Have Me (Stark Trilogy, #3.6)(6)

“Yes,” I say. “Oh, yes.”

He withdraws his fingers from my sex, and my muscles tighten in protest, my body wanting to draw him back in. He cups his hand there, the pressure making it hard for a cogent thought to form in my head.

“And only when he is sure does he claim her fully, take her completely.” He draws his hand away, and I have to bite my lip to stifle a moan of protest.

He reaches into the tub and scoops me up, one arm beneath my knees, the other around my back. I hook my arms around his neck and snuggle against him, wanting to be as close to this man as humanly possible.

“He plies her with softness and seduction,” Damien says, and I murmur a protest against his throat. “What?” he asks.

I tilt my head back and look at him through heavy lids. “I’m not complaining,” I say, “but I’m not so sure that men in history saw it entirely your way.”

His lips twitch. “No?”

“I think they just took what they wanted, and the woman be damned.” I lift an eyebrow, teasing, and he dips his head to kiss my forehead.

“Perhaps,” he says. “Or perhaps I’m not finished telling you my story. It’s one thing for him to make her crave him. It’s another thing entirely for him to finally claim her. For her to truly understand that she is his.”

“Oh,” I say, as a sensual tremor cuts through me.

“The height of pleasure,” he says slowly, the words so heavy with meaning they make me weak. And, yes, they make me wetter. “The precipice of passion. He would take her there, again and again, until she was desperate with longing, all resistance lost, all hesitation erased. She would know only him. Want only him. And she would beg for the relief and explosion that only he could bring her.”

We’re on the patio now, and he carries me to the shower, then puts me down. He turns on the tap, and pleasantly warm water begins to fall from the rain-style showerhead. I tilt my head up, enjoying the way it washes over me, then look down to watch as the last remnants of the bubbles that clung to me from the tub are washed away down the drain.

Beside me, Damien is still in his shorts and open white shirt. He’s soaked, and the thin material now clings to him in the kind of magazine-cover-model way that makes me want to simply stare at him and bask in the knowledge that he is mine.

“Here,” he says, turning me to face the wooden wall from which the showerhead protrudes. He takes my wrist and raises my arm above my head. It is only then that I notice that the hook that I saw holding shampoo is actually a slipknot. He takes the bottle of shampoo out, then slips the rough rope around my wrist before pulling it tight, effectively trapping me in place.

“Damien,” I say, and I can hear both trepidation and excitement in my voice.

He hears it, too, and I see the hint of a smile as he takes my other hand and repeats the process so that I am standing there naked and bound, facing the freestanding wooden wall.

He steps back, watching me from just to my left, far enough back so that I have to turn my head to see him.

“He claims her,” he says slowly. “Claims her and possesses her. Takes her and commands her. Teases and taunts until she understands that he is her life now, just as she is his.”

I swallow, hearing both reality and history in his words. “And if she already knows it?”

Our eyes lock and the air between us seems to shimmer. I can feel it touching me, the tickle of electric fingers dancing over my body. I am alive with this man. My husband.

I am alive, and I am his.

And we both already know it.

For a moment, I think that he will say something else. His eyes narrow in what I can only assume is amusement. Then—without saying another word—he turns and walks away from me, carefully stepping on the stone path that leads the way across the infinity pool.

I watch him go, determined not to call after him. I don’t know what game he is playing, but I am certain that there is a game. I’m also certain that while Damien might deny me simply for the pleasure of making me beg, he won’t deny me for long. Not today. Not when he wants me just as badly as I want him.

Still, just in case, I give a firm tug to my bonds, managing only to tighten the slipknots. Well, damn.

And then, as if to prove my hypothesis, Damien returns. He’s changed clothes, and now he’s wearing khaki shorts and nothing else. He seems to glow in the sunlight, and I think to myself that he is sun kissed. At the moment, all that thought does is make me jealous of the sun.

He crosses purposefully to me, and even on this beachfront patio and dressed so casually, there is no question but that he is a man to be obeyed. More than that, I know that I will willingly do so.

He’s carrying one of the champagne flutes, and now he comes to stand just to the side of the wooden wall so that I can look at him more easily.

“You’re beautiful,” he says, with such reverence in his voice that it makes me go weak.

“Is this how you like me?” I ask, lifting my chin. “Naked and bound and wet for you?”

One eyebrow arches slightly as he takes a step toward me. “Are you?”

Yes, yes, oh, dear god, yes. I don’t say that, though. Instead I just smile. “Come and find out.”

“Tempting,” he says, moving even closer, and with each step my anticipation rises and my body fires just a little bit more.