Claim Me(142)

“I should have smashed his face in,” Damien says.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” I say. I draw a breath, because I have been thinking about this. “Besides, in a way he’s right.”

Damien’s sharp glance almost halts my words, but I press on.

“That million wasn’t just a modeling fee and we both know it.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again and rubs his temples. “I’ve done this to you.” The words are soft and filled with pain. “I swore that I would never hurt you. That I would be the one you could hold tight to. And yet I’m the one who has done this to you.”

“No.” My tone is harsh. Vehement. “You’ve never done anything to hurt me. Ever. And I took the money because I wanted it. And I took your deal because I wanted you. To be honest,” I add with a wry grin, “I would have said yes for a lot less money.”

“Really?” He lifts a brow. “Now I really do feel like a fool. Come here,” he adds, then kisses me.

My words, however, have not soothed him enough. I can feel the tension coming off him, like a spring wound too tight.

When he looks at me, his face has the dark intensity of a hunter, and I feel as vulnerable as his prey.

“Come on,” he says. “You know what I want. And what we both need.”

I follow him to the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to forget the outside world once again, and when I see what he has in mind, I know that in a few minutes I’ll be thinking of nothing but Damien. He has pulled out his box of toys and is dangling the metal handcuffs from his index finger.

“It occurs to me that this is the most surefire way to keep you in my apartment—and in my bed—while I’m in London.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I say, and scoot to the other side of the bed.

“Wouldn’t I?”

He leaps onto the bed, then rolls to the side, cutting me off as I try to break for the door. I squeal as he pulls me down on top of him, then very quickly fastens one cuff to my wrist, and then that cuff to the eyebolt.

“Don’t you even think about it,” I laugh, even though I know he’s joking. Or, at least, I’m pretty sure he’s joking …

“No?” he asks, as he starts to push my skirt up my body. “You don’t want to stay like this, in my bed, constantly ready to be f*cked by me?”




“Now that you put it that way,” I say, and then close my eyes with pleasure as he starts to kiss his way up my thigh. It is sweet torment, because Damien knows exactly how to drive me crazy. His breath teasing my sex, his lips making me wild.

I struggle under his ministrations, as with each touch he finds some new sensation, some new way to make me writhe and beg. Even the way his finger strokes my ankle and his tongue licks the back of my knee sends ribbons of pleasure curling through me.

I twist and turn on the sheets, but the cold metal that surrounds my wrist prevents me from escaping the sensual onslaught that is coming so near to driving me out of my mind.

The cuff digs into my skin, and with each turn, with each motion, I tug hard at it. I want the pain. I want the pressure. I want a bruise to rise there. And not because I want to escape the horror of this afternoon—that, in fact, is the least of it.

No, I want it because it represents now. This moment, with Damien’s mouth on my naked body. With his fingers exploring every inch of me, finding all sorts of erogenous zones and erotic secrets.

I want the bruise because it is a physical reminder of how Damien makes me feel.