Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(20)

I’ve turned my head to the side, because the truth is that I do feel exposed. Exposed and open and decadent and wild. I don’t, however, feel humiliated. On the contrary, I feel aroused. And I think it’s that odd combination of emotions that heats my cheeks with a ridiculous blush. “No,” I whisper.

“Look at me.”

I turn my head until I can see his eyes, the amber one shining in the candlelight, and the near-black one as dark as eternity.

“Not humiliated,” he says. “And not suffering, either, I assume?”

“No.”

“Good.” His lips curve into a smile as his hands stroke my inner thighs, the pad of one thumb brushing ever so softly over the worst of my scars. “You are exceptional, Ms. Fairchild,” he says. “I could look at you forever. Lose myself in you forever.”

I draw in a trembling breath. The muscles of my sex clench with longing, and my breasts are so heavy they are almost painful.I want to move—want to satisfy this sexual itch—but I’m stuck fast and helpless.

“I like that I can make you blush,” he says.

I swallow. “Why?”

“Because I know why you do.”

“Really? Well, then please, Mr. Stark, share your insight.”

“Because I have you spread open. Because you’re naked before me and helpless. Because I can do anything to you right now, anything at all. And because that excites you.”

His hand cups my sex, and I release a moan so soft it is little more than a breath.

“So tell me, Ms. Fairchild. If you’re not in pain or suffering or humiliated, how do you feel?”

“Turned on,” I admit, and my cheeks heat even more.

Even in the candlelight, I can see the way his face darkens with my words. I’m not the only one turned on right now.

I start to speak, but he shakes his head. “Hush, now, and close your eyes. I’m going to kiss you.”

I comply, my lips parted in expectation of his touch. But it’s not my lips upon which he presses his kiss. I feel the rough stubble of his beard on my thigh, then his tongue in the soft crease between my leg and vulva. My breath is coming in little gasps now, and whatever playfulness had been in the air mere moments ago has evaporated, replaced by want and need and quiet desperation.

His mouth closes over me, his tongue laving me in a rhythm designed to drive me completely crazy.

His thumbs tease me, never going so far as to enter, but combined with the erotic power of his tongue against my clit, it is a wonder that my body isn’t ripped apart by the force of the sensations rocketing through me.

My back is arched, my hips grinding. Instinctively, I try to close my legs, trying to forestall this tidal wave of pleasure that is so potent it borders on pain. But I can’t. I am bound open, and I have no choice but to yield to these amazing sensations.

Damien’s hands move to hold my hips, keeping me even more immobile. I feel drunk on lust, intoxicated by desire, and I close my eyes and let my head fall back in complete surrender as Damien’s mouth and tongue work some kind of erotic magic on me, taking me higher and higher until that magic culminates in an explosion of sparks and colors and shooting stars that leaves me spent and breathless.

Slowly, reality returns to me, and I gasp, spread-eagled on the bed. My chest rises and falls, my body so sensitive that I can feel every thread of the sheet below me. I feel spoiled and pampered and adored and used. I am certain that all that is left is for Damien to untie me and then gather me into his arms as we drift off into the bliss of sleep. Because what else could be left for this night? He has utterly, sweetly destroyed me.

I should know better than to assume anything about Damien Stark.

His teeth graze my nipple, and I arch up, thoughts of sleep vanishing. I am battered, ripped asunder by his sensual assault, and yet I do not want it to end. The torment is delicious, and I would happily stay like this forever, forgoing food and friends and the world outside if I could simply escape into Damien’s arms.

I open my eyes as he arches up, and his self-satisfied smile suggests that he understands just what I’m thinking. Then he glances sideways, and the smile fades, replaced by a blank, unreadable expression.

Worry cuts through me. “Damien?” Instinctively, I turn my head, my gaze following his line of sight. There is a clock mounted to the wall amid a collection of framed photographs, the few personal items that Damien has already moved into this shell of a house. Oh.

Automatically, I try to sit up, but I am still trapped, bound spread-eagled to this bed, naked and vulnerable. Somehow, though, in that moment it seems as though Damien is more vulnerable than I.

“Less than a minute,” he says, turning his head so that he is looking straight at me again. “Do you turn into a pumpkin or do I?” The words are light, but something in his tone worries me and I am unnerved.

“I don’t think I’d like you as a pumpkin,” I say, forcing out the teasing words. “And I look terrible in orange.”

He laughs, and my worries fizzle away as he straddles me, his weight on his knees and his erection rubbing provocatively on my belly. He traces my lips with the tip of his finger, and I gasp as I suddenly realize that I’ve forgotten to breathe.

He slides down my body and grazes his finger over the platinum and emerald ankle bracelet he gave me when our game began. He looks at me, his eyes burning with passion. “You’re still mine,” he whispers. And then, before I can answer, he shifts position and enters me so swiftly that I cry out in surprise and passion. We move together, making love slowly and gently, and when I feel his body shudder above mine, I close my eyes in the feminine satisfaction of knowing that he has found pleasure in my body.