Complete Me (Stark Trilogy, #3)(29)

He chuckles. “Touché, Ms. Fairchild.” I feel his lips press where his finger once was and have to bite my lip in order to remain still as ordered. “I’ll be gentle.”

My eyes widen as he takes the seat belt and wraps it around my ankle. He clicks the buckle into place, then tightens the strap. After that, he flashes me a smug grin. “One down.”

I am speechless. I’m also unable to move my left leg. “Damien,” I begin, but there’s no point in protesting. He’s not going to stop. And the truth is that I don’t want him to.

“Now let’s see what we can do about this one.” I remember that this limo is part of the Stark International fleet when he moves without hesitation to a camouflaged floor panel. He pulls it open and removes a white box emblazoned with a red cross.

I prop myself up on my elbows. “First aid? What exactly are you doing?” I’m teasing, of course. Well, mostly teasing.

His eyes meet mine and he slides his hand slowly up my thigh, then cups my sex. “Surprising you.”

Oh. I swallow. Had I really believed that I’d had even an iota of control? Whatever control I’d had when we’d started this adventure is gone. I am Damien’s to do with what he pleases—and that simple fact only makes me even more excited.

“Lay back, baby. Lay back, and trust me.”

I comply, because I do trust him. I watch as he unrolls an ace bandage, then carefully winds it around my ankle, just below the platinum and emerald bracelet. He threads one end of the bandage through some part of the seat frame that I can’t see, then makes a knot. I try to move my legs, but I can’t. I’m completely trussed up. I’m completely open. And I’m completely turned on.

“Damien.” My voice is low and gravelly with desire. “Damien, please.”

“Please what? Please touch you?”

Just the thought of his hands upon me is enough to make me squirm with anticipated pleasure. “Yes,” I say. “God, yes. Touch me. Fuck me. Please, Damien, I want you.” Tonight has been one long tease, and I have crossed the line to desperate.

“Mmm.” He shifts position, rising from the floor to perch on the edge of the seat across which I am spread. I reach for him, craving his touch against my now exposed sex, but just before I can place my hand upon his leg, he shakes his head. “No. Arms above your head. There you go,” he adds, when I stretch out as ordered.

He reaches out, his hand hovering over my breasts. Beneath the beaded tank, my nipples are already tight and erect and deliciously sensitive from the clamps with which he had adorned me earlier. I bite my lower lip, craving his touch. The slightest brush against my breast. A soft caress upon my nipple. Anything to relieve the growing, heavy pressure.

Of course he denies me. Instead, he moves his still-hovering hand slowly down the length of my body—my breasts, my belly, my very aching cunt, then all the way down my legs until even my toes are wiggling in a futile attempt to draw him closer. It doesn’t work. He never touches, just skims along over a pocket of air that is burning hotter and hotter, as if I am trapped beneath an electric blanket with no way to throw it off and cool down.

Not even the air-conditioning is blowing between my legs. The only sensation is the tiny brush of material over my sex brought on by the motion of the limo and by my own pulse, which is pounding so hard that it is making my clothing quiver with each beat of my heart.

His voice is little more than a murmur. “So tell me, Nikki, can you imagine the touch of my fingertip upon the inside of your thigh? The way your body would tighten in response to a touch that is neither a caress nor a tickle?”

“I—yes.”

My words are so low that I doubt he has heard me. It doesn’t matter, though. He continues on. “A sensual dance, like the brush of a feather over your panties. A hooked fingertip to tug them aside. And then what, Nikki? What kind of touch do you want then?”

I don’t answer, because he has moved—not between my legs to where my sex now throbs in response to both his sensual tone and the erotic nature of the words themselves, but higher, so that his hip is near my chest and his hands are cleverly twining my wrists with the nylon webbing of the farthest seat belt.

“Damien, what—”

But I don’t bother to finish the question, because he has finished and I know what he was doing. He was binding my hands as he has done my legs so that I am fully strapped down, bound to this long, leather bench in the back of a limo.

“Do you want it, Nikki? Do you want me to f*ck you?”

“You know that I do.” I keep my voice calm even though I want to scream—Yes, yes, goddammit, yes.

He cocks his head. “What was that?” he asks, and I almost cry with frustration.

“Yes,” I say. “Please, sir.”

His smile is slow and a little too self-satisfied. He moves toward me and I see that he has a small pair of bandage scissors in his hand. He slides a blade under the lace of my thong, snips twice, then rips the material free.

I arch and shudder, my body begging as much as my words. “Please, Damien. Please, please f*ck me.”

“Believe me, Ms. Fairchild, there’s nothing I’m looking forward to more. But no. I don’t think so. Not yet.”

I actually whimper.

He bends forward to whisper in my ear. “What if I told you to touch yourself? Ah, but you can’t do that, either.”