Claim Me (Stark Trilogy, #2)(85)

“Yes. Yes, sir.”

He smiles up at me, a smile of praise and promise, and then he turns back to my bare abdomen. His lips brush over me, lower and lower until he is tracing the neatly trimmed line of my pubic hair. And then lower still until his tongue laves my clitoris and I have no choice but to break Damien’s rules and grab hard to his shoulder, because if I do not, I will certainly topple over.

His tongue is merciless. Teasing me, f*cking me, hard and demanding until I explode, my body a storm of sensation.

He is kind enough to keep me from falling, urging me down to my knees in front of him. “You taste amazing,” he says, then kisses me as if to prove the point. The kiss is deep, but all too short.

“I’m going to f*ck you, Nikki,” he says. “Right here, right now. Hard and fast, until pleasure rips through you like a cyclone. And then we’ll start again, slow and easy, letting it build and grow like a tiny seedling into a massive tree. Do you know how long that takes, Nikki? Can you imagine a pleasure that lasts for an eternity?”

My mouth is dry, but I manage an answer. “With you, yes.”

He chuckles. “Good answer. Now unfasten my jeans.”

“Yes, sir.”

I’m so turned on that my fingers actually fumble with the button fly of his jeans, but I manage, then spread the denim and stroke my fingertips over his cock, still trapped behind the cotton of his briefs.

I hear Damien suck in air, and I relish the knowledge that as much power as he has over me, I have the same over him.

“Good girl,” he says. “Now take it out and turn around. On your knees, Nikki.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, but I have another plan. I slide my hand into his jeans and over the bulge of his briefs until I find his fly. He is thick and hard and as soon as I shift him, his cock bursts out as if desperate to play, too. I know I’m supposed to turn around—and I know that I’ll undoubtedly be punished, but I can’t resist the temptation.

I lean forward and draw my tongue up the velvety length of his cock. He tastes salty and male and delicious, and when I hear him groan and say my name, my body seems to open up. I close my lips over the bulbous head, tease him with my tongue. Slowly, I take more of him into my mouth, then pull back, letting my teeth graze ever so lightly over him.

I rest my hands on his hips, and I can feel his body start to shudder. I raise up higher on my knees for a better angle. I want to take more of him; I want to make him come.

I am, however, thwarted in my plan, as his hands grasp me under the arms and he gently pulls me to my feet. “Minx,” he teases.

I smile innocently.

“Oh, no,” he says. “You are not getting off that easily.” The scarf that I had wrapped around my wrist has come loose, and now he picks it up off the floor and knots it securely above my right hand. He gives it a tug and then leads me to the bedroom. The headboard on his bed is a solid piece of wood, and dead center is a large metal eyebolt. I’d noticed it before, but had never thought much about it. Now, he tells me to lie on my back on the bed with my hands above my head. I do, and he threads the scarf through the eye, then ties off the loose end on my other wrist. My arms now make a triangle above my head. I expect him to bind my feet as well, but he doesn’t, and when he sees my curious look, he grabs my hips and flips me over onto my stomach. The maneuver both surprises me and explains why he wants my legs free.

I realize with a jolt that I am surely not the first woman who has made the acquaintance of this eyebolt. The thought doesn’t disturb me, though, because I know two things. I am the first woman Damien has brought to the Malibu house. And more than that, I believe with a bone-deep certainty that I am the last.

“On your knees,” Damien says. I comply, and he leaves me there, my ass in the air, my arms forward, and my head bent down and turned to the side so that I can see what he’s doing.

He’s at the side of the bed, opening the door to the ornamental cabinet he uses as a bedside table. He pulls out a case that is similar to one I remember well from a delicious night at my apartment. This one, however, is bigger. He opens it, and I’m pleased that from this perspective, I can see the contents. Metal handcuffs. Candles. A cat-o’-nine-tails. A blindfold. A string of beads. And a few other things that I do not recognize.

“Handcuffs?” I tease. “Are you going to arrest me?”

“Maybe.” He takes out the cat-o’-nine-tails, a small whip with many strands of leather at one end. “But not yet.”

He moves behind me so that I cannot see his face. Just his legs and his very hard cock, and that only when I drop my head and look down between my own legs.

I don’t look for long, because he dangles the soft leather ends of the whip over my shoulders and back. “Want?” he asks. “And need?”

“Yes,” I say as the horror of the evening rushes back. I want to banish those memories and those emotions. I want to claim them and destroy them. I want to survive them. And I want Damien to be the one to help me do that. “Yes,” I say again, but my word is drowned out by the snap of the toy against the soft skin of my ass.

It stings, and I cry out, closing my eyes as I draw in the pain and cling to it. I want it, yes. And I need it, too. But with Damien delivering the blows, I can’t deny that I am getting off on it as well. “Again,” I say, as his hand rubs the spot where the whip connected. “Please, Damien, again.”