Part 12 (2/2)
Something in his voice makes me feel exposed. He has me on edge again, and I look away, not liking the way he seems to be s.h.i.+ning a spotlight on me.
It takes me a moment to gather myself, and when I do, I tilt my head just enough to look up at him. ”We're not taking this further, Mr. Stark. Absolutely not.”
”I don't accept that.” His voice is a low growl that rumbles through me, weakening my resolve.
I don't say a word. I can't seem to form one.
”I liked it,” he continues, as he traces his fingertips down the sleeve of my jacket. ”You liked it. I'm not seeing a sound basis for cessation, Ms. Fairchild.”
I force myself to make a coherent sound. ”I like cheesecake, but I only have it rarely. And I know it's bad for me.”
”Sometimes bad is good.”
”Bulls.h.i.+t. That's what people say to alleviate their own guilt or justify their own weakness. Bad is bad. A is A.”
”I didn't realize we were discussing philosophy. Shall I counter with the teachings of Aristippus? He held that pleasure is the highest good.” His fingertip traces my collarbone. ”And I want to be very, very good with you.”
I s.h.i.+ver from his touch, allowing myself one brief moment to savor the pleasure of basking in the glow of Damien Stark. Then I turn away, so that I'm speaking to the air, not to the man. ”This isn't going anywhere.” My voice is a whisper. My voice is the sound of regret. ”It can't.”
”Why not?” I hear the gentleness in his voice and wonder how much of myself I've inadvertently revealed.
I don't say a word.
He exhales, and I can feel the frustration rolling off him in waves. ”Ultimately, your free will is your own, Ms. Fairchild. As is mine.”
”Yours?”
”I'm free to try to convince you otherwise.”
The s.p.a.ce between us is so thick that it's a wonder I can breathe the air. ”You won't convince me,” I say, but not as forcefully as I want. ”I have a job with someone you're going to invest with. I've already gone further than I should.” I suck in a fortifying breath. ”But it has to stop now. I'm not risking my professional reputation any more than I already have.”
”Why not work for me?”
The retort is so quick that I can't help but wonder if he's already considered the possibility. ”Not happening,” I say.
”Give me one reason why not.”
”Um, gee, let me see. Maybe because I don't want to be the poster child for s.e.xual hara.s.sment?”
The change in his face is instant and disturbing, and I am left with no doubt that I've angered him. My immediate instinct is to slip off the stool and scoot away, but I remain rooted to the spot. No way am I giving him the satisfaction of backing down.
”Did you feel hara.s.sed last night?”
”No,” I admit. As much as I'd like to take the easy way out, I can't lie to him.
I see the relief wash over his face, banis.h.i.+ng the anger. Or was it fear? I'm not sure, and it doesn't matter. Right now, I see only desire.
”I thought about you last night,” he says. ”Giselle and Bruce will probably never have me out for drinks again. I was terrible company.”
”I'm so sorry to have ruined your evening.”
”Hardly,” he said. ”And the ride home-I think that was the first time in my life I wanted a drive to be longer. Me, alone in the back of the limo, surrounded by the scent of you.”
He doesn't mention the panties. I wonder if he's found them. And if he hasn't ...
Oh, dear. Who else does he let use that limo?
I feel my cheeks warm, and from the way his eyes crinkle with amus.e.m.e.nt, I know that he's noticed.
”I imagined undressing you,” he says, reaching for the top b.u.t.ton on my blouse. He pops it open effortlessly. ”I pictured you naked.” Pop, another b.u.t.ton. ”You're beautiful,” he whispers.
With the side of his thumb, he gently strokes the swell of my breast and the lace of my white satin bra.
My breath catches in my throat. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but no words come out.
His hands find the bra's front clasp, and as efficiently as he unb.u.t.toned my blouse, he's released me from my bra, which hangs limp from my shoulders. His groan is low and needful and desperately arousing. I want nothing more than to close my eyes and surrender, but I can't, I can't- ”Damien, please.”
He lifts his eyes to mine. He's breathing hard, and there's longing in the hard angles of his face. ”Free will, Nikki. Tell me to stop, and I will. But tell me fast, because I'm going to kiss that d.a.m.nable mouth of yours, and G.o.ddammit, Nikki, I'm doing it to keep you quiet.”
Faster than I can react, his mouth covers mine. Claiming me, marking me. Making me his. My mind goes blank, all thoughts dissolving, replaced only by pleasure and the need to be claimed by this man. To open my mouth and take and be taken.
Blindly, I grope for him, my fingers clutching at his hair, pulling him closer. It's as if all my protestations have been nothing but a sham, and now that they've been beaten aside, the pressure of emotion-of need-that's been building inside me has to burst out, wild and hot and desperate and demanding. The kiss lasts either seconds or an eternity, I'm not sure. But when he releases me, I suck in air, craving oxygen because I am light-headed and weak.
This is my chance, and I know it. Tell him to stop now, and he will. Tell him to leave me alone, and he'll walk out of my life.
I throw myself at him. Wanton. Willful. I'm risking everything, but right then I don't care. All I can feel is the fire.
Our mouths clash as I draw him in, and he's right there, tasting me, his low moan of pleasure making all my risks worthwhile.
He breaks our kiss roughly, then closes his mouth on my neck. I gasp and arch back, and as I do, his hands slide into my s.h.i.+rt, cupping my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, and then his mouth is there, suckling, drawing me in until my nipple is a tight pearl against his teeth. I realize he's tugged me closer, so that my a.s.s is barely on the bar stool and his thigh is wedged between my legs. I'm bucking against him because the pleasure has shot like a hot spark from my breast to my s.e.x.
”Baby,” he whispers, as he comes up for air. His fingers quickly finish unb.u.t.toning my s.h.i.+rt, and his hands ease down to my waist, leaving my skin hot and p.r.i.c.kly in his wake. He slides me off the stool so that I am standing in front of him. I'm damp from the heat of my desire, and my body aches all over, craving his touch.
”So soft,” he says, as he untucks my s.h.i.+rt and brushes his fingers lightly over my skin. His fingers skim around the waistband of my skirt, then slowly unzips it. It falls a bit, hanging loose around my hips. ”So d.a.m.n beautiful.”
The awe in his voice unnerves me, and cold fingers of trepidation creep in beneath the fog of pleasure.
I tremble, not sure if it's from my fears or from his touch. ”Reach back,” he orders. ”Hold on to the stool.”
”Damien ...” I hear the protest in my trailing voice, but my actions don't match my words. I do as he says, my hands clutched tight, my back arched, my head tilted back with pleasure.
He opens my blouse fully, so that the thin material hangs limply on either side of me, and I feel the gentle flutter of the edges against my bare flesh. He brushes his mouth over my nipples, and I groan, wanting to feel him suckle me, but he's only teasing, and with each soft, feathertouch of a kiss upon my nipple, I feel my s.e.x tighten and throb. I want him-I want him desperately. And yet I don't. And all I can do is hold tight to the stool and try to ride out the storm, afraid all the while that I will shatter and break.
”Did you know you glow?” he asks. He is trailing kisses down my cleavage, to my belly, to the waistline of my skirt. I tense, afraid he's going to slide the skirt the rest of the way down over my hips and leave me exposed in the tiny bikini panties I put on that morning.
He doesn't, though, and I glory in the brief reprieve. Instead, he pulls me roughly to him, then s.h.i.+fts our positions, so that he is the one leaning against the bar, and I am in front of him. ”Turn around,” he says roughly, but doesn't wait for me to comply. Instead he turns me, and I feel his mouth tug at my earlobe even as one of his hands closes over my naked breast.
<script>