Claim Me(70)

“I’m shocked, Mr. Stark. Truly shocked.”

He ignores my sarcasm, and when he speaks, his voice is low and even. “Actually, I suppose you do fall within those parameters. I wanted you at home. You said no. I didn’t like it.”

I step close to him and slide my hands around his waist. “I suppose if it bothers you that much, you can simply tie me up and keep me permanently at your side.”

I can feel the way his body stiffens against mine, and I am glad I’m holding on to him. My own knees are weak. How simple it is to slip into passion with Damien. Even when we quarrel, we’re never far away from the fire, and it’s so easy to get pulled into the conflagration.

And always, always, there is the need to touch him, to feel him, to know that he is real and that he is mine.

“Why, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, “I believe you’re thinking naughty thoughts.”




“Very,” I confirm.

“I may have to take you up on your suggestion,” he says. He tugs on the end of my pink scarf. I feel the smooth brush of the material as it slides over my skin. “Tie you up,” he says, twisting the end of the scarf around one wrist. “Keep you close.” He gives the scarf a tight, quick jerk, and I stumble toward him. He catches me so that I don’t fall, and bends down so that his lips are close to my ear. “But first, I think you need to be very thoroughly spanked.”

I tilt my head so that he can see my eyes. “I’d rather be thoroughly f*cked.”

He groans, and I know that I have won this round. “Oh, God, Nikki. What you do to me.”

“No,” I say, my entire body on fire. “What you do to me. And please, Damien, do it soon.”

“We’re leaving,” he says, and I can only nod mutely.

“Where are we going?” I ask, as we take the elevator down. There are two other couples in the car with us, and only the tips of our fingers are touching. It is so intimate, though, that I feel like I’m naked before them.

“The apartment,” he says curtly.

Thank God. If he wanted to go all the way back to the Malibu house I was going to lose my mind. Even so, I’m not sure I can make it the few short blocks.

But then the elevator doors glide open and as soon as our companions step off in front of us, we are accosted by the flash of cameras, the press of microphones, and the overlapping queries of a dozen demanding voices.

Now I clutch Damien’s hand and move closer to his side.

“Mr. Stark!”

“Damien!”

“Nikki, over here!”

“What can you say about your refusal to speak at the dedication of the Richter Tennis Center?”

“Can you explain your decision, Mr. Stark?”

I hold tight to Damien and keep my head down as we press forward toward the street. I assume at first that these are simply the same reporters and paparazzi that had been hovering about when we’d arrived. But then I see that in addition to the TMZ and E! reporters, there are vans from CNN and even the Wall Street Journal.

Apparently someone noticed Damien’s arrival, and the word spread like wildfire.

I squeeze Damien’s hand tighter, hoping he has a car nearby. It may only be a block to the apartment, but I do not want to walk it with these vultures following in our wake.

“What about the rumors out of Germany, Mr. Stark?” a voice calls, and Damien’s hand tightens around mine as he leads us firmly and silently toward the valet stand.

“Nikki, is Damien Stark off the bachelor block?”