Play My Game (Stark Trilogy, #3.7)(28)

He pulls me close and holds me tight. I hug him back, warmed by the fact that my single photograph—so small compared to a scavenger hunt and a spa retreat—has affected him so much.

“Thank you for my presents, too,” I say. “If I haven’t already said, I loved the treasure hunt, not to mention the retreat time with my husband.”

“As did I,” he said. “But that was more like an appetizer than the main course.”

I lean back and frown at him, not understanding what he is saying.

“How could I give you your Valentine’s Day present before Valentine’s Day?”

“But—” I close my mouth as I regroup. “Um, okay. So …”

He chuckles. “The third floor pantry,” Damien says. “Gregory assures me he put it in the pantry right before we arrived.”

The pantry?

Damien’s expression is both amused and smug. “Go on,” he says, and since I need no more encouragement, I bolt toward the kitchen, desperately curious as to what he could possibly have gotten me. A personal chef, maybe?

I tug open the door, and then clap my hand over my mouth to stifle a scream of delight.

There, curled up and purring on a cushion inside a wicker basket is the tiniest, orangest, most adorable kitten I have ever seen.

“Damien,” I whisper as the kitten opens its eyes, yawns, and stumbles out of the basket toward me. “Oh, my god, Damien.”

I glance back at him, and as I do, I notice the pile of cat food that I need to return to Jamie. Damien knew how much I missed having a cat around, and he got me a kitten.

I am overwhelmed. I’m in awe.

I’m in love.

“She doesn’t have a name yet,” Damien says, moving behind me and putting his hand on my shoulder. I scoop the kitten up, and am delighted when she immediately starts purring in my arms.

“She does,” I say, snuggling close to my husband. “Her name is Sunshine.”

We take Sunshine to the bed and the three of us pile on. I lean against Damien and laugh as we watch the kitten go through all her kitten-y antics. Attacking fingers and toes. Pouncing on imaginary prey. And generally being a bundle of cuteness until she wears herself out, turns in three circles, then settles down in the middle of the bed to purr herself to sleep.

“She’s wonderful,” I whisper as Damien leads me to the balcony. “She’s perfect.”

He stands behind me, his arms around my waist as I lean back against him. “She is,” he says, but what I hear is We are.

I breathe deep, relishing the feel of him. It is a soft moment, nice and gentle, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Soon Damien’s hands slide beneath my shirt, and I draw in a breath as my skin tightens with longing and my heartbeat quickens.

He moves slowly, letting the anticipation grow, until his palms cover my breasts and he is stroking my nipples with his thumbs. The motion is almost casual, but my reaction is not. On the contrary, a wild heat is growing inside me, and if the press of his erection against my back is any indication, it is growing in Damien as well.

I murmur his name, and am rewarded by his soft “Shhh. Just relax.” Easier said than done, but I close my eyes and let the sensation of Damien’s expert touch take over, taking me all the way to the edge until, finally, he pushes me over and I explode in his arms as the sun sets on our first Valentine’s Day.

I’m curled up in bed, wearing nothing but Damien’s Wimbledon T-shirt, one leg tossed negligently across his thigh as I lick a chocolate ice cream–covered spoon.

Beside me, Damien has his laptop open and is scouring the internet as the kitten attacks our toes with military-like determination. “Still nothing,” Damien says, squirming a bit under Sunshine’s assault.

“Then it worked. You didn’t pay, and they didn’t release the photos or the tape.”

“Looks that way,” Damien says, though he doesn’t look as happy about it as I feel.

“You still want to know who’s behind it.”

“Very much,” he says.

“You’ll find them. Ryan’s on it, right?”

“He is. And eventually we’ll find them.”

“Damn right, you will,” I say. “So worry about it tomorrow. I don’t want those stupid threats touching any more of our day than they already have.”

“Touché, Mrs. Stark.” He sets the laptop aside, and grabs the red ribbon. He holds on to one end and tosses the ribbon toward the cat, who is immediately fascinated. She stares at the wiggling end of the ribbon, her eyes wide and her orange fur spiked out in attack mode. Damien and I both hold our breath, swallowing laughter as her little butt wiggles, her tail spiky. Finally—after much observation—she pounces, attacking the end of the ribbon with all the panache of a jaguar going after its prey.

I laugh, delighted, and she abandons the ribbon just long enough to flop onto her back and wiggle.

Damien reaches down and scratches her belly and is rewarded by the kitten grabbing hold and gnawing his hand. He grins at me, and my heart melts a little.

“I could have sworn you told me you didn’t want us to turn domestic,” I tease.

“Is that what this is?” he asks, taking the ribbon and wiggling it again. “Domesticity?”

I offer him a spoonful of ice cream. “Yeah. I think it is.”