Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(71)

But then again, I don’t really want to shift my position.

“Yes,” he says. “This is how I want you. Hot and wet and on fire for me. I want you f*ckable, Nikki. Anytime, anyplace, I want you ready.”

“I’m always ready for you,” I whisper, both because he wants to hear it, and because it is true.

“I should f*ck you now,” he says, moving his fingers slowly in and out of me. My sex clenches, drawing him in, wanting more and more. Wanting all of him. “I should bend you over the hood of this car and lift your skirt and spank your ass until it’s red and throbbing. Then I should thrust my cock into your sweet, wet cunt. Is that what you want, Nikki? You can tell me. Tell me all the things you want me to do to you, Nikki. Tell me how you want me to f*ck you.”

My eyes are closed, my breasts are heavy. I am so wet and I feel so full. He has three, no, four fingers inside me now, and my hips are gyrating, wanting him harder, faster, deeper.

“Tell me,” he repeats.

“I want you to f*ck me,” I say. “I want your hands on my tits and your cock deep inside me. I want you, Damien. Please, please, I want you so badly.”

His fingers slide out of me, and he traces slow circles over my clit while his palm rubs lightly at my sex. I can smell my arousal, and I am shameless, shifting this way and that so that the feeling grows. I’m close, so close, and I want to come in his arms. I don’t care that we’re in his garage, that I’m bent half in and half out of his car. All I want is Damien. All I want is for him to take me where I want to go.

“Thank you,” he whispers as he pulls his hand away.

“Damien,” I moan. “Dammit, Damien, please.”

“Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?”

“You know I am.”

“Good.” The satisfaction in his voice makes me smile despite my state of abject frustration. “Now, into the car.”

I do as he says, then sit with my legs pressed tightly together in the hopes that the pressure will quell some of my rising, desperate need.

He circles the car and gets in beside me, then looks over, his amusement obvious. “Legs apart, Ms. Fairchild. You don’t get off until I say you get off.”

I shoot him a sour glance, but I comply.

“I’m sorry, but I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good girl.”

As I sit, lost in a haze of sexual frustration, he starts the car and maneuvers it out of its slot. I expect him to go back the way we came in, but he continues in the direction we were walking, which seems odd to me as all I see is a wall. As we get close, though, he presses a button on the dash and a section of the wall slides away.

Suddenly, we are in a dark tunnel lined with endless arcs of light that provide illumination all the way down, each arc lighting only as we approach it, giving the illusion that we are heading off toward infinity. I feel a bit like a Bond girl chasing down the bad guys. “Where are we going?”

“Just wait,” he says. In front of us, no lights appear and for a moment I’m afraid that something has gone wrong with Damien’s billionaire escape route. But it turns out that we’ve simply reached the end of the hill. We’ve emerged onto a private road—Damien’s, of course—and after following it for a while we turn onto a twisting Malibu road and maneuver the hills until, finally, we reach the Pacific Coast Highway.

“You’re really not going to tell me?” I ask. I am still sweetly on edge. The car is low to the ground and powerful, and I can feel the thrum of the engine against my ass, and the vibration is more than a little enticing. My breasts feel heavy and swollen and though chiffon is soft, my nipples are so stimulated that they are painfully erect.

Damien stays quiet, but he eyes me sideways, and I see the amused smile playing at his mouth.

“Are we going into LA? It’s almost eleven.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to keep you up past your bedtime, Ms. Fairchild.”

I could protest, but it would be for show only. So I settle back in the soft leather and watch the ocean go by on my right. I feel Damien’s eyes on me, though, and I turn to him, my expression stern. “Eyes on the road, Mr. Stark.”

“I’d rather watch you,” he says, but he turns back to focus on the road ahead. He reaches up and adjusts the rearview mirror. “That’s better,” he says, and his mouth tugs into a lazy grin.

“Like the view?” I ask. My legs are apart as he’d instructed, the hem of my dress hitting about mid-thigh.

“I’ll like it even better in a minute.”

I glance sideways at him, suddenly suspicious. “Oh?”

“I saw the way you were admiring Blaine’s work,” he says conversationally.

“He’s very talented.”

“The way he can portray arousal, shame, sexual longing. There are some at the gallery that show a woman in the throes of an orgasm. Spectacular, really.”

“I haven’t seen those,” I say.

“Which one was your favorite this evening?”

“I liked them all,” I say.

“Did you? I thought I saw a note of particular interest on your face when you looked at the woman on the chaise. Do you know the one I mean?”

“Yes,” I say. My pulse has picked up its tempo. I’m remembering the painting … and I’m anticipating where Damien is going.