Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(65)

I feel ridiculously weepy at this story and blink back the threatening tears. “And your dad?”

“Never told him. He was pissed as hell, but all I confessed to was taking my bike and riding along the beach. I paid for it,” he adds darkly, “but I had the books. I still have the books,” he adds, nodding toward the case.

“You do,” I say. “Bradbury sounds like a really nice man.”

“He was.”

“This is a wonderful story,” I say, and I mean it. These are the kinds of tidbits from his life that I want inside me. Bits of Damien, to fill me up. “But I’m not sure why you’re telling it to me now.”

“Because the things in this house mean something to me. Not the props I had brought in for the party, but the real things. There’s not much yet, but it’s all precious to me. The art. Each knickknack. Even the furniture.” He looks at me, and I see passion in his eyes. Not sexual, though. This is deeper. “You are no exception, Nikki. I brought you to this house because I want you here, just as I wanted your portrait.”

I lick my lips. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I don’t think you could have made me happier than to say you felt jealous watching Giselle act as hostess of the party. But let’s be clear. She’s not the hostess in this house, and she never could be. Do you understand?”

I nod awkwardly. I am breathless. I am overwhelmed. And I want desperately to be in the circle of his arms.

The air between us crackles as Damien moves forward. He is close, so close, and yet he is not touching me. Not yet. It is as if he is punishing both of us. As if he is reminding us of why we should never be apart—because the coming together is just too damned explosive.

“Damien,” I say. That is all that I can manage.

Slowly, he strokes his fingertips down my arm. I bite my lower lip and close my eyes. “No,” he says. “Look at me.”

I do, my eyes meeting his as his fingers slide farther down, lower and lower until his hand is over mine, both resting lightly on my thigh over the hem of my dress. His palm is flat, his hand completely covers mine. Slowly, he slides our joined hands up so that I am lifting my skirt until it is at the juncture of my thighs and my ass. “You belong here,” he says. “Wherever I am, you belong. You’re mine. Say it.”

“I am. I am yours.” My breath is coming harder as his hand eases off mine, then begins to creep even higher, slowly, slowly, so goddamned slowly.

“I need you.” His raw voice sends ripples of desire through me. My sex clenches, and it takes all my self control not to grab my own damned hem and yank my skirt up around my waist. “I need you now.”

“God, yes,” I manage, forcing out the words. “Damien, oh, please.”

Roughly, he pushes me backward until I am wedged into the corner. The glass case is beside me, and I reach out, clutching the polished wood for support as his mouth closes over mine. Our kiss is wild, fevered. I am starved for him and I take greedily everything he has to give.

His fingers continue their upward climb as I hungrily take his mouth with mine, my tongue thrusting against his, my teeth grazing his lip. And then, suddenly, his fingers stroke my sex and I cry out, my sound of pleasure muffled only by the renewed assault of his lips against my own.

“No panties,” he says, sliding a finger deep inside me. “You said—”

“I lied,” I admit, though I am not certain how I am able to form words. “Shut up and kiss me.”

“Kiss you? Ms. Fairchild, I’m going to do more than that.”

“The party?”

“Fuck the party,” he growls.

“If someone comes down—”

“They won’t.”

“But if—”

“Nikki?”

“Yes?”

“Hush.”

It’s an order that I can’t disobey, because he closes his mouth over mine, his tongue filling me, and I open to him, wanting to taste him, to lose myself to him.

Roughly he lifts my thigh. I bend my knee and hook it around his leg. My skirt slides up again and he pushes it up even farther until I am fully exposed. He breaks our kiss long enough to look down at my naked sex, and his groan is low and almost painful. I cannot touch him—I need my hands to steady myself between the wall and the case—and I am tormented by the desire to feel his cock beneath my hand. To stroke him and feel how much he wants me, and to know that his own desire matches mine.

His hand cups me, his fingers sliding over me, making me tremble. I am desperately wet and the feel of his hand upon me is making me crazy.

“Damien, please—”

“Please what?”

“Please, please f*ck me.”

“Whatever the lady wants,” he says, and as he slowly, teasingly slips a finger inside me, I close my eyes and tilt my head back, smiling at the musical sound of his other hand tugging down the zipper of his trousers.

I feel his erection, hard against my leg. Then the head stroking me, teasing me. His hands edge down, one cupping my rear and lifting me just slightly, then releasing me so that I sink down as he thrusts into me. Once, twice—deeper and deeper until we are in a frenzy and he is slamming his body against mine and I want more, so much more, and the sound of my body thrumming against the wall must surely be shaking the house, and how can the guests at the party not hear, when the sound of our passion is ringing so loudly in my ears?