Claim Me(98)

“Damien,” I whisper, and it is as if his name is a trigger. I see the rapture cut through his body, I feel him tighten against me, his body going tenser and then the warm release as he comes inside me.

He exhales, then sags against me.

“Nikki,” he says.

“I know,” I whisper.

His lips brush softly over mine, a tender kiss that contrasts the wildness of our coupling, and is just as perfect.

He is soft now and slips out of me. My thighs are sticky, and though I know I have to, I don’t want to wipe away the feel of him on my skin.

“Here,” he says. He has a handkerchief in his hand, and he gently cleans me up, then adjusts my dress. “Good as new,” he says.

“Better,” I say.

He strokes my hair, then traces the line of my ear, then brushes his thumb over my lip. It is as if he is trying to prove to himself that I am real. “I didn’t like the way I felt today,” he finally says. “Seeing you like that. Knowing you were angry with me.”

“I didn’t like it, either,” I admit.

“I suppose there’s something to be said for makeup sex.”

“Definitely.”

He takes my hand. “I meant what I said, Nikki. I don’t want this to end. I don’t want us to be over.”

I look at his face, at the chiseled expression and the firm, demanding eyes, and I am confused. “I know,” I say. “I don’t, either.”

He strokes my cheek, then curls a strand of hair around my finger. “No,” he says. “I need to be clear. I don’t want our arrangement to end. You’re mine, and there are rules. And I want our game to continue.”





15


Our game.

The force of these unexpected words crashes over me, and I take a step backward. He reaches out, and though I take his hand without hesitation, I find that I am shaking my head. Not necessarily in protest, but in confusion.

“I—I don’t understand.”

“I think you do. And I think you want it, too. Tell me, Nikki, did you leave your panties at home because you like the way it feels, or because you like knowing that you’re open to me? That I can touch you—that I can f*ck you—whenever and wherever I want?”

I swallow, because he is right. More than that, I understand now the melancholy I saw in his eyes Thursday night, followed by the possessiveness when he claimed me after midnight.




He is right—I am his. How can it be otherwise when he is inside my heart now?

But this?

He is watching me closely, examining me with the same implacable analysis that he uses to vet a business transaction or a financial report. But I am a woman, and my emotions don’t follow the line of a ticker tape. He knows that, too, of course, and beneath the hard, logical intellect, I see the soul-deep vulnerability.

He wants this. Maybe he even needs it. And he has handed all of the power of this moment to me.

My heart twists, because the truth of it is that I want it, too. Isn’t that why I’ve felt lost all night? I discovered a new side to myself when we played our game, and despite being “his,” I felt more liberated than I ever had. More in control of myself and my emotions. More centered, I think, as I brush my thumb over the finger that I had so tightly bound only moments before.

I am still holding tight to the side of the glass case. As I glance down and see the two Bradbury books, I cannot help but shiver as I think of the story Damien told me. I picture him, young and strong, riding his bike to escape his father. Riding to meet his hero, a man who crafted worlds out of ink and imagination. Insubstantial, but real enough to a boy who needed to escape.