My head jerks up to look at him. “What?”
“I wanted a portrait. And I wanted the woman. Naked, Nikki. Naked and open in my bed. At least let me see what I’m missing out on.”
The anger that’s been growing bursts out like gasoline thrown on a fire. “Are you fucking kidding me?”
He is perfectly calm, his eyes flat and focused on me. “I’m not. Take your jeans off, Nikki. Let me see you.”
“You son of a bitch.” I blink, and a tear streaks down my cheek. I wanted my scars to be a weapon? Well, they’re damn well going to be. Angrily, I rip open the button of my jeans and yank the zipper down. I wriggle out of them until the denim is pooled at my feet. I kick off the damn flip-flops and stand there, my legs spread slightly. There’s no way he can miss the welts on my hips and inner thighs. “You goddamn son of a bitch.”
I don’t know what I expect, but Damien drops to his knees. His face is about level with my hips, and he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over the thickest scar on my hip. I’d cut too deep, and I’d been too scared to go to the emergency room. I’d closed the wound with duct tape and super glue and kept pressure on with an Ace bandage wrapped tight around me. I’d kept my secret, but the scar was vile. Even now, years later, it’s still slightly pink.
“Oh, baby.” His voice is soft, like a caress. “I knew there was something, but …” He trails off, his other hand tracing the scars on the inside of my thighs. “Who did this to you?”
I close my eyes and tilt my head away, ashamed.
I hear his soft exhale and know that he understands. I force myself to look back at him.
“Is this what you were afraid of? That I’d learn about these scars? That I wouldn’t want you?”
A tear is clinging to the end of my nose. It falls and lands with a plop on his arm.
“Sweetheart …” I hear my pain in his voice. And then he leans close to me and runs his tongue over the inside of my left thigh. Over my flesh, over my scar. I can’t believe this is real, but it is. He’s not running. He’s kissing me there, so sweetly, and then he takes my hands and pulls me down until I’m kneeling in front of him.
I’m a mess, tears spilling, my nose running. I’m hiccuping and it’s not easy to breathe.
“Shhhh,” he says, and then he’s gathered me in his arms. I cling to him as he carries me back to the bed and lays me down, naked except for my tank top, which he very slowly pulls off.
I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head to the side, not looking at him.
“No,” he says, and eases my arms to my sides. He takes some pity on me, though, and doesn’t make me look at him.
Slowly, he explores my scars, as if I am a road map, his finger tracing over each of them. He speaks soothing words, and there’s no horror in his voice. No disgust. “This is what you were trying to hide. Why you’ve run from me. Why you wanted to be painted exactly the way you are.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He already knows.
“You’re a goddamn fool, Nikki Fairchild.” The harshness in his voice makes me turn my head. I look at him, expecting anger or disgust or exasperation. What I see is desire.
“I don’t want an icon. Not on my wall, not in my bed. I want the woman, Nikki. I want you.”
“I—”
He presses a finger over my lips. “Our deal is on. No arguments. No exceptions.”
He eases off the bed and goes to the window, then pulls down one of the drapes. I hear the rattle of the ornate clips that have connected the material to the bar.
“What are you doing?”
“What I want,” he says as he ties the end of the drape to the bedpost. “Raise your arms.”
My pulse quickens, but I comply. Right now, I don’t want to be in charge. I don’t want to control. I want to be swept away, to be taken care of.
Gently, he twists the drape around my wrist, then weaves it through the bedposts before repeating the process with my other wrist. Finally, he ties the loose end off on the other bedpost.