Have Me (Stark Trilogy, #3.6)(25)

He tells me to go change—“not naked; I don’t intend to share even the sight of you”—and to meet him back in this sitting room.

I do, returning in a sarong, and more than happy to find him with a towel wrapped around his waist, the bulge at his crotch making it more than evident that he is ready for whatever delights are on the agenda.

He leads me through a space with couches and chairs and people in various states of undress, all touching and stroking and teasing. I’m not sure what the etiquette is here, but I can’t stop looking. Damien sees me, and pulls me back into an alcove, one of many in this room, and clearly set back for this very purpose. There is, in fact, a small curtain that can be pulled across the opening, turning it into a small but private space, almost like a little dressing room.

“Have you ever watched other people make love?” Damien asks.

I shake my head. “No. I mean, yes. Some porn, but that’s different.”

“It is,” he says. He stands behind me, so that we are in the shadows and I am looking out over the room. Hands stroking. Lips meeting. I don’t know why, but watching these strangers makes my own temperature rise.

“I don’t want them,” I say, as Damien cups my breasts through the thin material of the sarong. “I don’t want anyone’s touch but yours.”

“But it turns you on,” he whispers, and I nod.

“Why?” I ask.

“They’re a mirror. You see passion on their faces and you want it. You see the burn of heat on their skin, and you want to feel it. You hear them cry out when they come, and you want to go there, too.”

“Yes,” I moan, as the truth of what he says washes over me. I’ve never thought I had any voyeuristic tendencies, but watching these people—their hands stroking slick skin, their mouths meeting—is like kindling to the fire already growing inside me. “God, yes.”

I lean back against Damien, feeling the press of his erection against my rear. His fingers tighten on my nipples and I cry out, the cry shifting to a desperate moan as his other hand snakes down to my crotch. “Please,” I say. “Touch me.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, and I hear the hard edge of want in his voice.

I nod. I do not want to be the one being watched, but I so desperately want to feel. “The shadows,” I say. “And the sarong is open at the side.” No one will be able to see, I tell myself. But the truth is, I’m not sure I care anymore if they do.

The slit in the sarong is over my hip, but Damien turns it so that it is over my thigh, just barely covering my sex. He slips his hand under the material and strokes me. I bite down on my lower lip to keep from crying out. I am so hot, so sensitive, that I fear I will explode right there in his hand.

“Nikki, oh, god, baby.” He uses the hand that was on my breast to pull my sarong up from the back.

I know I should protest—but I don’t want to. I want the thrill. I want Damien. I want him to f*ck me in this dark corner with this cornucopia of sex spread out in front of us. I want the wildness.

I want it all.

“Yes,” I say, and lean forward so that I can hold on to the edge of the alcove. I yank the curtain partly closed—a nod to privacy—but I do not want to block our view.

I am still wearing the sarong, and Damien is behind me, so I know that we have some privacy, but when Damien grips my hips and thrusts himself inside me—when I cry out from the delicious intensity of taking him in and having him pound hard inside me—I know that anyone who looks toward us must know exactly what we are doing.

I don’t care.

All I want is Damien.

All I want is to feel, and I reach around, taking his hand off my hip and easing it into the sarong, silently demanding that he stroke my clit even as he f*cks me from behind.

“Don’t close your eyes,” Damien demands, and I don’t. Instead I watch. Passion watching passion. Heat locked onto heat.

He teases my clit as his cock fills and strokes me. He is working me into a frenzy, and his touch combined with the surroundings pushes me over the edge so hard and so fast that I am certain that without Damien to hold me up, I will tumble and fall to my knees.

As the orgasm blasts through me, my body milks him, muscles clenching in a desperate need that takes him the rest of the way, and he explodes into me, his hands closing tight on my shoulders as he cries my name.

He closes the curtain then, and I turn in his arms, then melt into his touch, into his kisses.

“I love you,” he says.

“I know,” I say, then snuggle closer. I am content. And right at the moment, I’m not feeling domestic at all.

We stay a bit longer, enjoying the sauna and the hot tub. Making love slowly in a pirate-themed private room where I let Damien take me captive and then ravage me. It is late when we leave, and I am feeling well-used and wonderful.

“How did you know?” I ask as we exit onto the sidewalk. “How did you know I would like it?”

“How do you think?”

I stay silent; we both know the answer. Because Damien knows me as well as I know myself. And as far as I am concerned, that is a glorious feeling.

I take his hand and pull him to a stop, then lift myself up to kiss him, planning a soft buss, and then laughing as he captures me long and slow and deep.

A bright light flashes, turning the world inside out, and it takes me a second to realize that the light came from the flash of a camera. It is followed in quick succession by a lightning storm of flashes, and I stumble backward, realizing only after the fact that Damien has pushed me aside.