Have Me (Stark Trilogy, #3.6)(12)

My nipples tighten, rubbing almost painfully against the fitted bodice of my sundress. I reach up, cupping my breasts, imagining that it is Damien’s hands upon me. Damien, who knows my desires as well as I know them. Maybe even better.

I think of the way he took me in the shower. Of the tub filled with scented water and rose petals. This cabin filled with candlelight.

He did that for me. To please and seduce me.

I smile to myself with just a hint of mischief. Now, I think, it’s my turn.

I stand just long enough to unzip the sundress and slide the spaghetti straps off my shoulders. I wriggle it off my hips and then toss it across the room so that I am standing naked in front of the bed. I’m not wearing underwear—a nod to the game that Damien and I used to play—but he hasn’t yet discovered that little secret. That’s okay, though. There’s plenty of time for discovery once we get to Paris.

Right now, I have a different kind of surprise in mind, and since I don’t know how much longer Damien will be in the cockpit, I know that I have to hurry. I turn and assess the bed, trying to think. I have something in mind, and after a few seconds of mental gymnastics, I think I’ve figured out how to pull it off.

By the time I hear the light tap at the door, I am ready.

“Who is it?” I call, just in case it is Katie.

“It’s me,” he says, and because I am already so desperate for him, the simple sound of his voice makes my body tremble and my sex clench with need.

“Come in,” I say, but it doesn’t matter. He has already turned the knob and the door is pushing inward.

“Sorry about that,” he says, still in the hallway. “There was some mix-up with the flight plan, and—”

He breaks off, sucks in air, and shuts the door fast behind him. Then he stands frozen, his eyes taking in every inch of me, the examination so slow and methodical that I almost believe that his gaze is a physical touch.

I am naked and mostly spread-eagled on the bed. The thing about jets is that seat belts are required, and though Damien and I routinely sit in the more traditional main cabin during takeoff and landing, even the stateroom’s bed has belts that can be used in the case of turbulence.

Or in the case of seduction.

It had only taken a few moments to use the straps and buckles on the far end of the bed to secure my ankles. Much trickier had been the task of securing my left hand above me. But I’d managed it. Now that arm is extended and bound, leaving me more or less immobile. Only my right hand is free, and I can tell simply from the rhythm of Damien’s breathing that he is well aware of the way the fingers of my free hand are stroking my very wet, very sensitive sex.

“Christ, Nikki.”

I just grin, feeling both desirable and very, very smug. I know damn well what he is looking at, and the surge of feminine power at having both surprised and silenced Damien Stark makes me more than a little giddy.

“Hi,” I say, my voice low and sultry. “I poured you a drink. Why don’t you get it and come over here?”

“I don’t know,” he says. “I’m having a fine time just standing here and watching.”

“Really?” I keep my voice light, but soft. And as I speak, my fingers never leave my sex. “I’m having a nice time, too.”

“So I see.”

“Mmm.” I slide a finger deep inside myself, lifting my hips and releasing a low, desperate moan as I do. My plan may have been to get Damien worked up, but it’s working equally well on me, and I’m so damned aroused right now that it is all I can do not to take myself all the way, then watch Damien’s face as I shatter in front of him.

But no. This isn’t a solo act. I want his hands, his mouth. I want to feel him on top of me. I want his cock inside me.

I want the wildness, the release. I want to see Damien Stark’s famous control shatter, and I want to know that I am the one who did that to him.

Wife, I think.

Damn right.

I keep my eyes on his face, then withdraw my hand. Slowly, I trail my finger up my belly, then over my cleavage. When I trace a circle around my nipple, I see a muscle tighten in his cheek. But when I bring my hand to my mouth and draw my finger in between my lips, his composure breaks and he actually growls even as he crosses to me in one long stride.

I laugh, delighted, then slowly slide my finger out from between my lips. I smile up at him, my eyes wide and innocent. “Feeling a bit desperate, Mr. Stark?”

“With you, always.”

I sigh with satisfaction. I feel exactly the same way.

He is standing even with my shoulder, his hip brushing the side of the bed. Now he reaches out to trace his fingers up my bare arm until he reaches the strap that binds my wrist in place. “Interesting,” he murmurs, then steps backward, letting his fingers trail behind him as he moves, so that he is lightly stroking my ribs, my waist, my hip.

After a moment, though, he steps away from the bed, leaving me bereft when his fingertips leave my skin. I suck in air, only then realizing that I’d forgotten to breathe. He goes to the table, picks up his glass of Scotch, then takes a sip. Throughout it all, his eyes never leave me.

I lay there—I can do nothing else—and as I do, my skin begins to tingle. There is never a time when I am not aware of Damien. When I can’t conjure the sensation of his fingers on my skin or his lips upon my cheek. I have only to think of him, and I can feel him.