Instead, I manage a shrug. “Everyone has nightmares. Not everyone is as lucky as I am to have a man like you to soothe them.”
His hand closes around my upper arm, his eyes boring straight into mine with the kind of heated ferocity that makes me breathless. “There is no fire I wouldn’t walk through for you, Nikki. But that doesn’t mean I want you to burn, too.”
“I already burn for you, Damien. Of course I’ll burn with you, too.”
For a moment, his grip tightens so much that I almost wince. Then he pulls me violently toward him, and his mouth is hard against mine. His palm is at the back of my head, his fingers twined tight in my hair. Our teeth clash, his tongue invades my mouth, and I want this—this heat, this wildness. I need him to know that I can take it. Him, this life, this place. All of it.
“Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he asks as the taxi pulls to a stop in front of the hotel.
“At least as much as I love you,” I reply.
I start to edge toward the door, but Damien’s hand stops me. I follow his glance through the window and see the gathering of paparazzi near the entrance, their cameras aimed at us.
Well, hell.
“Go,” Damien says, with a firm smack of his palm to the glass divider between us and the driver.
To his credit, our driver continues on, leaving the vultures gaping. He takes us around back and delivers us to the service entrance. The decor is significantly less stunning as we walk through the kitchen and past the laundry, but at least it’s a photography-free zone.
We head for the service elevator to take us up to the penthouse, and as we’re waiting for it to arrive, Damien pulls out his phone and checks a text message. “Goddammit.”
“What?” I ask, but he is too busy opening apps and checking something.
I edge closer to see, and come face-to-face with the image of Damien’s hand on my breast, his other inside my skirt. And thank goodness for the shadows, because nothing beneath my skirt is visible. Not that anyone needs to see what we’re doing; it’s pretty obvious. My face is alight with passion, after all, and the very clear sign for à la Lune glows neon orange behind us. I recognize the image—it’s from before we entered the club.
I don’t recall making a noise, but I must have, because Damien looks up from his phone, his expression somehow both angry and sad, both cold determination and tender vulnerability.
“No,” I say. “This isn’t your fault.”
“The hell it isn’t.”
“We’re married,” I say. “What the hell do we care if it’s on Facebook?”
“It’s everywhere,” he says. “Sylvia says it’s gone viral. They’ll be dragging out the story about the painting soon, too,” he says, referring to the way the press vilified me for accepting a million dollars in exchange for a nude portrait of myself.
My stomach twists, but I tell myself it will be okay. “All that picture shows is that I love you and I want you. That you turn me on desperately. All it will do is make every other woman in the world jealous that I’m the woman in your bed. I can live with that,” I add with a sharp thrust of my chin.
“I don’t like seeing you exposed,” he says. “Especially when I’m the one who exposed you.”
“I can deal with it,” I say. I don’t mention that can deal and want to deal are two entirely different things.
“Doesn’t mean you want to,” Damien says, effectively reading my mind as always.
We’re in the elevator now, and it slides to a stop at our floor. I take Damien’s hand and squeeze it lightly. “We’ll be fine,” I say. “We’re together. How can we be anything else?”
His answering smile warms me. Yes, I think as the doors open inside our suite. This will be okay.
And then I see the room.
“Back in the elevator.” Damien’s voice is hard and dangerous, and he is in front of me in less than a second. I have barely registered the state of the room—all I know is that it is in shambles. Our luggage wide open, our clothes scattered everywhere. We hadn’t taken the time to unpack. Apparently someone decided to do it for us.