Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(75)

“Right,” he says. “We’ll take care of it. But now, I’m taking you to bed.”

He holds out his hand, and I follow him into the spacious bedroom, with a bed that looks much more comfortable than the table. “A mattress,” I say. “How novel.”

“Come here.” He tugs me to the bed and we abandon what remains of our clothes before sliding under the covers. I curl up beside him and we lie like that for what feels like hours, talking and flipping channels and watching snippets of old movies.

This is yet another thing I love about Damien—that shift from frenzied passion to these soft moments when I feel safe and warm and cherished beside him. It’s as smooth and satisfying as a glass of port after a truly decadent meal.

“I’m not tired,” I say, when I notice that the clock reads four A.M. “I’d say that I’m going to regret this in the morning, but it already is morning.”

“Will you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not a minute of it,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For indulging my fantasies.”

I laugh. “Why, Mr. Stark. Haven’t you heard? I’m yours to command.”

He kisses me lightly. “And I’m very, very glad.”

For a moment, we just lie there quietly. Then Damien says, “That phone call you asked about earlier. It was bad news. From a friend.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I remember what Charles Maynard said. “Is the friend in Germany?”

He gives me a sharp look. “Why would you say that?”

I shrug. “Charles’s voice carries.”

“So it does. No, Germany’s something different.”

“An indictment? One of your Stark International subsidiaries or something?”

The line of his mouth is hard as he answers. “Or something.”

“Are you worried?”

“No.” The word is firm. “Charles is handling it.”

I nod. Since I know nothing about the laws of international trade and finance, I can’t go far with this conversational thread. “Do you want to tell me about your friend’s bad news?”

For a second, I think that he’s going to say no. Then he speaks, his voice steady and even, as if he’s fighting for control. “It’s Sofia.”

It takes me a moment to place the name. “Your friend from childhood? The one Alaine mentioned?”

He nods. “She’s gotten herself into some trouble. It’s not the first time, but it’s frustrating. I keep hoping she’ll get her shit together, but she keeps screwing up.”

“I’m sorry. I hope it gets better for her.”

He kisses my forehead. “Me, too.”

I wait for him to tell me more, but he doesn’t. That’s okay, though, and I take his hand. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t need to ask what I mean. “I am trying,” he says.

“I know you are.” I spoon against him, feeling warm and safe. “And I appreciate it.”

I’m facing away from him, and as I close my eyes, he strokes his fingers over my bare skin. The minutes tick away, and when he speaks, I have already begun to drift off, so that his words have the quality of a dream. “I never used to sleep naked.”

“Why not?” I am only half awake, and I like that he is sending me to sleep with images of a naked Damien.

“Because when we traveled, Richter would come into my room. Somehow, I was always assigned a room of my own, even though the other boys had to share.”

My eyes are open now, but I don’t roll over. I’m afraid that if I look at him, he’ll stop talking. “What happened?”

“He would come in. And he would touch me.” His voice is strained. Hard and measured. “He would threaten me and swear that if I told anyone, that everything I had would be ripped away. And my father would have no money, and we’d starve on the street. But mostly, I would have the reputation of a little boy who told nasty, nasty lies.”

“Bastard.”

“Yes.”

I stay quiet, wondering if he will say more. But he remains silent. I don’t mind. He has told me two truths tonight, and I know that this is only one small part of something larger that is growing between us.

“I thought so,” I say after a moment. “But I guess I was wrong about your dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“I assumed he knew that your coach was abusing you. I realized in the limo that he didn’t.”

For a moment, there is only silence. When Damien speaks, his words are ice cold. “He knew.”

I roll over, shocked into motion. “What? But … but why on earth would he expect you to be at the tennis center dedication if he knows what that vile man did to you?”

“I don’t know,” Damien says. He hesitates, his face drawn into hard lines.

“No,” he amends. “I do know. The tennis center is owned by a sports conglomerate based out of Germany. Powerful company, powerful people on the board.”

“I don’t understand. Is your father involved with the conglomerate?”

“No. And my father couldn’t care less whether I endorse a tennis center or a pet store. It’s all about trading favors. I lend my name to the tennis center, and maybe those powerful people will pull a few strings in Germany.”