Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(84)

I shiver, feeling so very fragile, and I imagine the weight of a knife in my hand.

No.

With effort, I force myself not to cross the room and pick up a piece of the broken vase. Instead, I look at Damien, who stands with clenched fists and real anguish on his face. “It will be okay,” I say, because that is the kind of platitude that people say, even if they don’t really believe it.

“Screw okay,” he snaps. This is the temper that was so famous in his tennis days, and that has fueled his reputation for being dangerous. A sharp brittle breaking point that got him in too many fights and left too many scars, including the dark eye that is now looking at me with a bitter, resolute anger.

“None of this should be happening,” he says. “I should be able to protect you. I should be able to keep my bastard of a father out of my life and out of my car. I don’t want him or his shit near me, and I sure as hell don’t want it near you. And as for the rest of it all over the goddamn globe—”

He cuts himself off, and for a moment I think that it is out of his system.

It isn’t. “I should be able to keep your secrets as well as my own. But then again,” he adds with a mirthless laugh, “that’s crashing down, too. Goddammit.” He lashes out so fast and hard that he puts his fist through the drywall.

I gape. “Well,” I say. “That’s going to need more than a broom and a dustpan.”

He stares at me for a moment, and then his shoulders begin to shake. It takes a moment for me to realize he’s laughing. Not because it is funny, but because he is overwhelmed.

I want to hold him; I want to help him. But I can’t even help myself.

I draw in a trembling breath, and realize that my hand is curled around the end of the pink scarf that still hangs around my neck.

Slowly, I tug the end of the scarf until I have pulled it free. I wrap one end tightly around my wrist, then hand the other end to Damien. He takes it, though I see the question in his eyes.

“Tie me up,” I whisper. “Spank me. Tell me exactly what you want me to do. Do whatever you want. You want to lash out? Lash out against me.”

“Nikki—”

“Please, Damien. You can’t control the world? So what? Control me.” I meet his eyes. “Please,” I say, and I hear the tremor in my voice. “Please,” I whisper. “I need it, too.”

“Oh, Nikki.” He cocks his head, looking inside me to where all my secrets lie. “Need?” he clarifies. “Or want?”

I lick my lips, as if that will make the words come easier. “You told me once that if I ever needed the pain that I should come to you. I’ve broken that promise twice.” I point to my hair, and then the tip of my finger. “So yes, Damien. I need it. I need you if I’m going to get through this. And I think you need me, too.”

For a moment, he says nothing. Then he runs the scarf through his fingers. “I believe I told you on the phone that I had plans for this.”

“Yes,” I say.

He stands still, and looks me up and down. His gaze starts at my feet and travels oh so slowly up my body. He does not touch me, but still my body burns merely from the passing of his glance. I let myself go, surrendering to his power over me. Over my body. I want this. I want Damien and his strength. I want his touch.

Mostly I want him to make the rest of the world go away.

He continues his heated inspection, his face as dark and hungry as a wolf, and just as dangerous. He will consume me, and so help me, I want to be consumed. I want to disappear—I want to go somewhere that only Damien can find me.

My legs are weak, my sex throbbing in anticipation. Tiny drops of sweat form between my breasts, and my nipples strain against my T-shirt.

I keep my eyes on his, and my mouth goes dry, my pulse kicking up its tempo. He is no longer the Damien who jokes and teases, who holds and soothes me. This is not a man who will reveal his secrets to me or to anyone, and he is certainly not a man who will explode outward into a fiery rage.

No, the man standing before me is grace and control personified. There is power in his touch, power in the slightest look. He is a hard man who commands a billion-dollar enterprise, and right now I am simply one more thing that he owns.

I bite my lower lip. I am not disturbed by the thought. On the contrary, my body is tingling with awareness. To be owned by Damien Stark is heady stuff.

“Take off your clothes.”

I comply, shedding my jacket, then pulling the T-shirt over my head. Because we’re playing the game again, I am not wearing a bra, and when he sees that, the tiniest of smiles touches his mouth. I unzip the skirt next and let it fall around my feet. It is as if the hundreds of times he has seen me naked are forgotten. I feel shy and awkward. But when I see the way his eyes take me in, I feel beautiful.

“Spread your legs,” he says, and when I do, he goes down on his knees. He holds my hips, then presses a soft kiss just above my navel, and that simple touch sends shivers running through me. My body is on fire, alight with anticipation. I reach down to bury my fingers in his hair.

“No,” he murmurs. “Cup your breasts. There you go, baby,” he says when I comply. “Stroke your nipples. Are they hard?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Good,” he says. “I want them harder. I want them so tight that just brushing a fingertip across your nipple shoots fire all the way down to your cunt. What do you say?”