Part 36 (2/2)

So he's talking to Charles Maynard. I realize I'm being nosy, but I pay more attention, trying to discern meaning from a one-sided conversation. It isn't easy.

”Right, right. Did your PI locate the man I'm interested in? Oh, really? Well, that's a bit of good news. I'll deal with it first thing tomorrow.”

I have no idea what he's talking about. I s.h.i.+ft the conversation to the back of my mind and only half listen. Especially since the call seems to go on forever.

”What about London? She's settled again? No, it can't be helped. I'll fly over next week. What? Well, she's not leaving me much choice.”

He sighs and paces. ”And the San Diego problem? I want someone on that. What? Are you f.u.c.king kidding me? s.h.i.+t, how did they dig that up?”

I pick up Damien's discarded clothes, intending to hang them up for him. But I'm overcome with a devilish little urge, and I give in to it, then tug the slacks over my hips and slip my arms into Damien's sleeves. There's something wonderfully sensual about being clad in Damien's clothes, even if I am technically breaking the rules with the pants.

I'm so preoccupied with the s.h.i.+rt's b.u.t.tons that I don't even realize the call has ended. More than that, I don't notice Damien's raw temper until I hear the sharp smash of plastic and gla.s.s colliding with the stonework above the fireplace.

He's thrown his cell phone.

”Damien?” I hurry to him. ”Are you okay?”

He looks me up and down, but I'm not sure he's seeing the clothes. Not sure he's hearing anything but the conversation that he must be replaying over and over again in his mind.

”Damien?”

”No,” he snaps. ”I'm not okay. Are you-oh, G.o.d, Nikki.”

”Me? I'm fine. I'm-” He shuts me off with a kiss, hard and brutal. Our teeth clack together, and he twists his fingers in my hair to hold my head in place while he a.s.saults my mouth with such force I'm certain my lips will bruise.

He moves us backward, then throws me down on the bed, his hands going to the waistband of the pants. They are loose on me, and he tugs them down, but not off, so they remain on my calves and ankles, like strange ropes binding my legs in place.

He scoots me back and roughly spreads my knees, and I'm wet, so d.a.m.n wet as he moves to straddle me. Before I know it, he thrusts his c.o.c.k deep inside me. He pumps, hard and fast and brutal. I watch his face. The face of a man fighting a battle. The face of a man who will keep fighting until he wins.

I reach for him, but some instinct has me dropping my hands. Damien needs this-he needs to take me. To truly take me.

And in so many ways, I need to be taken.

He releases a long, slow groan, and I feel it as his o.r.g.a.s.m shudders through him. He collapses on me, but only for a moment. Then he pulls himself up and looks at me, and I see pain sharpen his eyes.

”s.h.i.+t.” His curse is little more than a whisper. He pulls out of me, then starts to leave the room. He pauses by the fireplace and turns back to me, his mouth open as if to speak, his eyes full of regret. I wait for the words, but they don't come.

After a moment, he walks away.

I kick the pants off so that I can move properly, grab the sheet and curl up in it, trying to decide what to do. I have no idea what that was about, but it's clear enough that it originated with that phone call. And even though he seems to want to be alone now, I don't think I'm going with that plan. Tonight, he's damaged. And if I can't fix him, I want to at least hold him.

I strip off the rest of his clothes and pull on my red silk robe, which is where it always is before a session, draped across a stool by Blaine's easel.

Barefoot, I go in search of Damien.

The task is harder than it sounds. The house is the size of a small country, and in the unfinished areas, sounds echo strangely, and it's difficult to tell where to go.

I hear a strange, rhythmic thump, and finally manage to follow it down to the first floor. I find Damien in a huge, unfinished room. It has a treadmill, a basic floor mat, and a punching bag.

It's the sound of his fists pummeling the bag that has led me here.

”Hey,” I say. ”You okay?”

He throws one last punch and then turns to look at me. He's put on a pair of briefs, but he didn't bother with boxing gloves. His knuckles are raw and bleeding.

”Oh, baby,” I say. I look around and see a towel and a water bottle in a plastic crate, along with the gloves he should be wearing. I dampen the cloth and then return to him. ”This might sting a little.”

”Dammit, Nikki.” He pulls his hand away from me and cups my face. The dark wildness that was in his eyes earlier has vanished. Whatever demon he was battling, I think it's been laid to rest. Or at least admitted to ICU. ”Are you okay?”

”Of course.” I take his hand back and gently tend to his battered knuckles. ”You're the one I'm worried about.”

”I hurt you.” There's such pain in his voice that I think my heart's going to break.

”No,” I say. ”You didn't. You needed me. I want you to need me.” I smile up at him, trying to be a bit lighthearted. ”And I think we've established I can handle a little pain.”

From his expression, it's clear he doesn't appreciate my levity.

”Not like that,” he says.

”Why not?”

”Dammit, Nikki, I told you I'd never hurt you.”

I shrug, tilting my head sideways to look at him. ”You spanked me. h.e.l.l, you whipped me.”

”That turned you on. It was a game. And I did it because I was hot for you and because you got off on it, too.”

I'm biting my lip. What he says is absolutely true.

”But what I did just now-” He turns away from me and jabs out two quick punches, pummeling the air. ”G.o.ddammit. I was p.i.s.sed off about something and I f.u.c.ked you in anger, and I don't do that.”

I go to his side, determined to get through to him. ”Damien, I'm okay. I don't know what all of that was about, but I do know that you were upset. You came to me. I wanted you to come to me.”

”I used you.”

”Yes.” I want to scream the word. ”And I don't care. G.o.d, Damien, you're not some stranger off the street. You're the man I-” But I can't go there. ”You're the man who's heard all of my secrets. Who's been in my bed and in my head. That's what makes it different. Don't you see that? You can have me however you need me. You can tell me your secrets and it won't change a thing.”

He looks at me. ”Won't it? I wonder.”

His voice is far away, but seems to hold a challenge. I stand there, unsure of what to say.

”I'm going to call Edward to take you home,” he finally says.

I find my voice. ”No.”

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