Claim Me(11)

“I’m surprised,” I say. “After what you said, I didn’t think you’d free me.”

“Who says I am?” His voice is low and sensual. It surrounds and strokes me. “I’m taking care of you, Nikki. Wholly and completely.”

I close my eyes in sweet anticipation. Behind me, he finishes unraveling the knots. I sigh and rub my wrists, which have gone a little numb from being in one position for so long. I try to guess what Damien has planned, but it’s no use. I am clueless, and I watch helplessly as he moves across the room to the section of the closet that boasts a wider selection of designer tops than the Neiman Marcus back home in Dallas. He chooses a sleeveless black sweater with a cowl neck. Then he returns to my side.




“I’m going to dress you now,” he says. “Arms up.”

I obey. The knit is soft yet snug, and I can’t deny that it fits perfectly. I lift my hand to my neck, enjoying the freedom of movement, and am happy to realize that the high, loose neck covers the cord that still hangs between my breasts under the shirt.

He holds out a tiny leather miniskirt next, and I dutifully step into it, careful not to trip over the cord that still hangs in front of me, and that Damien makes sure remains hidden inside the garment.

“Damien,” I say, and though I try to sound harsh, there is no hiding the excitement that laces those three simple syllables.

“Hush,” he replies. He moves behind me, presumably to zip up the skirt. Instead, he reaches between my legs for the dangling cord and tugs it toward him. Once again, I tingle from the enticing feel of the silk against my oh-so-sensitive flesh. He pulls it up, threading it under the skirt so that a tiny bit peeks out from the waistband. Then he zips me up tight.

“I don’t think that adds much to the outfit,” I say, looking over my shoulder at the flash of red that resembles an exotic zipper pull.

“I beg to differ,” he retorts, and underscores his words with a slow, yet firm tug on the cord. I cry out in pleasure and surprise, the simultaneous stroking of my sex and ass almost more than I can handle.

“You still need shoes,” he says gently, this time crossing to a section of shoe cubbies. He grabs a pair of strappy black sandals with three-inch f*ck-me heels. “These will do,” he says. “And as much as I like you in stockings, I think we’ll skip that tonight.”

I can only nod, then sit on the white leather bench to which he leads me. As I sit, the cord tightens, and I am quite certain that Damien intended it that way.

He crouches in front of me and lifts my foot. My knees are apart, and as he slides on the shoe and fastens the tiny buckle around my ankle, his eyes flicker up to meet mine, and then down to the shadow between my parted legs. Unless a red silk cord constitutes underwear, I am naked beneath the skirt. Naked and wet and so needful that I want to slide my hips forward in a silent demand that he touch me. That he take me.

With Damien, however, I don’t have to beg. As soon as he has fastened the other shoe, he puts my feet on the ground. Because of the heels, my knees now rise above the bench, which means my skirt has lifted a bit as well, giving the man in front of me an even more intimate view.

Gently, he presses his palm against my bare knee. Then he leans in and brushes his lips over the sensitive skin on the inside of my right thigh. I shiver from the contact, the pressure from the cord making the sensation that much more erotic.

“You’re like a drug to me.” Damien’s voice is low and his breath upon my skin is so tantalizing that I have to close my eyes and clutch the bench even tighter. “I wasn’t going to touch you—not yet. But I don’t have the strength to deny myself the taste of you.”