to hang in the room, trapped in the air that is thick between us.
By the easel, Blaine clears his throat. Damien shifts enough to look at him, and I think it is surprise that I see on his face, as if he’d forgotten that we aren’t alone. He crosses the distance to Blaine and stands at the artist’s side in front of the huge portrait. From my position, I can see the wooden frame across which the canvas is stretched and, to the side, the two men studying an image that is hidden from my view.
My heart pounds against my rib cage and my gaze does not waver from Damien’s face. There is something rapturous in his eyes, as if he is looking up at an object of worship, and his silent benediction makes my knees go weak. I want to reach out a hand and steady myself on the frame of the bed beside which I’m posing, but my wrists are still bound behind my back.
My immobility reminds me of the situation, and I fight another smile—I am not free. I am Damien’s.
In Blaine and Damien’s original concept for the portrait, I’d simply stood in this spot, the gossamer drapes set to flutter about me, my face turned away from the artist. The image was sensual, but aloof, as if someone was yearning for that woman but would never touch her. The portrait was stunning, but something was missing. Damien suggested that we contrast the free-flowing drapes that graze lightly over my skin with the constriction of a bloodred rope, and that we bind my hands behind me.
I didn’t hesitate to agree. I wanted the man. Wanted to be bound to him. To belong to him. To be claimed by him.
No longer would my image be unattainable. Instead, the woman in the portrait was a prize. An ephemeral goddess tamed by a worthy man.
Damien.
I search his face, looking for clues to his assessment of the portrait, but there is nothing. This is his corporate expression, the unreadable mask he wears so as to not give away his secrets. Damien is extremely good at hiding his secrets.