Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(16)

“No more than that,” I breathe. “Now the only thing I want is you.”





4


There is no traffic on our return to Malibu, and Damien takes advantage of the empty highway, driving like a demon up PCH and then along the curving roads of the Malibu canyons.

He manages to make the jaunt in less than twenty minutes, which is probably both a record and proof that the folks at Bugatti haven’t misrepresented the car’s zippiness.

Despite the shortness of our trip—and even despite the thrill-ride quality of the drive itself—it is the longest twenty minutes of my life.

Now we’re in the house, and Damien is slowly—achingly slowly—drawing the cord out from under my outfit. The waistband of the skirt is snug, and that provides some resistance, so that as the cord slides between my ass cheeks and over my sex, I have to bite my lip so as to not cry out against the growing power of the sensations building within me.

“Damien,” I murmur. It is the only word I can manage. We are standing in the barren foyer of this unfinished house. The room is huge and empty and even my breath seems to echo. Behind us, the front door still hangs wide open.

I’m not really caring about any of that. At this moment, in fact, the hard marble floor is looking pretty damned appealing.

I meet Damien’s eyes, and I see my own desire reflected back. This night has been foreplay, and it has been wonderful. But now it’s time for more. I want to be f*cked.

I want Damien.

“Take off your clothes,” he orders as soon as the cord is fully free, though still hanging from my neck.

I nod and silently comply, stepping first out of the skirt and then tugging the top over my head. As I do, Damien goes to the door and slams it shut. When he returns, I’m fumbling at the knot around my neck.

“No,” he says. “Leave it.”

He bends to my feet and unfastens the tiny buckles around my ankles. I sigh with relief as I step out of each shoe in turn. The marble is cool beneath my feet, and considering how much desire has heated my body, I’m surprised that steam doesn’t rise up from the floor simply from the contact.

I am naked now, with only the cord around my neck, and he is still fully dressed, his clothes not even wrinkled. That simple reality only excites me more.

I am aware of everything around and within me. The heat from Damien, standing only inches from me. The quick beat of my pulse in my neck. The quickening of my sex, so desperate for his touch.

Our eyes meet, and I gasp. I expect the desire I see there, but I am done in by the rest of it. By the raw emotion. By the desperate longing that he isn’t even endeavoring to hide.

“Nikki,” he says, and with one quick motion he grabs hold of the cord and pulls me to him. I stumble, then find myself pressed against him, my hot flesh against the cool cotton of his shirt. I have no time to think about the feel of him, though, because his mouth closes over mine in a kiss that is more of an assault than a seduction. He is claiming, demanding. I can taste nothing but Damien, feel nothing but Damien. At this moment, he is my entire world, and I know with unerring certainty that in that moment there is no world for him beyond the two of us, either.

“I want to go slow,” he says when he finally breaks the kiss. “I want to make you moan with anticipation and writhe with need of me. I want you so ready that you beg for me.”

I swallow. I want this, too.

“But, dammit, Nikki, I can’t wait.”

“Then don’t,” I say, and my voice is hoarse, the words barely able to scrape past the desire.

“God, what you do to me.” The words seem wrenched from him, and he closes his mouth over mine almost before he’s finished speaking. At the same time, he scoops me up, one arm around my back and the other under my knees. I curl close to him, relishing the feel of his arms around me, but wanting more. So much more.

He carries me up the stairs, then sets me on my feet in front of the now-closed doors that lead to the balcony. I have barely got my balance when his mouth catches mine again in a bruising kiss and we stumble together backward. The bed is right there, barring our path even while keeping us from falling to the ground in a claiming, grasping flurry of lips and hands.

The mattress brushes against the back of my thighs, but before I can even think to sit, Damien breaks our kiss. “No,” he says, and then turns me around. “Bend over,” he says. “Hands on the bed.”

I comply, the cord dangling from my neck like an ornamental leash. I wriggle my ass as coquettishly as I can manage in such a position. “For someone who says he can’t wait you’re taking an awfully long time.”

“Perhaps I’m waiting for an apology. It’s not kind to remind a man that heaven is ending in mere hours,” he teases sternly. “A young woman with your meticulous upbringing should have more tact than to bring up such a sore subject several times over the course of one evening. Whatever happened to etiquette and decorum?”

“That’s a very good question, Mr. Stark. Perhaps I’m not as polite and refined as you think I am.”

“Perhaps not,” he says as his fingers trail over my back. “I don’t like being reminded that the end is near. It was quite unkind of you to mention it so boldly.”

“Quite unkind,” I agree. “Rude, even. Definitely thoughtless. And certainly not worthy of the Emily Post seal of approval.”