Play My Game (Stark Trilogy, #3.7)(21)

This is passion, but it is also punishment and domination. Because I had a moment when I needed the pain and I didn’t go to him. Because someone out in the world is f*cking with us, and he can’t find them or make them stop, and swimming in someone else’s stream is not something Damien handles well.

I understand all that, and I want to give him what he needs. But right now, this isn’t about control or anger or frustration. It’s about heat and need. It’s about touch and demand.

It’s about the absolute certainty that I will not survive one minute longer if Damien doesn’t take me right now, and I really don’t care that we’re on the side of the road with the sky open above us.

“Please,” I beg.

And Damien, who will always be there for me, does not disappoint.

He turns me around, pressing me down against the hood of the car. I spread my legs and lift myself on my toes. My skirt is up around my waist, the pearl thong absolutely soaked.

He rips it off, and I hear pearls scattering across the turnout. I don’t even care. Right then, I’m lost in the feel of his fingers stroking my sex. I’m wet, and his hand slides over me, then thrusts inside. I moan with pleasure, but it’s not enough. I want all of him, and tell him so. Begging. Demanding.

I’m rewarded by the sound of his zipper and then—thank god—by the hard press of the crown of his penis against my slit.

He enters me. Just a little at first, and I bite down on my lower lip, wanting more. Wanting all of him. And yet he is going so painfully, teasingly slow.

It’s driving me crazy. Which, of course, he knows.

Then, without warning, he thrusts hard, sliding deep inside me. I cry out, my voice filling the night air. As I do, I arch up, and in that moment, Damien leans over me, his motion driving him even deeper into me. I try to thrust my hips back, wanting everything he has to give. He is filling me completely, and I cannot help but wonder how I survive even a second when I am not so intimately connected to Damien.

Except I am; I always am. Even when I am not touching him, I am connected to him.

The thought makes me soar, and as he cups my breasts in his palms—as he bites lightly on my neck and pounds hard into me—I shatter into a billion pieces, then cry out in passion and relief and exultation as Damien explodes inside me.

And the last coherent thought that I have is that no matter what, Damien and I give each other what we need, and we always will.





Chapter 9


“You’re sure that you aren’t going to get in trouble?” I ask Sylvia. “And there’s no chance he’ll walk in and see what we’re up to?”

We’re in the living room of the Tower apartment, and Sylvia is parked behind the tripod on which I’ve mounted the Leica that Damien gave me.

“I told you, he’s in meetings all morning.”

That much I know. Those meetings—including some video conferences that started before dawn—are the reason that we stayed in the apartment last night. “What if he forgot something?”

“It’s my job to make sure he didn’t,” she says. “And I promise, he’s booked solid. He’s doing nothing but meetings until the chopper gets here. But if you’re that worried, shut up and let me take the picture. Then I can get out of here and you can be sure we’re safe.”

“Sorry,” I say, genuinely contrite. “I just want it to be a surprise. And I really do appreciate you helping out.”

“I’m glad to. The picture taking and the rest of it, too.”

We’ve arranged that Syl will take several shots of me, which I’ll download to my laptop from the memory disk while I’m on the plane to the resort. It’s not a working trip, but I think it’s a safe bet that Damien will have at least one or two business things to take care of. And when he does, I’ll do a bit of work, too.

My plan is to manipulate the photo to the way I want it, add a caption, and then email the whole thing back to Sylvia. For her part, she’s promised to have it printed, framed, wrapped, and delivered to the Malibu house. When we get back on Valentine’s Day, it’ll be right there for Damien to open.

Just thinking about it makes me grin. There’s something about having to jump through all these hoops that makes the gift feel even more special. Hopefully Damien will enjoy the photo as much as I’m enjoying creating it.

Right now, though, I need to get on that whole “creating it” thing.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

She nods and adjusts the focus. We’ve already checked the lights and filters, because I’m trying to minimize reflections and glare. The image I want is me in front of the window, the city spread out behind me. I’m wearing my most form-fitting dress, and one hand is flat against the glass as I stand at an angle so as to accentuate all my curves.

If the picture turns out like it is in my mind, it will be stunning. Unfortunately, things don’t always work out that way.

I stay still as Sylvia clicks and adjusts, then has me move to various similar poses so that I will have others to choose from if I hate the original idea.

About the time that I think my arm is going to fall off from being extended so long, she calls it a wrap.

“Well?” I ask, and her answering grin is all I need to know.

“You’re going to have a hell of a time choosing the best one,” she says. “And Damien is going to love it.”