Damien shakes his head. “Not very. You slept through the movie, but I promise you didn’t miss much.”
A hint of a smile brushes my lips. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep.” I sit up, then scoot back so that I’m leaning against the upholstered headboard. I want to shake it, but the dream still lingers, and I clutch the sheet in my lap, twisting it in my hands. “It seemed so real,” I whisper.
“But it wasn’t, baby. Just thoughts. Just your mind sorting through everything.” He shifts so that he’s facing me, then cups my chin and tilts my head so that I have no choice but to look right at him. “But you’re not your mother. And I will always—always—catch you.”
I draw a breath and manage a wobbly smile. “I know,” I say truthfully. “I guess I just woke up too soon.”
“Or just in time. I’m here, aren’t I? And you woke up in my arms.”
I laugh and nod as my eyes well again with tears. I blink furiously to hold them back, then I slide my fingers into his hair and pull him toward me, my mouth closing hard over his. The kiss is raw and deep, but I want it deeper. I want the connection—physical, emotional. And I want his strength.
Most of all, I want to always feel the way I do in Damien’s arms. Confident. Loved. Strong enough to face the world. “We can do this,” I say as I gently break the kiss. “Maybe it’s not the best timing, but you’re right. This is our child, and we can make this work. Can’t we?”
“Hell, yes,” he says, then kisses me hard and fast, his face shining with triumph. “You know we can. What can’t we do when we’re together?”
I’m crying openly now. Not in fear this time, but relief. And, yes, in joy. “I love you,” I whisper.
“That’s a good thing.” His smile lights his eyes. “Because we’re going to have a baby.”
“Ashley.” I tilt my head up to meet Damien’s eyes. “In my dream, her name was Ashley.”
Slowly, he presses his hand against my belly. “Ashley,” he repeats. “It’s perfect.” He meets my eyes. “Of course, it might be a boy.”
“True,” I say, then flash a grin. “A boy like Damien Stark. He’ll be a handful.”
Damien laughs and kisses me. “He certainly would.”
I’d changed into a tank top and yoga pants the moment we got back to the hotel, and now his hand slips under the tank, and the sensation of his palm against my bare skin sends shivers through me. Slowly, he eases his hand up my body, tracing the curve of my waist and then grazing over my ribs before cupping my breast. His thumb finds my nipple and begins a gentle, rhythmic caress that has me biting my lower lip as tendrils of wanton heat spread out through my body, firing my senses and making me whimper with longing.
“Nikki.”
His eyes meet mine, and I see the tension in them. An unfamiliar hesitancy that I don’t understand, because when has Damien ever hesitated where I am concerned? He has always been bold, taking what he wants—and what I so willingly give him.
I frown, wanting to ask him what’s wrong, but before I get the chance, his hand abandons my breast to slide back down, so it rests just below my bellybutton. “Is it okay?”
At first, I don’t understand his words, spoken with such sweet tenderness. Then I realize that he’s talking about the baby, and I smile, utterly charmed. I rest my hand on his, then start to ease it down beneath the stretchy waistband of my yoga pants. “Yes, please,” I say sincerely, as a fiery need sparks inside me. “It’s more than okay.”
“You’re sure?”
I can’t tell if he’s teasing me or truly uncertain. “I’m beyond sure,” I promise him. “You. Hormones. I don’t even know. I don’t even care. But please, Damien. Please. I need to feel you inside me. Right now. I need it as desperately as I need to breathe.”
“Do you?” he says, with a deliciously wicked gleam in his eyes. “I think we can do something about that.”
I whimper a bit because the next thing he does is pull his hand out from under the band of my pants, which isn’t exactly the direction I want him to be moving. But then he shifts on the bed until he is straddling me, and his hand is under the hem of my tank top, his palm warm against the curve of my waist.
With wicked slowness, he strokes my skin, the friction and the heat making me crazy. I arch up, my nipples straining against the thin material of my skimpy tank top. “Please,” I beg.
“Please? Please, what?” His palms graze my ribcage until he reaches the swell of my breasts. I whimper, my skin so sensitive now that even a whisper of breath would shoot straight through my core, making me writhe with need.
“Please, yes,” I say. “Please, fast.”
His brow cocks. “Fast? Are you sure?” One thumb lazily teases my nipple as the other hand eases the tank higher until both my breasts are exposed. “Slow has its advantages.”
He lowers his mouth, then teases my areola with his tongue. The sensation is incredible, and I bite my lip to keep from whimpering. Damien, however, is determined to drive me crazy, and while his mouth wreaks havoc above my waist, his fingers trail down, easing inside my pants to cup my sex.
I’m incredibly wet, and he strokes me in slow, gentle movements, never entering me, never teasing my clit. Just building me up. Making me crave. Making me want.
Making me so damn crazy that I arch my back more and gyrate my hips—silently demanding that he do more than just tease my breast and my cunt. I want his teeth on my nipple, his finger on my clit. Mostly, I want his cock inside me.
“Please,” I beg when I can’t stand it anymore. My entire body is on fire, and if he doesn’t fuck me soon I’m going to be reduced to nothing more than cinders.
“Please,” I beg again, only this time I reach down and fumble at the button on his jeans. I manage to get it unfastened, then slip my hand inside the denim. He’s wearing boxers, and I stroke him through the soft cotton, gratified at the low, growling sound in his throat, and the corresponding way that his fingers slip inside me, just enough to tease. To make me want even more.
I ease my hand inside his boxers to find him hard and hot in my hand. He shifts his hips, the movement helping my effort to free him from both boxers and jeans. And as I slowly stroke his cock, he closes his mouth over my breast and sucks, tugging so hard that I feel a corresponding ache in my cunt, and my muscles clench with longing.
“Say it, baby,” he murmurs. “Tell me you want me to fuck you.”
“Yes,” I say. “Please, Damien. Please fuck me. Hard,” I beg. “Fast,” I plead.