“More?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer, just spanks me again, and again. Eight more times, until my rear is red hot and sensitive and my cunt is so wet that I can feel my desire coating the inside of my thighs.
I am bent over the desk, my breasts rubbing against the wood with every impact, and now my nipples are as tight and hard and sensitive as my clit. I’m awash in sensation, my entire body sparking like a live wire, and with the right touch, I know that I will shatter.
I expect another smack, but this time his hands grab my hips instead. With his knee, he roughly shoves my legs apart. One hand comes down on my back, holding me in place over the desk. The other strokes my sex, opening me, readying me, though that is hardly necessary—as I am so ready for him to be inside me, I can hardly stand it.
“Damien, please,” I beg. “I need you in so many ways, but right now, I just need you to take me.”
He does, thank God. Gently at first, just the tip of his cock sliding into me as my muscles clench greedily around him. He withdraws, and I moan, immediately regretting the loss of him. Then, without warning, he slams into me, our bodies coming together brutally, violently, and I can feel his body tightening as his climax draws close. “Come with me, baby,” he says, his hand snaking around to stroke my clit.
It is that touch in combination with the sensation of being filled by Damien that sends me spiraling off the cliff, then grabbing on to the edge of the desk as Damien thrusts into me, faster and faster until he explodes as well, then collapses onto the carpet, clutching me around the waist and pulling me down with him.
I land on top of him, and he grins. “Again, Ms. Fairchild?”
“I could be convinced,” I say, though I am still breathless.
He lifts himself just high enough to kiss me. “Marry me,” he says, then grins.
“Yeah,” I say happily. “I think I will.”
“All I am saying is that there is a reason that tradition exists,” my mother says as we enter Phillipe Favreau’s Rodeo Drive boutique.
I am regretting not only having her come along today, but also that I answered her questions about my flower choices for the wedding. She has been harping on it ever since I explained that the cupcake tower would be decorated with wildflowers because that was the overall floral theme.
Wildflowers, in the world of Elizabeth Fairchild, are an epic fail where weddings are concerned.
“Orchids, lilies, gardenias. Darling, those are all lovely and elegant and classic.”
“I like what I’ve picked out, Mother.” I glance around the studio. There are only three gowns on mannequins and one very thin woman working behind a tall glass table that doubles as a desk. “Now, would you drop it?” I glance at the woman. “I’m Nikki Fairchild. I have an appointment with Alyssa for an alteration on a gown that arrived this morning.”
“Nikki Fairchild?” she repeats, looking a bit more flummoxed than is usual for store clerks on Rodeo Drive. “The Damien Stark gown?”
I frown. “Um, well, I’m going to be the one wearing it, but Damien ordered it, yes. Why? Is there a problem?”
She smiles an overly perky smile, and little knots of dread form in my stomach. “I’ll just get Alyssa. One moment.”
“Even magnolias,” Mother says.
“Would you stop it?” I am practically snarling, and Mother’s eyes go wide.
“Nichole! You need to learn to control yourself.”
I suck in both a breath and my temper, and refrain from telling her that she needs to learn to shut up. “I’m a little nervous,” I say. “I think there may be something wrong with the dress.”