But this is Damien’s show, and as he uses his free hand to cup my breast and still my fingers, I open my eyes to see my own wildness reflected back at me in Damien’s expression.
“Please,” I say, but he simply shakes his head, his mouth curving into the kind of arrogant smile that I know only too well. The kind of smile that promises abundant pleasure and unimaginable delights—but all on Damien’s terms. And Damien is a man who knows how to prolong a seduction.
“He would take her to the edge,” Damien says slowly. “Making her crave him. Making her want him. Pushing her to the very height of sensual pleasure, promising her the explosion. Taking her so far that she would surrender to him, give herself over to the promise of pure pleasure in the arms of this man.”
“Yes,” I say. “Oh, yes.”
He withdraws his fingers from my sex, and my muscles tighten in protest, my body wanting to draw him back in. He cups his hand there, the pressure making it hard for a cogent thought to form in my head.
“And only when he is sure does he claim her fully, take her completely.” He draws his hand away, and I have to bite my lip to stifle a moan of protest.
He reaches into the tub and scoops me up, one arm beneath my knees, the other around my back. I hook my arms around his neck and snuggle against him, wanting to be as close to this man as humanly possible.
“He plies her with softness and seduction,” Damien says, and I murmur a protest against his throat. “What?” he asks.
I tilt my head back and look at him through heavy lids. “I’m not complaining,” I say, “but I’m not so sure that men in history saw it entirely your way.”
His lips twitch. “No?”
“I think they just took what they wanted, and the woman be damned.” I lift an eyebrow, teasing, and he dips his head to kiss my forehead.
“Perhaps,” he says. “Or perhaps I’m not finished telling you my story. It’s one thing for him to make her crave him. It’s another thing entirely for him to finally claim her. For her to truly understand that she is his.”
“Oh,” I say, as a sensual tremor cuts through me.
“The height of pleasure,” he says slowly, the words so heavy with meaning they make me weak. And, yes, they make me wetter. “The precipice of passion. He would take her there, again and again, until she was desperate with longing, all resistance lost, all hesitation erased. She would know only him. Want only him. And she would beg for the relief and explosion that only he could bring her.”
We’re on the patio now, and he carries me to the shower, then puts me down. He turns on the tap, and pleasantly warm water begins to fall from the rain-style showerhead. I tilt my head up, enjoying the way it washes over me, then look down to watch as the last remnants of the bubbles that clung to me from the tub are washed away down the drain.
Beside me, Damien is still in his shorts and open white shirt. He’s soaked, and the thin material now clings to him in the kind of magazine-cover-model way that makes me want to simply stare at him and bask in the knowledge that he is mine.
“Here,” he says, turning me to face the wooden wall from which the showerhead protrudes. He takes my wrist and raises my arm above my head. It is only then that I notice that the hook that I saw holding shampoo is actually a slipknot. He takes the bottle of shampoo out, then slips the rough rope around my wrist before pulling it tight, effectively trapping me in place.
“Damien,” I say, and I can hear both trepidation and excitement in my voice.
He hears it, too, and I see the hint of a smile as he takes my other hand and repeats the process so that I am standing there naked and bound, facing the freestanding wooden wall.
He steps back, watching me from just to my left, far enough back so that I have to turn my head to see him.
“He claims her,” he says slowly. “Claims her and possesses her. Takes her and commands her. Teases and taunts until she understands that he is her life now, just as she is his.”