Complete Me(32)

“No,” he says with a slow shake of his head. “I don’t want you to have to handle it. That’s the horror of my past. But you . . . you’re the reality of my present. You’re the proof that I survived. The prize in the cereal box,” he adds with an impudent grin, but it quickly fades. “Hopefully you won’t see them anyway.”

“Why would I?”

“Whoever sent that evidence to the court must still have copies.” It is the bland, unemotional quality of his voice that tells me how much he hates that simple truism.

“But surely that person will protect them, right? I mean, those pictures have existed for almost two decades. They only surfaced when you were in trouble.”

“In my experience,” Damien says, “unearthed things have a tendency to remain unearthed.”

I have no counter to that. “Do you have any ideas who it was?”

“No.” The answer comes a little too quick.

“There can’t be that many people who know about—” I cut off my words. Though we are talking all around his abuse, I don’t want to voice it. “Your father, maybe? He was desperate to keep you from being tried.” Jeremiah Stark wasn’t concerned about Damien’s neck, but his own well-being. The end result, however, was the same.

“It’s possible,” Damien says. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about this.

“I just want it to be over for you,” I say, more than happy to drop this topic for the time being. “You deserve happiness, Damien.”

“So do you,” he says, looking at me with such intensity that it almost seems like he is imagining each of my scars in turn.

“Then it’s lucky we found each other,” I say, because I don’t want to think about the past that I have worked so long to leave behind. I’m only interested in the future with Damien.

His hands slide over my back, then up under the flimsy outfit to caress my bare skin. Slow, heated caresses that go on and on until I just want to rip the damn nightgown off and feel his hands over every inch of me.

“Do you know what I want right now?” he murmurs.

“Probably the same thing I do,” I say, then skip back out of the circle of his arms. “But we’re still in a dressing room.”

He steps closer, his eyes darkening. “I believe I explained how much privacy a thousand euros can buy.”

“You explained very well,” I concede. “But we have a lot of celebrating to do. And you deserve more than a fast f*ck in a dressing room.”

“As it happens, it’s not a fast f*ck that I want.”

“Oh?” I ask innocently hooking my arms around his neck. I press my hips against him and move in a lazy grinding motion. “What exactly do you want?”

His hands slide slowly down over my ass, stilling me, but also pressing me up hard against him. I feel his erection straining against his jeans, hot and demanding. “You,” he says simply. “I want you naked, Nikki. Naked and hot and wet for me. I want to hear you moan. Hell, I want to hear you beg. And I promise you, baby, there will be nothing fast about it.”





Chapter Six

“There,” he says, as soon as we are back in our suite. He is pointing to the area in front of the window, and I go without hesitation. The drapes are open, and the window of our fifth floor suite overlooks the Maximilianstrasse. “That’s it,” he says. “I want to watch as the sky darkens and the city lights rise behind you. I want to see the sunset reflected on your skin and the glitter of the nightlife shining in your hair.”