Complete Me (Stark Trilogy, #3)(44)

He releases his hold on me to unfasten his pants and free his cock. I tilt my head up, then suck in air when I see him, thick and hard. I shift my arm, my fingers itching to stroke him.

“No,” he says, and I have to bite my lower lip to hold back my cry of disappointment as I comply, keeping my arms stretched high above my head.

“Hurry,” I beg. I spread my legs wider, desperate for him. I am liquid flame. I am hedonism personified. I am lust and need and passion.

And then he is above me, his mouth upon mine, wild and wet even as the head of his cock slides over my sex, cruelly teasing me but never entering me.

I arch and writhe, begging him with my body, and when that doesn’t work I nip his lower lip with my teeth and demand, “Now, Damien, f*ck me now.”

And then I moan as he thrusts hard inside me. My skirt is around my waist, my thong shoved to one side. He balances with one hand beside our joined bodies. The other hand is twined with my fingers above my head.

The plane hits a pocket of air, and I cry out in alarm and pleasure as we free-fall, then slam back at altitude, the motion thrusting Damien even deeper inside of me. I want my hands to be free—I want to cup his ass and push him hard inside me—but he is giving me no leeway. He breaks the kiss and as he balances above me, he looks deep in my eyes. Our bodies are touching only where his hand circles my wrist and where his cock is thrusting so enticingly in and out of me.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, going deeper with each stroke, his body rubbing my clit with each motion. “I want to watch your face as you explode. I want to know that I’ve taken you to the brink, and then I want to go over the edge with you.

“Come on,” he urges as the storm rises like a wellspring of colors inside me. “Come on, baby—oh, yes,” he groans as my body explodes around his. The orgasm ripples through me, making me arch up and cry out and writhe with a wanton desperation. I’m not sure if I’m trying to escape this riot of sensation or if I’m trying to make it go on and on. All I know is that Damien has not stopped thrusting and the muscles of my sex are still spasming around him and I am clawing at the cover on this bed and arching up and trying to breathe and—

“Oh, God,” I cry as one final, violent jolt of electricity cuts through me just seconds before Damien finds his own release. I collapse, limp, onto the bed and though my eyes are heavy, I cannot pass up the joy of watching pure sensual satisfaction play across his face. Then he smiles at me, his expression so tender that I can think of nothing more than curling up next to him.

As if in answer to my thought, he lowers himself beside me, and the hand that just a few minutes ago held so fast to my wrist now traces lazy strokes down my arm.

“Welcome to the Mile High Club,” he says, and I burst out laughing.

I roll closer and nestle against him, sated and satisfied and happy. “You are what I need, Damien. You’re all that I need.”

I have surrendered to this man completely, and now, once again, it feels wholly right. Between Damien and me, sex is as necessary as conversation. It is our method of discovery. Our sharing of trust. And our ultimate surrender.

It is, I think, his “I love you” spoken with his body, if not with his words.

I’m drifting, neither awake nor asleep, when Damien’s words bring me fully back to myself. “No matter what the German court decides, there’s a good chance those pictures are going public.”

There is no emotion in his voice, and that chills me more than anything. I don’t move. We are spooned together, my back against his chest, his arm draped over my waist. I keep my eyes closed, as if that somehow makes the words less real. “Why would you say that?”

“I think your earlier thought was right,” he says. “I think my father might be the one behind this.”

“Damien, no.” I roll over now—I have to see him. “Do you really think so?”

“It makes sense. If I go to jail, his asset stream dries up.” Despite the fact that Damien’s father makes my mother look as sweet and cuddly as the Easter Bunny, Damien has continued to support the man.

“Even if you’re right, that only explains how the court got the photos. Why on earth would you think that he’d make them go public?”

He rubs his fingers together, symbolizing money.

I shake my head, not following.

“Tabloids. Internet sites. So-called news programs. They’ll all pay a lot for information if they think it will sell ad space or papers.”

“Shit,” I say, because he is right, and that pretty much sums it up. “Maybe it’s not him.”

“Maybe not.” But I can tell that he doesn’t believe it.

“What will you do?”

“I’m still thinking about that,” he says, and there is a dangerous edge to his voice.

“Will you tell me when you decide?”

He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Yes,” he says. “I promise.”

I breathe in deep, wishing I could somehow make everything better for him, but knowing that’s just not possible. “How much longer before we get home?” Part of me wants the plane to land right now. Part of me wishes we could stay in flight forever.

“A few more hours,” he says, idly stroking my bare arm, the touch feather-soft and sweetly enticing. “But we’re not going home. Not right away.”