Complete Me(50)

“Yes,” I say. I need to feel him inside me. I need to come, to explode, to release this maddening pressure.

I hear the crunch of the pearls in his hand again, then he rolls the cluster enticingly over my desperate sex. I am being bombarded with sensations, buried in heat. I am on edge, desperately aroused, and on the verge of simply crying out and begging.

What I’m not expecting is for him to stretch me wide and slide the pearls inside me.

“Damien! What the—”

He silences me with a kiss. “Quiet,” he says. “And stay still.”

And then he’s gone and I’m left naked and exposed and unsatisfied, my sex heavy from the knot of pearls tucked inside me, my body desperate for his touch, and my mind spinning with possibilities.

“Damien?”

At first I don’t hear him. Then I detect the slightest rattle from behind me. I strain against the bond that keeps my hands tight above me. I want to take off this blindfold. I want to see.

I want Damien.

It’s no use, though, and all my struggles do is shift the pearls even more. Little shock waves burst through me, but not enough to bring on the explosion that I so desperately crave. Damien—damn him—has brought me to the edge and left me there.

And this, I think, is part of the punishment he promised.

The pillar with which my ass is now on such familiar terms is the line of demarcation between the living area and the suite’s kitchen. We’ve eaten out or ordered room service most nights, so we haven’t had to rely on the kitchen for anything other than the storage of wine and ice cream, the latter being a late-night splurge about a week ago. I checked it out my first night in Germany, though, and was impressed to find it fully stocked.

I hear him moving about, but I can’t tell what he’s doing. There is the thud of a drawer. The clatter of cutlery. And then there is the even rhythm of Damien’s steps as he moves toward me. “Do you have any idea how beautiful you look?” he asks. “Your skin flush. Your nipples hard. Your lips parted as if waiting for my kiss.”

“I am waiting,” I say, and am rewarded by the briefest touch of his lips upon mine. Brief, yes, but oh so powerful. Much like the butterfly effect in chaos theory, that minuscule sensation has set off a chain reaction, sending sparks humming and dancing throughout my body. It’s deliciously sweet, but it isn’t enough.

“Turn around,” he says.

“Um . . . ?” I tug on my hands, still bound to the pillar above me.

“Cross your wrists and turn,” he says, and though I’m dubious, I manage. Now I am facing the pillar, though with the blindfold I can see nothing, and my back is to Damien. “Good girl. Now slide down a bit. That’s it,” he adds as I try to ease my hands down. I have to scoot back to manage, and I end up with my torso almost parallel to the floor. The position shifts the pearls, and I draw in a shuddering breath.

He runs his palm over the curve of my rear, and I bite my lower lip in anticipation of a firmer touch. “Beautiful,” he whispers, then slides his fingers down. I’m so wet and so ready, and his low moan of satisfaction sends another shiver through me. I swallow, expecting him to thrust his fingers inside me, but then he withdraws his hand, and I find myself whimpering—and hear Damien chuckling.

“Soon. I have something else in mind, first. Your legs,” he says, tapping the inside of my thighs gently. “A bit wider.”

I comply again, my brow furrowed. That wasn’t his hand upon my leg just then, but I’m not sure what—

“It’s interesting how many things one can find in a kitchen that entice,” Damien says, interrupting my thoughts. “This, for example, seems quite intriguing.”