Claim Me(107)

“She lies there, silently begging for her lover. Her cunt is slick, her breasts tender, her nipples begging to be sucked.”

“Damien, please …”

“He doesn’t touch her, though,” Damien continues, and I bite back a frustrated moan. “He leaves her like that, a breeze blowing on her aching cunt.”

He leans over and adjusts the air conditioner so that a stream of cool air blows right between my legs. It’s soft and decadent and it makes me ache.

“If he were kind, he’d let her touch herself, but if you look closely at the painting, you see that her hand is in the air, wanting, but not reaching. Did you notice that, Nikki?”

“No,” I say firmly. “I’m certain she was touching herself.”

“Are you? Well, that’s the thing about art. It’s different for everybody. Shall I tell you what I see?”

I swallow and nod.

“I see the man who is not in the portrait. The woman means everything to him. And nothing can please him more than to bring her pleasure. And not just a quick f*ck and a fast orgasm, Nikki. No, he wants to create their own nirvana. To build pleasure upon pleasure until the lines cross and neither is sure if it’s torment or delight.”

I lick my lips, my mouth dry. I’m hyperaware of my body. Of the motion of the car. Of my breasts, so tender now beneath the thin material.

“He wants his lover to trust him. To surrender herself to him completely. To let him orchestrate the pleasures of her body. But he leaves the ultimate choice up to her. He lets her have one hand free, and that is the moment Blaine captured on the canvas.”

He turns and looks briefly at me before returning his attention to the road. “And so the question is, does she touch herself or does she trust him?” His voice is as warm and soft and intimate as the caress I crave. “You tell me, Nikki. What does the woman do?”

“She trusts him,” I whisper.

And then I close my eyes and lose myself to the motion of the car and Damien’s promise of what is to come.





16


“We’re here,” Damien says, after a journey that must have been a thousand miles.

“Here?” I repeat. I glance out the window and see that we’re pulling into the driveway of the Century Plaza hotel.

“Tug your skirt down, baby,” he says. “Unless you want to give the valet a treat.”

I shift in the seat and cover myself, then bend even farther and put my shoes on. My body is achy and needy, and I am having trouble switching over to this new reality. “We’re checking into a hotel?” The prospect is undeniably enticing.

“You are,” he says, as he pulls up to the valet stand.

A young man in a red uniform hurries to Damien’s side of the car. “I’m just dropping off the lady,” he says.

Now I’m completely confused. “What are we—”

“Go register,” he says. “Don’t worry, you already have a reservation. And I suggest a drink. Take a seat at the bar. It’s a beautiful venue and the bartender makes an excellent martini.”

I am still in the car, and the valet is holding my door open. I wait for Damien to say more, but he has pulled out his phone and is scrolling through his text messages. I’m still not certain what the game is, but at least I’ve figured out that it is a game.

“Yes, sir.” I slip out of the car, then remember my purse. “Wait a minute,” I say, then I lean back in, making sure that the dress gapes enough in the front to give Damien an enticing view of what I wear underneath this dress. Which is absolutely nothing.