“Tell me you like this,” he demands.
“Yes,” I say as I raise my hips, urging him not to stop. To touch me harder, faster, deeper. To take and take until I am turned completely inside out. “God, yes.”
“You’re close, sweetheart,” he says, and I make some sort of noise in response. “Close,” he repeats, gently removing his hand and making me gasp at this sudden withdrawal of pleasure. “But not ready.”
I moan in protest and frustration. “Clearly you’re not familiar with the definition of ready.”
“Then educate me,” he says. “What are you ready for?”
“You.”
His smile is wide and satisfied and wonderfully sexy. “I like that answer. Stand up.”
I hesitate only a moment, because now I understand. “Yes, sir.” I stand, then move to the middle of the cabin so that I am right in front of where he sits on the love seat, his back to the side of the plane and a row of windows open to the night. I hope we don’t hit turbulence, but I am not overly worried. There are worse things than stumbling into Damien’s arms.
“Take off the robe.” He is wearing loose khaki shorts and an ancient Wimbledon T-shirt. His arms are spread out along the back of the couch, giving him a casual air. His legs are slightly spread, and I can see the tight muscles of his thighs. He’s been working out more and his always exceptional body is even more toned.
But even though his posture is casual, his expression is anything but. He is watching me with something that can only be described as hunger. And I am all too happy to be devoured.
“The robe,” he says, making me jump. I haven’t yet complied. I’ve been too caught up with watching my husband. Now I hesitate for different reasons, my attention turning toward the front of the plane and the now-closed door to the galley. It’s one thing to be naked under a robe that I can yank closed. It’s another to be naked altogether.
“Is there a problem, Mrs. Stark? I believe I told you to ditch the robe.”
I start to speak, but force the words back. I think about Katie. About the privacy of the stateroom. And about this wide-open cabin, separated from the crew’s area by just one thin door.
But this is Damien. He’ll push my boundaries—I know that. But he won’t cross them.
I let the robe fall to the floor, my eyes never leaving his. “Yes, sir,” I say, and see the heat of fire in his eyes, then feel it burn my skin as he slowly lifts his gaze from my feet to my head, examining every inch of me, and making me even wetter in the process.
“Good girl.” His voice is rough, and I can hear the need. I glance down, and feel a wave of satisfaction upon seeing the unmistakable bulge of his erection straining against his shorts. “Now tell me what you want.”
I almost sag with relief, because what I want is what I always want. Where Damien is concerned I am insatiable.
I want him inside me. I want it hard and wild and just a little bit crazy. I want there to be room for nothing inside me except Damien. Not my dream, not the lawsuit, not any of the realities of the world that have started to seep back into my mind now that wakefulness has caught me.
Damien, I think. All I want is Damien.
I start to say as much, but then stop myself. Because as much as I want him—and oh, dear god, do I want him—that isn’t all I want.
No, I want him just as crazed as me. I want to make him desperate. I want to hear him beg. I know that he needs me—I stopped doubting that long ago—but I want to see that need in his eyes, and I want to see the satisfaction of his desires when he explodes inside me.
I take a step toward him.
“Tell me,” he repeats. “Tell me what you want.”
“I’d rather show you.” I walk toward him as I talk, my eyes never leaving his. One step, then another. I see his expression shift, wariness edging toward pleasure.