Complete Me(63)

I suck in air and try again. “Surely they won’t. The evidence is sealed, right? What did Maynard say?” I’m babbling, but I know nothing about the law, and even less than that about the law in Germany. Does the press have a right to see the evidence? Will the court or the prosecution turn the photos over to save its own reputation?

“Vogel is on it, and Charles is staying in Munich to work with him. He’s optimistic, but it’s too early for me to have any real sense of the outcome.”

“I see.” I want to tell him that it will be okay, but I can’t quite bring the lie to my lips. Because if those photos are released, it will rip him apart. And, yes, Damien is strong, and I know that he will heal. But like the cuts on my thighs, that wound will never go away. Part of him will have died, and nothing will be the same again.

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” he says as he brushes the pad of his thumb across my lips.

I open my mouth, drawing him in, then close my eyes and savor the taste of him. “Aren’t you the one who told me that pain and passion go hand in hand?” I murmur when I finally release him.

I watch as his eyes darken, then gasp as he pushes me back onto the narrow bed. Desire—hot and heavy—slams through me with such force and power it makes me dizzy. I need him—I need his hands upon my breasts and his body against mine. I need his tongue in my mouth and his cock deep inside me.

I need to feel the connection between us. I need to revel in it, to bathe in it.

I need to feel what I already know—that Damien is mine, and that I am and always will be his.

His hands are holding fast to my wrists, keeping my arms stretched above my head. He holds me tight, and I wince from the pain of my skin twisting in his grip, then cry out again when he violently kneads my breasts through my thin cotton shirt. “Do you like that?” he asks.

“Yes, oh, God, yes.”

He lowers his mouth to my breast, suckling through my shirt before shoving it up, then tugging my breast free from my bra. He is straddling me at the hips, and I am breathing hard, unable to move as his hands hold me down and his mouth closes over my now bare breast. He draws the nipple in between his lips, sucking so intensely that I arch up, then cry out when he bites down, his teeth drawing tighter than the little silver rings from the night before.

He pulls away, tugging the nipple with him, and I arch up, wanting more—wanting that sensual bite, that seductive sting.

“Tell me what you need,” he demands.

“You,” I say. “I need you.”

“Goddammit, Nikki,” he growls, “that’s not what I mean. Tell me what you need.”

And that’s when I realize—of course he saw the flute. Of course he knew what I was thinking. Damien knows; hell, he always knows.

“I need you,” I repeat hoarsely. “That’s all I need. I wasn’t going to do it, I swear. I thought about it, but I wasn’t going to do it.”

“Oh, baby.” His mouth closes over mine, and he is kissing me, wild and hungry and with so much fervency I feel as though we will both get lost in it. His hands move over my body and I writhe under his touch, every sense firing. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I brought you there, and I’m so f*cking sorry.”

“No,” I say. “It’s me. Only me. And you’re what keeps me strong. Oh, God, Damien, please,” I add, because I cannot have his hands on me and have this conversation at the same time. “Now, please, I need you now.”

“Nikki.” My name is an anthem as his fingers thrust aside the negligible material of my thong and his fingers sink deep inside my already dripping cunt. “Oh, baby.”