Have Me (Stark Trilogy, #3.6)(7)

“Please,” I say, when he is close enough to touch me, but maddeningly doesn’t do so.

“Please what?”

“Touch me,” I say. “Fuck me.”

“Feeling desperate, Mrs. Stark? Dear god, I like the sound of that.”

“Desperate?” I quip.

“Mrs. Stark,” he says firmly, and takes a sip of the champagne. “I’m not sure there are any two words in the world that give me greater pleasure.” He lifts the glass to me. “A sip for the bride?”

I nod and ease forward. He puts the glass to my lips and tilts it for me to drink. I swallow some, but most of it dribbles down my chin and onto my breasts.

I shiver slightly from the unexpected splash of cool liquid, then shiver even more when Damien moves closer, pressing one hand to my lower back to hold me in place as he licks the champagne from my cleavage.

I do not recognize the sound I make. It is wild. Feral. It is a demand, a plea, and if I were not bound to this wall I would fall to my knees and beg him to take me hard, to take me fast.

With his free hand, he cups my breast as his tongue laves my areola before his mouth closes over my nipple. He suckles me, sending electricity shooting down to my clit, making my already throbbing sex go almost painful with need.

I struggle to move my hands because I want to touch him. To stroke his back and bury my fingers in his hair, but I am bound, and I can only feel and want and need.

Damien.

I don’t realize that I’ve said his name aloud until he looks up at me, his lips still pressed against my breast, his face full of wide-open desire.

“Pleasure,” he says, then bites down on my nipple. “And pain.”

I cry out as his teeth dig into my sensitive flesh, but at the same time, my breast tingles with arousal, and my body hums as if every erogenous zone is interconnected. A web of sensuality crisscrossing my body, from my clit to my breasts, to my mouth, to my fingers. Over and through me as pleasure and pain combine to bring me closer and closer to something that has the power to both destroy me and make me whole.

“Tell me what you want.” He straightens, his body pressed hard against mine so that I can feel his erection through his shorts. “Tell me what you need.”

“You,” I say. “Hard. Please.”

Our eyes meet, and he cups his hand behind my neck then tugs me forward into a kiss so violent that our teeth clash and I swear I taste blood.

“You are my wife, Nikki. My heart, my life.”

“Say it again,” I beg.

“Wife,” he says, understanding perfectly what I need to hear. He moves behind me, his palms stroking my shoulders, my back, my ass. “Mine,” he adds as he presses against me from behind and slides his hand around to stroke my sex. I am drenched, desperately turned on, and a wild tremor shakes my body.

We’re one, he and I. And right now I need him inside me, as if in proof of that simple truism. “Please, Damien. I need you.”

“Not yet,” he says, and I hear the rustle of cloth as he takes off his shorts. He moves back in front of me now, and as he goes to unbind one of my hands, I take the opportunity to drink in the perfection that is Damien Stark. He’s impressive dressed; naked and erect, he’s perfection. And I am selfishly, greedily, gloriously happy that he is mine.

“You’re smiling,” he says.

“I have reason to.”

“We both do.”

One of my hands is still bound, but he turns me so that my back is to the wall. He kisses me gently, his tongue exploring my mouth even as his hands graze my body, as if he is just discovering me for the first time.

With my free hand, I clutch the back of his head, keeping him close to me, not wanting this kiss to end, but also not wanting it sweet. I want it hard. I want to be f*cked.

I want to be claimed like a bride of the honeymoons of old.

“Claim me,” I say. “Please, Damien, take me now. I need you to. I need to surrender.”

It is as if my words are an invocation; he deepens the kiss, taking as much as I can give, demanding everything I have.

Roughly, he presses me back so that I am against the wall, then takes my leg and lifts it so that my thigh rests on his hip and I am open to him. He fingers me, and I arch back from the glorious sensation of being explored. “I love how wet you are,” he murmurs, and before I can respond, he closes his hands around my waist and lifts me up and thrusts his cock deep inside me. I cry out, taking all of him and wanting more.

He slams us backward, pressing me hard against the wall as he pounds deeper and deeper into me. I clutch his shoulders and cling tight, my body open to him, my need for him just as savage as his for me.

This isn’t about romance and wine and roses and moonlight. This is wild. This is primitive.

This is wonderful.

He is claiming me. Marking me.

He is giving me what I need—everything I need—and I willingly surrender to both him and to the waves of pleasure that rise up, higher and higher as we continue to move together, the storm building inside both of us.

“Say it,” I demand as my body reaches the crest. “Oh, god, please, I need to hear you say it.”

Our bodies slam together again in one final, brilliant thrust even as the word I crave crashes over me, pushing me over the precipice and sending me hurtling toward the stars in an explosion of light and color.