Complete Me (Stark Trilogy, #3)(70)

“I—oh. Yes.”

“It’s intoxicating, you know.”

I squirm a bit in the desk chair. As far as I’m concerned, it’s his voice that’s intoxicating. “Um, what is?”

His eyes dance with heat and humor as he leans forward and puts both his palms on my desktop. “Knowing that I can bring a powerful woman like you to her knees. A woman with her own company, her own empire. Knowing that I can make her wet with my words. That my voice can make her nipples peak and her clit tingle. That I can shove her skirt up and turn her over her very own desk and spank that perfect white ass until it glows and then, when the scent of her arousal covers the desk and fills the room, I can f*ck her until she comes so hard she screams for mercy.”

“Oh, God, Damien . . . ” My blood is pulsing, my body quivering.

“Stand up, Nikki. Go over toward the window.”

Though I’m not entirely sure my legs will hold me up, I comply. He looks me up and down. The high-heeled red pumps, the tailored skirt, the silk shell under a light summer jacket.

His eyes never leave mine as he sits in one of the guest chairs. “Take off the jacket.”

I do, tossing it over the arm of my chair behind the desk.

“Now the skirt.”

There is a challenge in his voice, and I know that he expects me to protest. To tell him this is my office and that I have a receptionist just a few feet outside that door. I don’t. This is exactly what I want, too, so I reach behind me, tug down the zipper, and let the skirt fall to the floor, revealing the red thong panties.

He says nothing, but I can see the heat building in his eyes, and my body responds immediately, my sex quickening, my nipples getting tight and hard beneath the lace of my bra. “Well, Mr. Stark,” I say as I slowly walk toward him. “What do you want from me now?”

His answering smile is like a slow caress, and ripples of desire break through me like foam upon a sandy shore. “Stop,” he says, when I am about five feet from him.

I do, my heart pounding with anticipation.

He lifts a finger and makes a spinning motion. I roll my eyes, but take a step forward, do a runway-style turn, and then repeat the process, effectively rotating a full three-hundred-sixty degrees for him. I put my hand on a cocked hip and tilt my head. “Like what you see?”

“Oh, yes,” he says. He leans back in the chair, his casual posture belied by the tension I see in his face and shoulders, and by the firm slant of his mouth. His gaze flicks over me, and I swallow, hyperaware of my body’s reaction. Of how I react whenever I’m around this man. No wonder he always says that I glow. Damien is like a switch, and it is he who turns me on.

The thong is wet against my sex, and the pressure makes me even more needy. It’s not the thong I want touching me—it’s Damien. He, however, remains resolutely still, his hands resting on the arms of that uncomfortable chair as he examines every inch of me, his gaze lingering at that tiny triangle of material.

“Spread your legs—that’s my girl. Now stay still for just a moment.”

My skin prickles, as if my body is anticipating his touch and is protesting that his hands aren’t upon me and his cock isn’t deep inside me. Then his eyes drift lower still. I don’t move, even though I know what he is seeing. The scars. Not too long ago, I would have curled up on the floor and cried if someone looked at me so intently. Hell, that is exactly what I did when Damien did that very thing. Sometimes it amazes me how fast my world has changed with Damien in it. And not just my world, but me. He’s my anchor. Something to hold on to as I dig deep inside myself to find a strength I never even knew existed.

Somehow, though, Damien always knew that it was there. More, he trusted that I would find it, too.

He has always seen so much. Not just the beauty queen. Not just the scars. He’s seen all of me, and no matter whether I’m in panties and high heels or the most couture of evening gowns, I am always standing naked before him.

Once upon a time, I would have found that thought terrifying. Now, I take comfort in it.

But this is not a moment for deep reflection, nor do I want to think about scars or strength or the battles that we have fought. All I want is Damien. And I want him right now.

Boldly, I take a step toward him.

“No,” he says. “Stop.”

“Stop?”

He arches a brow.

I cock my head a bit to indicate I understand, then raise a brow. “Yes, sir.”

“Good girl. Now spread your legs, just a little. That’s right,” he says when I comply. “Stay like that.”

I am about two feet from him, and breathing hard. He is sitting in the chair, which puts him about eye level with the red swath of material that barely covers my sex.

Slowly, he lifts his eyes. “There’s something I want,” he says.

Shock waves cut through my body, because I want it, too. I want Damien inside me. I want his cock in my mouth, in my cunt. I want him to whisper to me, to make love with words in that extraordinary way that he has. I want him to f*ck me so hard and so deep that I cry out from that singularly exquisite pleasure that is wrapped up in pain.

Most of all, I want him to touch me.

I start to take a step toward him, but he stops me with a single shake of his head. It is a miracle that I don’t weep with frustration.

“Not that,” he says.