“So I have no authority now,” he says, his eyes roaming over my body. “I can’t tell you to touch yourself. I can’t insist that you lie naked in the surf and slide your fingers over your cunt. I can’t take you back to the pool and ease you in, then suck on your nipples while the water washes the sand from your body. I can’t slide my fingers inside you and feel how slick you are, how much you want me.”
His eyes are locked on mine, and my breathing has become shallow. My skin glistens with sweat, and not from the heat of the sun. I’m standing at least three feet from him, but it’s as if he’s right there. As if we’re connected. As if his hands are moving over my body in time with his words. And, dammit, I do want to touch myself. It takes all my willpower to keep my hands at my sides. Even then, my thumb is brushing the outside of my thigh, the motion slow and sensual. It’s all I have, and I’m clinging to it even as I cling to his words.
“I can’t take you into the hot tub and turn you around so that I can fuck you from behind while the water jet strokes your clit. I can’t clutch your breasts and fuck you harder while you come for me, exploding all around me. And I can’t make love to you on a balcony under the stars.”
Make love …
My heart flutters.
“I can’t, Nikki,” he continues, “because you’re not mine yet. But I can soon,” he says. “Soon I can do whatever I want with you. I hope you’re ready.”
I swallow. I hope I am, too. Dear God, I hope I am.
When we exit the plane in Santa Monica, there are two cars waiting. Damien’s sleek red expensive car with the unpronounceable name and a Lincoln Town Car. A short man in a cap stands by the Town Car. He inclines his head when I glance at him.
Damien presses his palm to the small of my back and steers me toward the man. “This is Edward, one of my drivers. He’ll be taking you home.”
“You’re going back to your office?”
“I’m so sorry to cut our afternoon short, but it can’t be avoided.”
“No, no. Obviously you have work to do. It’s just that my car is in the parking garage. Why don’t I ride back with you?”
He presses a kiss to my forehead as Edward opens the Town Car door for me. “I would love the company, but your car is at your apartment.”
It takes me a second to process. “What? How did it get there?”
“I arranged it.”
“You arranged it,” I repeat. I’m not angry so much as baffled. No, actually, I’m angry. I feel the tension boiling up inside me. “You just did that without asking?”
He looks perplexed. “I thought you’d appreciate it.”
“That’s micromanaging my life and putting your sticky fingers all over my property.” I can hear my voice rising and force myself to tamp it down.
“I think you’re overreacting.”
Am I? I think about my mother and how much her fingers in every aspect of my life irritated me. Am I projecting my issues with my mother onto Damien? Or has he actually crossed some line? I’m not sure, and it bugs me that Elizabeth Fairchild is still haunting me from fifteen hundred miles away.
I run my fingers through my hair. “Sorry,” I finally say. I slide into the back of the Town Car and look back out at him. “You’re probably right. Just ask first next time, okay?”
“I was trying to help,” he says, another nonanswer, but he’s closing the door and that’s that.
Well, damn.
Edward climbs into the driver’s seat and takes off toward my apartment. But the truth is, I’m not ready to go home yet. “You can just drop me on the Promenade,” I say, referring to the shopping street in Santa Monica. “I’ll either catch a taxi home or have my roommate pick me up.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, guiding the car onto the entrance ramp to the 10. “My instructions are to take you straight home.”
Oh, for Pete’s sake!
“Instructions?” I echo. “Don’t I get a say?”
Edward looks up, and I meet his eyes in the rearview mirror. The answer is clear: No.
Dammit.
I pull out my cell phone and call Damien.