Have Me (Stark Trilogy, #3.6)(18)

I start to say that to him, but he shakes his head and tightens his grip on my hand. He meets my eyes. His are fierce. “I will slay your dragons, Nikki. I will keep you safe.”

“I know,” I say. What I don’t add is that that is what scares me.

I raise our joined hands to my lips and press a soft kiss to his knuckles. I am thinking of my dream—of the world trying to pull Damien and me apart—and I shiver.

“What?”

But I only shake my head and conjure a wan smile. “Just the whole thing,” I say. “I’ve never been sued. I don’t much like it.” True words, and yet not a true answer.

He doesn’t comment on my obfuscation, and yet I think he knows. How could he not? This is the man who can see into my heart.

He watches me for a moment, then nods. I tuck my feet under me and rest my head on his shoulder, exhaustion suddenly overtaking me as the adrenaline rush fades. I know that I would be more comfortable in the stateroom, but my body is limp and heavy and I doubt I can move. Damien brushes his lips gently over my temple. “We still haven’t had dinner.”

“Feed me in France,” I mumble, so tired I’m barely able to form words.

“It’s a date.” He tucks an arm around me and pulls me closer. “Sleep now,” he says.

And I do.





[page]Chapter 8


Skin against skin.

A brush. A stroke. The butterfly touch of lips against my ear.

And a voice, soft but firm.

“Nikki. Sweetheart, we’re landing in less than an hour. Time to wake up.”

“Mmm. Sleep,” I protest.

“Food,” he says, trailing his fingers lightly over my lips. “And clothes. Parisians are pretty open-minded, but I think registration at the hotel might go more smoothly if you’re wearing more than a bathrobe.”

His words seem to float over me. I know he’s right, and yet I want to stay here in this soft place between sleep and dreams. There are heavy things out there—scary things—and right now I know only vaguely that they exist, and that for this brief time I have escaped them. I am safe here in sleep, with only Damien’s voice to blanket me and the gentle caress of his fingers to soothe me.

“Five more minutes.” My words are a soft mumble, and I shift a bit closer to him.

He says nothing, and once again the thrum of the jet’s engines starts to draw me down into the sweetness of sleep, safe beside this man that I love.

My descent is halted, however, by the soft stroke of his hand. His fingers ease down my neck in a gentle caress that makes me shiver. He tugs the shoulder of my robe down, exposing my skin. He kisses me there, gentle touches designed to sweetly tease me. Then he slides his hand down, moving slowly over my breast, making me gasp in delight and then sigh in regret when his hand continues on, having merely teased my nipple into tight, sweet arousal.

“Damien.” I’m not sure if the word is a protest or an exultation. All I know is that he has loosened the tie of the robe and now spreads it open. “Damien,” I say again, but this time the word is little more than breath, because his hand has slipped farther down and he is stroking me, playing me. I close my eyes and sigh as I let the power of my husband’s touch send sparks scattering through my body.

I’m aware of every part of me, as if every cell is crying out for more contact, and in answer to my own desires I raise my hands to my breasts, teasing my nipples, then tugging harder as the pressure of Damien’s touch increases, as the storm gathers, coming closer to releasing all of its fury inside me.

“Tell me you like this,” he demands.

“Yes,” I say as I raise my hips, urging him not to stop. To touch me harder, faster, deeper. To take and take until I am turned completely inside out. “God, yes.”

“You’re close, sweetheart,” he says, and I make some sort of noise in response. “Close,” he repeats, gently removing his hand and making me gasp at this sudden withdrawal of pleasure. “But not ready.”

I moan in protest and frustration. “Clearly you’re not familiar with the definition of ready.”

“Then educate me,” he says. “What are you ready for?”

“You.”

His smile is wide and satisfied and wonderfully sexy. “I like that answer. Stand up.”

I hesitate only a moment, because now I understand. “Yes, sir.” I stand, then move to the middle of the cabin so that I am right in front of where he sits on the love seat, his back to the side of the plane and a row of windows open to the night. I hope we don’t hit turbulence, but I am not overly worried. There are worse things than stumbling into Damien’s arms.

“Take off the robe.” He is wearing loose khaki shorts and an ancient Wimbledon T-shirt. His arms are spread out along the back of the couch, giving him a casual air. His legs are slightly spread, and I can see the tight muscles of his thighs. He’s been working out more and his always exceptional body is even more toned.

But even though his posture is casual, his expression is anything but. He is watching me with something that can only be described as hunger. And I am all too happy to be devoured.

“The robe,” he says, making me jump. I haven’t yet complied. I’ve been too caught up with watching my husband. Now I hesitate for different reasons, my attention turning toward the front of the plane and the now-closed door to the galley. It’s one thing to be naked under a robe that I can yank closed. It’s another to be naked altogether.