Claim Me: A Novel (3 page)

Damien eyes me, and I see the playful light in his eyes.

“What?” I demand, amused but wary.

He shrugs, then glances again at the painting. “It will be a miracle if I get any work done in this room.” He nods toward the stone wall above the fireplace where the painting is to hang. “And I damn sure shouldn’t entertain in here.”

“Oh?” He has a cocktail party scheduled for this very room in only two days.

Damien chuckles. “I find that it’s a social faux pas to host a party with a permanent hard-on.”

“Well, then, perhaps you should have planned to hang the painting in the bedroom.”

“I don’t need the image in my bedroom. Not when I have the real thing.”

“And you do,” I say, my tone teasing. “Bought and paid for. At least until midnight when I turn into a pumpkin.”

His eyes darken, all playfulness vanishing. “Midnight,” he repeats, and I wonder at the harshness I hear in his voice. After all, it’s not as if I will truly turn into a pumpkin when our game is over. And I certainly won’t be going away—to be honest, I don’t ever want to go away. All that will change is that there will be no more rules—no more “sir,” no more orders, no more safe-words. There will be panties and bras and jeans if I want them. And, yes, there will be a million dollars.

But above all else, there will still be Damien.

“Follow me,” he says.

Again, I glance at my leg, then give my bound hands a little shake. “Untie me.”

He stands for a moment, his eyes on mine, and I can see that we are still playing games. My pulse pounds in my throat, and my nipples are erect. My hands, tied behind me, pull my shoulders back and lift my breasts. They feel full, needful, and I graze my teeth over my lower lip as I silently wait for Damien’s touch.

A game, yes. But I like it. In this game, there are no losers.

Slowly, he lets his gaze drift down over my body. My breath is shallow, and small beads of sweat form at the nape of my neck. I can feel the moisture between my thighs, the quivering need, and it takes all of my effort to stand silent and still and not beg for him to please, please fuck me. The bed is just a few yards away, the prop Damien brought in for the portrait.
There
, I want to scream.
Just take me there
.

But I don’t. Because I know this man. And most of all, I know that everything with Damien is worth the wait.

Finally, he bends down and untwines the cord from around my leg, but when he gets to my wrists, he stops, leaving them bound together behind my back, the red silk trailing from them like a tail.

“Damien,” I say, trying to sound stern, but there’s no keeping
the amusement—and the excitement—from my voice. “I thought you were going to free me.”

“Bought and paid for, remember?”

“Oh.” My word is little more than breath.

“Come,” he says, and the dual meaning isn’t lost on me, especially not when he slides the cord from back to front between my legs, then tugs on the end as if it’s a leash. A very erotic, very tantalizing leash. The smooth silk teases my yearning sex, the friction from the cord’s braiding making my legs so weak that I’m not sure I’ll make it to wherever he’s leading.

His tug is gentle, but enticing, and by the time we reach the spalike bathroom, I am weak with desire. Fire courses through my body, and I look with longing at the shower’s eight strategically placed jets. The thought of Damien standing behind me, his hands on my breasts, his lips brushing my neck, is almost more than I can bear, and I actually whimper.

Beside me, Damien chuckles. “Later,” he whispers. “Right now, I have something else in mind.”

My mind whirs through the possibilities. We have already passed the bed. He has resolutely dismissed my thirst for the shower. And as far as I can tell, Damien is paying no heed to the deep Jacuzzi-style tub.

I haven’t a single clue what he has in mind—but I don’t care. This night is no longer about the destination, but the journey. And considering the touch of Damien’s hand upon my shoulder and the tantalizing pressure of the cord against my sex, this voyage is turning out to be very pleasant indeed.

The closet into which he leads me is at least the size of the living room of the condo I share with Jamie in Studio City. This is not the first time I’ve been in here, but I still feel as though I need a map.

It would take me years to wear all the clothes that Damien has bought for me. And despite the fact that the left side of the
closet is full to overflowing, I’m ninety-nine percent sure that at least a dozen new outfits have been worked into the mix since the last time I changed clothes in here.

“I don’t remember seeing that one before,” I say, nodding toward a silver dress that sparkles in the dim lighting and looks to be small enough and tight enough to leave nothing to the imagination.

“Don’t you?” His smile is slow and easy, and it matches the gaze that skims over me. “I can assure you that won’t be a problem after you put it on. No one will be able to forget it.”

“Least of all you?” I tease.

His eyes darken, and he steps closer, the movement adding slack to the cord and making it drop away from my body. My disappointment at the loss of contact is short lived, however. Damien is right there, only inches from me, and the air between us seems to hum. Every tiny hair on my body stands up, as if I’m standing in a lightning storm with danger crackling all around me. I gasp when his thumb gently strokes the line of my jaw. My lips part. I want to feel his thumb on my lips, in my mouth. I want to taste Damien. I want to consume him as the fire from his proximity is consuming me.

“There is nothing about you that I could ever forget,” he says. “You are burned into my memory. Your hair glittering in candlelight. Your skin, dewy and soft, as you step out of the shower. The way you move beneath me when we make love. And the way you look at me, as if there is nothing you could see inside me that would make you want to turn away.”

“There’s not,” I say softly.

Damien says nothing, but keeps his eyes fixed on me. He eases closer, so that my nipples barely brush the soft cotton of his T-shirt. The shock from the contact is electric, and I swallow a gasp. I am tingling all over, and as he gently strokes his fingertips down my bare arm, all I can think is that I want to press against
him. I want Damien inside me. Rough, gentle, I don’t care. I just need him, right then, right there.

“How?” I say, barely able to force the question past the lump in my throat.

“How what?”

“How can you make love to me with only the whisper of a touch?”

“I’m a very resourceful man. I thought you knew.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and I see the hint of a sparkle in his eyes. “Perhaps I should offer you a more imaginative demonstration?”

“Imaginative?” I repeat. My mouth is dry.

“I’m going to make you come, darling Nikki. Without the touch of my hands, without the caress of my body. But I’ll be watching. I’ll see the way your lips part, the way your skin flushes. I’ll watch as you try to control yourself. And I’ll tell you a secret, Nikki. I’m going to be fighting for control, too.”

I realize that I have taken a step back as he has spoken, and I’m now leaning against the bureau that divides the his and hers hemispheres of this massive closet. It’s a good thing, because without that stalwart support, I doubt my trembling legs could keep me upright.

“What are you going to do?” I don’t understand why he says that I’m going to try to control myself. I’ve learned many things during my time with this man, and one thing I know is that with Damien, I am free to go utterly wild. Why then, would I want to rein that in? Why would he expect me to?

He doesn’t answer my question, and I find myself biting my lower lip and examining him through narrowed eyes as I try to discern some clue as to his intentions. He steps away from me, and though I am sure that it is only my imagination, the air seems to chill with the increasing distance. The cord that had dropped to the ground now rises. Damien pauses about a foot
away from me, but he continues to tug at the cord, taking up the slack so that it lifts between my legs. He moves slowly, but soon I can feel it again. I am so aroused that I gasp from the contact, my body trembling in what is almost, but not quite, an orgasm.

My eyes find Damien’s, and I see his victorious grin. “Don’t worry, Ms. Fairchild,” he says. “I promise there’s more where that came from.”

He steps toward me, still taking up the slack so that the cord never breaks contact with my body. Each movement makes the smooth braid of silk shift slightly, and I close my eyes, concentrating on not biting my lip and on not grinding my hips. I don’t know what kind of game Damien is playing, but I do know that I want it to last.

His fingers brush my neck and my eyes fly open. I tilt my head to look up at him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He is focused on his task.

He is focused on tying the cord around my neck.

I swallow, my emotions a storm inside me. There’s excitement, yes, but it’s mingled with fear. Of what, I’m not sure. I’m not afraid of Damien. I could never be afraid of Damien. But dear God, why is he leashing me? And how tight will he make that cord?

“Damien,” I say, surprised that my words sound normal. “What are you doing?”

“What I want,” he replies, and though the words do not answer my question, a swell of relief washes over me, followed by delicious anticipation.

This is how it began for us, with those three simple words. And so help me, I don’t ever want it to end.

Damien ties off the end of the cord so that it essentially forms a choker with a very long tail. That tail extends down between my breasts, over my sex, and then back up to where my hands are still bound behind me by the other end of that very same cord. I shift a little. I am antsy and turned on and, yes, a little bit uncomfortable.

Slowly, he looks me up and down. “I’m tempted to commission another painting, Ms. Fairchild. I think I’d like to have you like this all the time.”

I smirk. “Are we negotiating, Mr. Stark? I don’t come cheap, but for someone of your discriminating taste, I’m quite certain that we could come to terms.”

He laughs, and I have to bite my lip not to join in. “There is very little that I’d like more than to negotiate with you. But I’m afraid we’re running out of time.”

“Time?”

“Places to go,” he says. “People to see.”

Oh
. Suddenly his comment that I will be fighting to keep control makes a lot more sense.

I glance down at my very bare, very bound body. “I don’t think I’m dressed for company.”

“It’s just as well that the traditional morals of our society don’t allow me to take you out like this. I’m a very selfish man, and I have no interest in sharing you with the world.”

“Believe me,” I say, with a wry twist to my mouth, “I have no interest in being shared.” My mind turns to the portrait, in which I am bound so similarly to how I am now. A larger-than-life painting that will hang in a room meant for entertaining. In that way, I suppose Damien has already shared me, and I have agreed to be shared. But I am anonymous in the painting. That had been a key term of our deal.

“I’m exceptionally glad to hear that, Ms. Fairchild. Especially since, as you reminded me, you are my exclusive property until midnight. Completely mine to do with as I wish. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes.”

“To touch, to tease, to tempt.”

My body tightens at his words, but I manage to nod.

“To punish and to praise.”

“Damien—” My voice is raw, and he silences me with a gentle finger to my lips. Then slowly circles me.

“To clothe, to feed. Mine, Nikki,” he says, his breath stroking the back of my neck as intimately as a hand upon my sex. “Mine to protect, mine to cherish.” He has finished the circle and is facing me now. “Mine to rule. Tell me, Nikki. Tell me what I want to hear.”

“I’m yours,” I whisper. I am craving his touch, my body so hyperaware that I feel drugged, done in by the sweet narcotic that is Damien.

“Good girl.” His words are low, barely audible. Slowly, he moves behind me again. I turn my head, trying to see him, but I don’t know what he’s doing until I feel him loosening the knots that bind my wrists.

“I’m surprised,” I say. “After what you said, I didn’t think you’d free me.”

“Who says I am?” His voice is low and sensual. It surrounds and strokes me. “I’m taking care of you, Nikki. Wholly and completely.”

I close my eyes in sweet anticipation. Behind me, he finishes unraveling the knots. I sigh and rub my wrists, which have gone a little numb from being in one position for so long. I try to guess what Damien has planned, but it’s no use. I am clueless, and I watch helplessly as he moves across the room to the section of the closet that boasts a wider selection of designer tops than the Neiman Marcus back home in Dallas. He chooses a sleeveless black sweater with a cowl neck. Then he returns to my side.

“I’m going to dress you now,” he says. “Arms up.”

I obey. The knit is soft yet snug, and I can’t deny that it fits perfectly. I lift my hand to my neck, enjoying the freedom of movement, and am happy to realize that the high, loose neck covers the cord that still hangs between my breasts under the shirt.

He holds out a tiny leather miniskirt next, and I dutifully step into it, careful not to trip over the cord that still hangs in front of me, and that Damien makes sure remains hidden inside the garment.

“Damien,” I say, and though I try to sound harsh, there is no hiding the excitement that laces those three simple syllables.

“Hush,” he replies. He moves behind me, presumably to zip up the skirt. Instead, he reaches between my legs for the dangling cord and tugs it toward him. Once again, I tingle from the enticing feel of the silk against my oh-so-sensitive flesh. He pulls it up, threading it under the skirt so that a tiny bit peeks out from the waistband. Then he zips me up tight.

“I don’t think that adds much to the outfit,” I say, looking over my shoulder at the flash of red that resembles an exotic zipper pull.

“I beg to differ,” he retorts, and underscores his words with a slow, yet firm tug on the cord. I cry out in pleasure and surprise, the simultaneous stroking of my sex and ass almost more than I can handle.