Claim Me(106)

“Just wait,” he says. In front of us, no lights appear and for a moment I’m afraid that something has gone wrong with Damien’s billionaire escape route. But it turns out that we’ve simply reached the end of the hill. We’ve emerged onto a private road—Damien’s, of course—and after following it for a while we turn onto a twisting Malibu road and maneuver the hills until, finally, we reach the Pacific Coast Highway.

“You’re really not going to tell me?” I ask. I am still sweetly on edge. The car is low to the ground and powerful, and I can feel the thrum of the engine against my ass, and the vibration is more than a little enticing. My breasts feel heavy and swollen and though chiffon is soft, my nipples are so stimulated that they are painfully erect.

Damien stays quiet, but he eyes me sideways, and I see the amused smile playing at his mouth.

“Are we going into LA? It’s almost eleven.”

“I’m afraid I’m going to keep you up past your bedtime, Ms. Fairchild.”




I could protest, but it would be for show only. So I settle back in the soft leather and watch the ocean go by on my right. I feel Damien’s eyes on me, though, and I turn to him, my expression stern. “Eyes on the road, Mr. Stark.”

“I’d rather watch you,” he says, but he turns back to focus on the road ahead. He reaches up and adjusts the rearview mirror. “That’s better,” he says, and his mouth tugs into a lazy grin.

“Like the view?” I ask. My legs are apart as he’d instructed, the hem of my dress hitting about mid-thigh.

“I’ll like it even better in a minute.”

I glance sideways at him, suddenly suspicious. “Oh?”

“I saw the way you were admiring Blaine’s work,” he says conversationally.

“He’s very talented.”

“The way he can portray arousal, shame, sexual longing. There are some at the gallery that show a woman in the throes of an orgasm. Spectacular, really.”

“I haven’t seen those,” I say.

“Which one was your favorite this evening?”

“I liked them all,” I say.

“Did you? I thought I saw a note of particular interest on your face when you looked at the woman on the chaise. Do you know the one I mean?”

“Yes,” I say. My pulse has picked up its tempo. I’m remembering the painting … and I’m anticipating where Damien is going.

“What was she doing?” he asks.

“Touching herself,” I whisper.

“Her lover off to one side. Her legs bound open.”

“Yes.” I have to force the word out.

“Take your shoes off,” he says, and I bend down to tackle the small buckles. “Lift your skirt up around your waist. I want you bare against the leather. Oh, God, Nikki, yes,” he says as I comply. The leather is smooth and cool against my red-hot skin. The vibrations beneath me seem even more erotic and I feel wanton and wild.

“Spread your legs, baby. Just like the woman in the painting.”

His words—along with all they portend—are as erotic as his touch, and my already hyperaware body kicks into overdrive. I’m aware of every movement, every brush of air against my skin, every beat of my heart, every tiny drop of perspiration that beads between my breasts. I work to control my breathing as I lift one leg and wedge it between the door and the dashboard. Then I take the other and hook my ankle over the gearshift box. I’m spread as wide as possible, and when I reach down to recline the seat, the motion shifts my hips up a bit. I make a small, strangled sound. My entire body tingles, but I am most aware of the heavy throbbing between my legs.