Release Me (31 page)

This time, I don’t jump, but I do gasp, sucking in air while I keep my eyes closed, imagining the white of my rear turning slightly pink from the punishment he’s delivering.

“Do you like that?”

“Yes,” I confess.

“Hardly a punishment if you like it.”
Smack
. “But I like it, too.”
Smack, smack
.

I am in serious distress now, not from pain, but from such intense arousal that if Damien doesn’t fuck me right then and there, I’m probably going to lose my mind.

One more smack and I cry out for him to stop. He hesitates, probably not certain if I meant to call out our safeword, but I use the break to shift my position until I’m straddling him and my
fingers are on the fly of his tux. “Fuck me,” I demand. “Fuck me now or don’t ever think of fucking me again.”

He laughs, then pulls me close and kisses me hard. I have his cock out and the pearls shoved to one side and I don’t wait for him because I am truly, totally, completely shameless at this point. I lower myself on him, taking him in, pressing my palms to the roof of the limo so that I can take him harder and deeper. He holds my waist and I ride him, everything disappearing around me except the sensation of pleasure and the feel of Damien’s cock filling me and my sore ass rubbing against the fine material of his tux.

“Oh, God, Nikki, those pearls,” he says, and even through the haze of passion, I have to laugh. He’s getting an interesting stroking, too. And I smile as I explode, my muscles clenching, milking him, making him come, too, until I collapse forward, my arms around his shoulders, and we breathe together, spent and sated.

“Serves you right,” I whisper, and Damien, now soft inside me, laughs.

Damien pushes the button for the intercom and tells Edward to circle the block until he says otherwise. Apparently we’d arrived at the party.

Funny how I hadn’t noticed.

Once he and I have adjusted our clothes and otherwise tried to make it look like we haven’t been having sex in the back of a limo, Damien gives the order to return.

“Your lipstick is smeared,” he says, sounding amused.

“Gee. I wonder why?” I have a compact and a lipstick in my purse, and I use some of the bar napkins to do a quick removal before I reapply. I’m about to twist my hair back up when Damien takes my wrist.

“Leave it,” he says. “The way it falls on your shoulders is incredibly sexy.”

I toss the chopstick aside and fluff my hair. I peer out the window at the tony Beverly Hills hotel that is hosting the event. “So no skipping out, huh?”

“I’m afraid not.”

A valet opens the doors, but Damien helps me out. He presses his hand lightly to the small of my back and guides me inside.

The hotel is amazing. It’s nestled in the hills and so exclusive that I’ve never even heard of it. The reception desk is in its own building, and we walk across the Saltillo tiles to a set of French doors open in the back. There’s a tricked-up golf cart waiting for us. We get in and are whisked toward the event building. I spend the ride gaping in wonder at the grounds. Private bungalows are nestled away from the public areas but still close enough that guests can walk to the pool, the hiking trails, or any of the five-star restaurants that dot the premises.

The stucco event center sits beside a tennis court. It’s surrounded by birds of paradise and palm trees and suggests California in the twenties. The inside is less California traditional and more Beverly Hills money. The walls are light wood, the floor a polished stone. An inviting bar dominates one entire wall, and two others are lined with floor-to-ceiling windows that open out onto a stone patio with a massive fire pit. Gambling stations fill the space. From where we stand near the entrance, I can see roulette, craps, and blackjack.

Waiters mingle with trays of finger foods and drinks. Every corner is filled with clusters of people laughing, talking, gambling, and generally having a good time. A banner over the entrance reads: S.E.F.
—
F
IVE
Y
EARS
, F
IVE
M
ILLION
C
HILDREN
. A
ND
G
ROWING
.

“What is S.E.F.?” I ask Damien, but we’re moving again and he doesn’t hear me.

“Do you want to play?” he asks, stopping a woman in a Vegas-style outfit with a money changer.

“Sure. How does it work?”

“We buy the tokens and play for prizes. All the cash goes to the educational foundation.”

I glance up at him—I’m pretty sure I just figured out what the “S” stands for. “Stark Educational Foundation?”

“You’re a very bright woman, Ms. Fairchild.” He hands the girl two hundred dollar bills and she trades them out for tokens.

“I have a twenty in my purse.”

“And I won’t object if you spend it. It’s a very good cause. But we can start with these.” He hands me half the tokens. “Where to?”

Since I am terrible at blackjack and never learned how to play craps, I head to the roulette table.

“The lady feels lucky,” Damien says to the operator, a petite redheaded woman who looks to be barely sixteen.

“On your arm, Mr. Stark? I guess she is.”

As it turns out, it’s Damien who’s lucky. After half an hour, he’s quadrupled our money, despite the fact that I keep losing it. “I give up,” I say, taking a drink from a passing waitress. “Do you want to mingle?”

“Of course.” He takes my arm and we move away from the table and into the crowd.

“I think our dealer—is she called a dealer?”

“In the States, yes,” Damien says. “If we were in Paris, you could call her a croupier. What about her?”

“I think she has a bit of a crush on you.”

He pauses to look at me. “Does she? And why do you think that?”

“She kept looking at you. But don’t get any ideas. She’s far too young for you.”

“Actually, she’s older than she looks.”

I look up at him, surprised. “You really do know her?”

“Hell yes. She’s one of our most successful foundation recipients,”
he says. “She grew up in a shithole of a town in Nevada with a mom who used the child-support check to buy meth. Now Debbie’s a freshman at UCLA majoring in chemistry.”

“That’s wonderful. What exactly does the foundation do?”

“We identify kids with an aptitude for science who, for whatever reason, aren’t able to access the opportunities. Most come from families like Debbie’s, but we have a few who are bound by their own circumstances. One young man is a quadriplegic. He thought his dream of college was over after the accident that left him paralyzed. He’s working on his Ph.D. from MIT now.”

I feel tears prick my eyes, and I lean over to kiss his cheek. “Excuse me,” I say, then slip away from him to one of the girls in the Vegas outfits and change my twenty dollars. It’s not much, but right then it’s everything.

Damien is smiling when I return. He says nothing, but he does take my hand and squeeze it.

We do the mingling party thing for a while, but then he pauses. “I see someone I’d like to speak with. Are you okay on your own for a few minutes?”

“I think I can tough it out,” I say. He brushes a kiss over my lips and I am left alone. I don’t mind, except that I don’t really know anybody. I glance around, searching for a familiar face, and am rewarded when I actually see one.
Ollie
. I take a step in that direction, only to see that he’s being intercepted by Damien.

A little knot of fear forms in my stomach. Why on earth would Damien want to talk to Ollie? I can think of no reason other than Ollie’s repeated mentions to me of his fear that Damien isn’t good for me and his hints that Damien has some serious skeletons in his closet. But I’ve never let on that Ollie’s mentioned that kind of stuff. Have I?

Suddenly I’m very afraid that I talk in my sleep.

I consider interrupting them, but that would be too neurotic, and so I force myself to turn in the opposite direction. I do, and am thankful to see another familiar face—Blaine. He sees me at
the same time and holds out his arms. I slide into them and accept his vigorous hug.

“There she is, my favorite model.”

“You didn’t tell me you’d be here.” I tilt my head and glare. “Is Evelyn here? Is that why you looked so coy when I mentioned getting together with her?”

“Busted,” he says. He raises his hand and waves, and a moment later, Evelyn is by our side.

“I see her all the time,” Blaine says as he takes his leave of us. He winks at me. “All of her. You two talk.” He gives Evelyn a passionate kiss and, from the way she squeals, a little bit of a grope, too. Then he saunters off, Evelyn watching him go.

I start to speak, but Evelyn holds up her hand. “Hang on, Texas. I want to watch the view.” After a moment, his formal-wear-covered tush disappears in the crowd, and she turns to me with a sigh. “I’m almost sixty years old, and I’m only just now getting the best sex of my life. I swear, the universe isn’t fair.”

“Then again, maybe the universe is very good to you,” I say, and she laughs.

“Well, look who’s a glass-half-f kinda gal. You’re right, Texas. I like the way you think.”

I’ve never considered myself particularly optimistic, but maybe I am. Honestly, I really like this woman.

“I’ve been hearing nothing but good things about you, young lady,” she says. “Guess it was a rom-com, after all. Or are we talking NC-17?”

I feel my cheeks heat. “Could be,” I admit.

“Good for you. Hell, good for you both. That boy …” She shakes her head in an almost grandmotherly fashion.

“What?” I want to sit her down and demand she tell me everything she knows about Damien. Unfortunately, that kind of interrogation is generally considered uncool.

“I saw the way he kissed you just now. Gentle, but I swear he looked like he could eat you up.”

Her words are like cotton candy to me, sweet and delicious.

“He’s usually so closed off. It’s wonderful to see him opening up to you.”

“It is,” I say, even though I am completely clueless and desperately curious. Opening up to me? Hardly. I’m learning that Damien is closed even tighter than I’d thought. Considering how much I’ve exposed myself to him, I’m feeling a little bit sick to my stomach. I don’t show it though. Social Nikki is in full form tonight. “He’s overcome so much,” I add, hoping she’ll respond with something that gives me a clue about the dark things in Damien’s past.

“Now you see what I meant by inscrutable.” She sighs. “It doesn’t matter that so much has been swept under the carpet. These things haunt you. How could they not?”

“I know,” I lie.
What was swept away?

“See? That’s why I think you’re good for him. Hell, a year ago, you’d have to drag him to his own fund-raiser. Tonight he waltzed in here with you on his arm looking like he owns the world.”

“Well,” I say, “he pretty much does.”

“True. Shit, I’m not anywhere near drunk enough for tonight. Let’s go find one of those skinny bitches with the trays of drinks.”

I follow her because I want to talk more and learn more, but we’re soon sucked into the crowd and the rolling waves of conversation.

When Damien finds me ten minutes later, I’ve lost Evelyn and am discussing Humphrey Bogart movies with a guy who looks to be twelve but who swears he’s the hottest new director of horror films.

Thankfully, Damien leads me away.

“Everything okay with you and Ollie?”

He gives me a sharp look, but nods. Then he traces the pad of his thumb along my lower lip, which has fast become one of
my erogenous zones. “I think I need to taste you,” he says, tugging my hair to tilt my head up to him. We’re interrupted, though, by a tall thin man with salt-and-pepper hair.

“Charles,” Damien says coldly. I have a feeling the ice is because of more than the interruption.

“We need to talk,” the man says. He turns to me. “Charles Maynard. I’m terribly sorry to intrude.”

“Oh, no. It’s okay.” Because, really, what else can I say?

Maynard leads Damien away and as soon as he does, Ollie sidles up to me. “Hey. I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

“I’ve been here all night.” I hear the frost in my voice, but can’t seem to control it.

Ollie either doesn’t hear it or he ignores it. “I know. But I wanted you alone.”

“What is it?” I’m sure I sound exasperated, but I’m not interested in another cryptic comment about how Damien’s not right for me.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry. About what happened with Jamie, I mean. It was stupid and—”

I hold up my hand. “You guys are both adults. But you’re also my friends. And you’re engaged.” I reach out and take both his hands in mine. “I don’t want you to screw up a good thing. And I really, really don’t want to get caught in the middle.”

“I know. I know,” he says. “It was a one-time thing. Stupid, but it’s over.”

I’m not sure I believe him, but I also don’t want to talk about it. So I just nod and change the subject. “What did Damien want?”

“Oh, that.” He tugs his hands away and shoves them into his pockets. “He thanked me. For, you know. Being there for you. After that stuff with Kurt.”

I feel my cheeks warm. “It meant a lot to me.”

He looks at me and shakes his head. “Don’t you thank me, too. You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

I look around the room and find the back of Damien’s head. “He’s a good guy, Ollie,” I say. “Are you starting to see that?”

“Sure,” he says, but there’s something odd in his voice.

“What?” I demand. “What is it about Damien Stark that bugs you so much? Is it all the shit Sara Padgett’s brother is stirring up?”

He exhales loudly, and I’m certain that I’ve nailed it. “Oh, hell, Nik. Stark’s a celebrity. He’s not up on billboards, but that’s what he is, and there are always shitstorms around celebrities. Eric Padgett’s just the latest guy tossing wads to see what sticks.”

I peer at him. “And that’s it? That’s all that’s bugging you?”

Ollie straightens his tie, a sure tell that he’s hiding something. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s it. Listen, I see a client. I’m going to catch her, okay?”

I grab his wrist. “Wait. What aren’t you telling me?”