Have Me (Stark Trilogy, #3.6)(4)

I’d seen enough of it last night to know that it is amazing, but it had been dark when we arrived, and I’d been more interested in the man I was eloping with than in architecture and plumbing, no matter how incredible.

This morning, I’d had no occasion to come through these doors. Damien had roused me before sunrise and handed me over to two local women who had hurried me into the living area, which had been converted into a makeshift dressing room. They’d washed my hair in a portable beauty shop–style chair, then did my makeup in the smaller, but still luxurious, bathroom off the kitchen.

I was primped and polished, then decked out in my wedding dress and hustled to the beach for a sunrise ceremony so quickly and efficiently that my memory of this morning before the vows began is a blur.

Then, as now, I’d wanted only Damien.

Now, however, my desire for the man is both underscored and enhanced by the scene in front of me. “Damien.” The word comes out as an awed whisper. The room is romantic. Magical.

As perfect as the man himself.

I tilt my head up to find him smiling down at me, and in that moment my heart is so full that I have to cling to him more tightly for fear that it will burst.

This is like no room I’ve ever seen before, and I am a bit in awe. Last night, in the dark, I hadn’t really thought about the floor, and if I had I would have assumed it was solid. Instead, it is slate leading up to a rectangular wading pool that fills most of the bathroom, but extends beneath a sliding glass wall to dominate the back patio as well. Beyond its infinity-style end is the ocean, and from the perspective of someone standing inside the house, the rocky shore that slopes down from the bungalow is completely invisible.

In some ways, this space reminds me of Damien’s house in Malibu. Our house, I think, mentally correcting myself. It’s similar in appointment and elegance, and yet it’s different, too. Exotic. It is the perfect place for a honeymoon, and I whisper as much to Damien even as I continue to gaze around in delighted awe.

A small stone bridge stretches across the pool to the giant, modern tub that sits in the middle like an island.

But it is not these architectural enhancements that have stolen my breath and teased my heart. Instead, it is what Damien has made of the room. Because it is awash in rose petals. They cover the floor and they peek out from the bubbles that fill the tub. Incredibly, they also float on the water of the infinity pool. Beside the tub, a tripod champagne bucket rises from the water. A bamboo tray rests across the tub. On it sit two champagne flutes.

The tub has no shower, but I can see that there is one outside. Right now, the room is open, with the glass wall pushed aside so that the breeze flutters in, cooling my heated skin.

Unlike the room, which is more stone flooring than pool, the patio is mostly pool with only a few stone islands. One supports a chaise lounge that is little more than an outdoor bed, and which has, for that reason, drawn my attention. The other stone island is near a freestanding wooden wall from which a showerhead protrudes, as well as some hooks on which hang loofahs, bottles of shampoo, and other spa-style bath items.

Because the patio is completely open, there is no privacy here other than that offered by the stretch of empty beach and the wide open sea. It is wild. It is free. It is civilization stripped bare, and everything about this room—from its appearance to its rose-petal scent to its promise of decadent pleasures—has captured me utterly.

As Damien said, we are completely alone, and the knowledge that he can take me here with the ocean breeze kissing my skin and the wide open sky witnessing our pleasure makes me so weak with longing that I am even more grateful that Damien is holding me, as I doubt I could stand otherwise.

He crosses the stone bridge, then puts me down gently near the edge. I start to move, but he shakes his head, then slowly reaches behind me to untie the two knots that hold my bikini top in place. It falls into the water, and though I raise a brow in surprise, Damien simply continues.

His fingers skim lightly over my breast, making me draw in air, then shiver as his caress continues down my side and over my waist, making my skin prickle with need and anticipation.

He unties the sarong and lets it fall, as well. It floats on the surface of the water, and I watch as it flows outside, the sunlight catching it and making the fibers sparkle.

“The rest,” Damien says, and I lick my lips as I comply, easing the bottoms down over my hips to pool around my ankles. I step out of the tangled fabric, then stand naked in front of my husband.

He smiles, soft and easy and full of promise, then pulls me to him. With practiced ease, he lifts me up and then gently places me into the tub. The temperature is perfect, and I sigh in ecstasy, letting the slightly oiled water sluice over my skin. I scoot back to lean against the smooth side of the tub and make room for Damien to join me.

Except, of course, he doesn’t.

“Damien,” I protest.

“Hush. Let me take care of you.” He takes the champagne and opens it, very deliberately letting the cork fly out of the room, and sending foaming bubbles splashing down upon me.

I laugh. “Isn’t that the uncouth way to open champagne?”

“Perhaps,” he says. “But it’s much more fun.” He fills the two flutes, then hands one to me before picking up the second. His eyes skim over me, but the humor I’d seen only moments before is gone, replaced by something both soft and deep.

“Damien?”