My breath catches in my throat. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but no words come out.
His hands find the bra’s front clasp, and as efficiently as he unbuttoned my blouse, he’s released me from my bra, which hangs limp from my shoulders. His groan is low and needful and desperately arousing. I want nothing more than to close my eyes and surrender, but I can’t, I can’t—
“Damien, please.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. He’s breathing hard, and there’s longing in the hard angles of his face. “Free will, Nikki. Tell me to stop, and I will. But tell me fast, because I’m going to kiss that damnable mouth of yours, and goddammit, Nikki, I’m doing it to keep you quiet.”
Faster than I can react, his mouth covers mine. Claiming me, marking me. Making me his. My mind goes blank, all thoughts dissolving, replaced only by pleasure and the need to be claimed by this man. To open my mouth and take and be taken.
Blindly, I grope for him, my fingers clutching at his hair, pulling him closer. It’s as if all my protestations have been nothing but a sham, and now that they’ve been beaten aside, the pressure of emotion—of need—that’s been building inside me has to burst out, wild and hot and desperate and demanding. The kiss lasts either seconds or an eternity, I’m not sure. But when he releases me, I suck in air, craving oxygen because I am light-headed and weak.
This is my chance, and I know it. Tell him to stop now, and he will. Tell him to leave me alone, and he’ll walk out of my life.
I throw myself at him. Wanton. Willful. I’m risking everything, but right then I don’t care. All I can feel is the fire.
Our mouths clash as I draw him in, and he’s right there, tasting me, his low moan of pleasure making all my risks worthwhile.
He breaks our kiss roughly, then closes his mouth on my neck. I gasp and arch back, and as I do, his hands slide into my shirt, cupping my breasts, and then his mouth is there, suckling, drawing me in until my nipple is a tight pearl against his teeth. I realize he’s tugged me closer, so that my ass is barely on the bar stool and his thigh is wedged between my legs. I’m bucking against him because the pleasure has shot like a hot spark from my breast to my sex.
“Baby,” he whispers, as he comes up for air. His fingers quickly finish unbuttoning my shirt, and his hands ease down to my waist, leaving my skin hot and prickly in his wake. He slides me off the stool so that I am standing in front of him. I’m damp from the heat of my desire, and my body aches all over, craving his touch.
“So soft,” he says, as he untucks my shirt and brushes his fingers lightly over my skin. His fingers skim around the waistband of my skirt, then slowly unzips it. It falls a bit, hanging loose around my hips. “So damn beautiful.”
The awe in his voice unnerves me, and cold fingers of trepidation creep in beneath the fog of pleasure.
I tremble, not sure if it’s from my fears or from his touch. “Reach back,” he orders. “Hold on to the stool.”
“Damien …” I hear the protest in my trailing voice, but my actions don’t match my words. I do as he says, my hands clutched tight, my back arched, my head tilted back with pleasure.
He opens my blouse fully, so that the thin material hangs limply on either side of me, and I feel the gentle flutter of the edges against my bare flesh. He brushes his mouth over my nipples, and I groan, wanting to feel him suckle me, but he’s only teasing, and with each soft, feathertouch of a kiss upon my nipple, I feel my sex tighten and throb. I want him—I want him desperately. And yet I don’t. And all I can do is hold tight to the stool and try to ride out the storm, afraid all the while that I will shatter and break.