I swallow, hearing both reality and history in his words. “And if she already knows it?”
Our eyes lock and the air between us seems to shimmer. I can feel it touching me, the tickle of electric fingers dancing over my body. I am alive with this man. My husband.
I am alive, and I am his.
And we both already know it.
For a moment, I think that he will say something else. His eyes narrow in what I can only assume is amusement. Then—without saying another word—he turns and walks away from me, carefully stepping on the stone path that leads the way across the infinity pool.
I watch him go, determined not to call after him. I don’t know what game he is playing, but I am certain that there is a game. I’m also certain that while Damien might deny me simply for the pleasure of making me beg, he won’t deny me for long. Not today. Not when he wants me just as badly as I want him.
Still, just in case, I give a firm tug to my bonds, managing only to tighten the slipknots. Well, damn.
And then, as if to prove my hypothesis, Damien returns. He’s changed clothes, and now he’s wearing khaki shorts and nothing else. He seems to glow in the sunlight, and I think to myself that he is sun kissed. At the moment, all that thought does is make me jealous of the sun.
He crosses purposefully to me, and even on this beachfront patio and dressed so casually, there is no question but that he is a man to be obeyed. More than that, I know that I will willingly do so.
He’s carrying one of the champagne flutes, and now he comes to stand just to the side of the wooden wall so that I can look at him more easily.
“You’re beautiful,” he says, with such reverence in his voice that it makes me go weak.
“Is this how you like me?” I ask, lifting my chin. “Naked and bound and wet for you?”
One eyebrow arches slightly as he takes a step toward me. “Are you?”
Yes, yes, oh, dear god, yes. I don’t say that, though. Instead I just smile. “Come and find out.”
“Tempting,” he says, moving even closer, and with each step my anticipation rises and my body fires just a little bit more.
“Please,” I say, when he is close enough to touch me, but maddeningly doesn’t do so.
“Please what?”
“Touch me,” I say. “Fuck me.”
“Feeling desperate, Mrs. Stark? Dear god, I like the sound of that.”
“Desperate?” I quip.
“Mrs. Stark,” he says firmly, and takes a sip of the champagne. “I’m not sure there are any two words in the world that give me greater pleasure.” He lifts the glass to me. “A sip for the bride?”
I nod and ease forward. He puts the glass to my lips and tilts it for me to drink. I swallow some, but most of it dribbles down my chin and onto my breasts.
I shiver slightly from the unexpected splash of cool liquid, then shiver even more when Damien moves closer, pressing one hand to my lower back to hold me in place as he licks the champagne from my cleavage.
I do not recognize the sound I make. It is wild. Feral. It is a demand, a plea, and if I were not bound to this wall I would fall to my knees and beg him to take me hard, to take me fast.
With his free hand, he cups my breast as his tongue laves my areola before his mouth closes over my nipple. He suckles me, sending electricity shooting down to my clit, making my already throbbing sex go almost painful with need.
I struggle to move my hands because I want to touch him. To stroke his back and bury my fingers in his hair, but I am bound, and I can only feel and want and need.
Damien.
I don’t realize that I’ve said his name aloud until he looks up at me, his lips still pressed against my breast, his face full of wide-open desire.