Complete Me(111)

I want to reach out and slap it off his face.

“I used you,” he says, his voice as tight as the muscles of his chest.

“Yes,” I say, then hook an arm around his neck. I lever myself up and capture his mouth in a deeply sensual kiss that has his cock twitching inside me. I pull him down, wanting him pressed hard against me, not balancing above me, and hold him tight. “God, yes.” I hook my feet around his legs, keeping him there, his skin hot against mine, our bodies still connected.

When I look in his eyes again, I see that the storm has faded. I sigh. I do not know what happened between Damien and his father, but I know enough to understand that it ripped him up and it was to me that he came. That it was my body and my touch that helped him work through his demons.

I hold him close, still astounded that we have such power over each other. That we are the balm to each other’s soul. It humbles me. And, yes, it terrifies me. Because how could we ever survive if we lose each other?

I fall asleep in his embrace, but when I awaken, I am alone in the room. I sit up and glance around. Despite all the time I’ve spent in this house, this is the first time I have gone to sleep in the master bedroom. The iron bed upon which I sit used to be in the third floor open area, but Damien had obviously decided on a more traditional approach when he had the bed moved back to his house.

Other than the bed, though, there is no furniture in here. And there is no Damien.

I frown and climb out of bed. It’s still dark, and I grapple in my purse for my phone, then groan when I see that it’s not yet five in the morning.

I consider falling back into bed, but I know that is not possible. I need Damien. And, I think, he needs me, too.

His shirt is on the floor, and I put it on. The house is huge, but I have a plan of attack, and I go first to the library—a mezzanine that essentially floats beneath the third floor, visible from the massive marble staircase, but accessible only by a secret elevator or a set of stairs hidden behind a door off the utility area. The lights are low, casting shadows over the cherrywood shelves and glass cases that display the few things from Damien’s childhood that he values enough to keep. The area is filled with memories, both delicious and bittersweet. Damien, however, is not here.

I continue down, cutting through the commercial grade kitchen to the gym that takes up much of the north section of the house. I cock my head, listening for the thud of Damien’s fists against the punching bag or the clatter of weights rising and falling on the machines. There is nothing, however. Just a silence that seems to stretch on forever.

He is not in the pool, either, and as I stand, confused, on the flagstone decking, I begin to fear that he has actually left the property, possibly going downtown to his office. It occurs to me that I didn’t go into the master bathroom, and if he was going to leave me a note, that would have been the most logical place. I start to turn around to go back to check, figuring that if there is no note at least I can get my phone and text him, but I pause when I see the dim glow of lights off to the right.

I focus on them, trying to picture the layout of the property in my mind. Damien’s garage—a massive underground bunker that would make Batman drool—is roughly in that direction, but I’m pretty sure it’s more inland. But if the light isn’t coming from the garage, then what could it be? There was nothing else dotting the property when we’d walked along the landscaped paths before we’d detoured our lives to Germany. Nothing except the ocean in the distance and a flattened area where Damien told me he was considering building a tennis court.

I freeze.

Surely not . . .