Complete Me (Stark Trilogy, #3)(20)

“I—yes. That would be great.” I am a tongue-tied mess. My gaze darts to the salesgirl, who grins and backs away, shutting the door behind her. “Um, are you allowed to be here?”

“Apparently I am.” He takes a step toward me, full of that Damien-esque arrogance I know so well.

I grin. In relief, in excitement, in joy.

“I’m sorry.” His simple words seem to burst with emotion.

“You don’t have anything to be sorry for,” I say. His face doesn’t change, but I see the smile touch his eyes, and my relief grows exponentially. “How did you know where to find me?”

He moves forward again, this time stopping only inches from me. My body thrums merely from his proximity. I want to launch myself into his arms, but I stand motionless. Today, it must be Damien who makes the first move.

“I’ve told you before that I’ll always find you.” His words are as soft as the silk on my body, and just as intimate. It occurs to me that the valet probably mentioned seeing me, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters right now except the desire that burns in his eyes. It is more dangerous than the wildest flame, but I don’t care. On the contrary, I am craving the heat. He may have doused that fire back in the hotel, but it is back tenfold now, and all I want is for it to burn free. To engulf the two of us and render us to cinders.

Slowly, his gaze skims over me and this barely-there outfit. He doesn’t touch me, but that doesn’t matter. My skin tingles anyway, and the tiny hairs on my arms and the back of my neck rise from the charged energy that crackles in this room. It’s a good thing I’m buying these panties, because I am already wet simply from being near him. “We’re going to end up in the tabloids again,” I whisper.

He shakes his head. “I can be very persuasive when I try. She won’t say a thing.”

“Is that a fact? Just how persuasive were you, Mr. Stark?”

“Persuasive to the tune of a thousand euros.” His eyes crinkle as he grins. “She’ll ensure our privacy. From the press and from her own curiosity. Of course,” he adds as he finally reaches out to touch me, “the more interesting question is what does she think is going on in this small, private room?”

“I’m sure she has a very vivid imagination,” I say dryly.

“Really?” Damien appears to consider the possibility. “Maybe she thinks I’m touching you like this,” he says as his fingertip moves slowly over the swell of my breast. I draw in a sharp breath, fighting the riot of sensations that threaten to overwhelm me. The black nightie is designed for maximum lift, and is cut so low that it barely contains me. I’m breathing hard, and that only increases the illusion that I’m about to spill out over the cups. My nipples are hard beneath the material, and when he slides his hands down and catches them between his thumbs and forefingers, I have to bite back a small cry of pleasure.

“Or maybe she’s imagining my mouth on your breasts,” he murmurs, his lips caressing me in potent illustration of his words. “Or maybe she’s a bit more naughty, and she’s picturing my hand sliding down your abdomen, your skin quivering beneath my fingers, your breath coming faster and faster until my fingertip finds the tiny bit of elastic that is holding those panties up.”

His fingers slip ever so slightly under the band of the thong, and my breath hitches. “Damien.” His name is barely a word. It’s a sigh, a groan. Hell, it’s a demand.

His hand is inside the thong now, the other supporting me at the small of my back, because without that insistent pressure, I will surely collapse. “Does she wonder if I’m easing my hand down, if my finger is skimming lightly over your damp pubic hair? Does she know how hard your clit is, how turned on you are?”

My body shudders in silent answer.

He bends forward, his finger still teasing my clit as his lips brush my ear. “Does she know how wet and ready you are for me? Does she know how much you want to come for me?”

In time with his words, he thrusts his finger inside of me. I cry out and arch back, my body tightening around him. “Is this what she’s imagining?” he asks, his voice as erotic as his touch. “My fingers inside you, playing with you, making you just a little bit crazy?”

I can’t answer. I can barely think past the electrical storm that is building inside me, much less form words. I am lost to his touch, lost to the rising pressure of an inevitable and explosive release. I’m so close, and Damien’s hands upon me—his finger stroking me—feels so good. I want to stay like that, lost in this sensual limbo, and at the same time I want the crescendo. I want to explode in the circle of Damien’s arms.

“Come on, baby,” he demands. “Come for me.”

His mouth closes over mine as his finger slides deeper inside me, the pressure of his thumb upon my clit increasing. It’s as if he’s hit some magic combination, and I feel the hot sparks of my orgasm shooting through me, so wild and violent I wonder if I will spontaneously combust.

Slowly, he withdraws his fingers, and I can’t help but whimper. “Was that what she’s been imagining?” he whispers. “That salesgirl who knows there’s something naughty going on behind this door?”

I shake my head, forcing uncooperative words to my lips. “Not quite,” I say. “She’s imagining your hands on her, not on me.”