Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(50)

He slips his hand inside my sarong skirt, his finger dipping under the string of my thong to find me wet.

I tremble, a small shiver rushing through me, as if a portent of an explosion to come.

“Why, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, “I do believe you want me.”

I bite my lower lip and say nothing; he doesn’t need to hear my answer. He already knows he’s right.

Slowly—so painfully slowly—he starts to peel me out of my clothing. The knot of the sarong. The tiny thong panties. The tank he tugs gently over my head. Even the scarf falls into a pile on the floor. I see it there, a lonely bit of pink in a sea of black, and I sigh.

“Trouble?”

“I thought you were going to tie me up.”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

“Oh.”

“Complaining, Ms. Fairchild?”

“Never with you, Mr. Stark.”

“Good answer. For that, you get a reward.” His expression takes on a dangerous edge. “Come with me.”

I follow him to the bedroom, where he lays a blanket on the floor, then opens one of the leather trunks. He pulls out two lengths of rope and slowly twines them between his hands. I can feel my eyes go wide. We’ve moved a long way from soft pink scarves.

“What are you going to do?”

But Damien doesn’t answer. He just nods at the floor and tells me to lie down. I hesitate only a moment, and then comply, my head near the foot of the bed and my body stretched out on the blanket.

“Hands above your head,” he says.

I stretch my arms up, my excitement building along with my curiosity, and he uses the shorter length of rope to tie my wrists together. Then he fastens my bound hands to the center leg of his king-size bedframe.

“I’m going to please you, Nikki,” he says, then strokes his fingertip slowly down my arm. He starts at my wrist, then gently teases the soft flesh of my inner arm, then the bend of my elbow, his fingertip finally trailing along my upper arm to the sensitive flesh of my underarm.

I bite my lower lip and squirm. The sensation of his finger upon my skin is exquisite. It is feather-soft, almost a tickle, and desperately, wildly erotic.

“Do you see how you writhe?” he asks. “That movement lets you control the intensity so that you’re not overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“I’m going to take that away from you,” he says as he begins to position me. He moves the soles of my feet together, and then slowly wraps the jute rope around them once, twice. I test the bindings and find that I cannot move my feet at all. I am strangely helpless, and it’s unnerving and exciting all at the same time.

“There will be no writhing,” Damien says as he gently spreads my knees and brings my joined feet up higher on the blanket. “No shifting. No place to hide.”

I’m essentially in the butterfly pose from yoga now, my knees spread wide and each only inches off the floor. I’m not particularly athletic, but my mother kept me doing both yoga and ballet long enough that I am sufficiently limber, so that Damien has no trouble positioning me.

My back is arched, the inside of my thighs tight from the stretch. And, yes, my sex is completely exposed. The position is undeniably erotic, and not only because I am so wide open. As Damien has said, there is nowhere to go. Not now, and certainly not when he finishes what he has started. I will be utterly at his mercy—and that, of course, is the point. Damien has lost so much tonight, but these ropes and my body can give him some of it back.

But this isn’t just about what Damien needs. I want this, too. I want to surrender to him. I want to abdicate my pleasure to Damien’s command. I want to float, with only Damien to tether me.

Damien’s eyes meet mine, and when he then trails his gaze down my body, there is so much heat, it is a wonder that he doesn’t leave scorch marks on my skin.

He has used the middle section of the long length of rope to bind my feet, and now he takes one of the free ends and begins to encircle the shin and thigh of my left leg.

“I’m giving you pleasure, pain, and beauty combined,” he says. “I want to look at you like this, open for me, your legs bent, your body like a diamond shining bright and glistening for me.”

He pulls the rope tight so that it both marks my flesh and ensures that my legs stay at the proper angle. Then he ties it off. I am now half-bound—and completely turned on.

“You’re like the portrait,” he says. “A vision of erotic beauty. But a portrait isn’t flesh, and its beauty can’t feel pleasure.”

He closes his mouth over my breast and sucks and I feel a fast, electric trill race from my nipple to my cunt. My sex tightens, as if begging for attention, but Damien is in no hurry, and he suckles and teases, his teeth grazing my tender nipple, his mouth drawing against my flesh until my areola is tight and puckered. His tongue teasing my skin, and he is right—I am desperate to move beneath him, to escape even slightly from the overwhelming sweetness of this onslaught. But I am trapped and the sensual assault continues, edging me high and higher until I am certain I have no choice but to fall.

Just when I am certain that I will scream if he doesn’t relent, he trails kisses down my belly until he reaches my navel. He takes a quick, playful nip, then sits up and returns to the task of tying me down. He takes the rope again, and this time moves to my other leg. Before he does, though, he gently strokes my sex. I’m hot and needy, and a tremble runs through me. I want him to do it again, another stroke, his mouth, his fingers deep inside me. I want that tremble to turn into a full-blown explosion. I want that—and Damien damn well knows it.