“Baby,” he whispers, as he comes up for air. His fingers quickly finish unbuttoning my shirt, and his hands ease down to my waist, leaving my skin hot and prickly 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 shirt 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 damn 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 sex 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 shifts 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.
His other hand snakes around my waist, and he pulls me tighter against him. I gasp, both in surprise from the quick motion and from the pressure of his denim-clad cock against the swell of my ass.
“Damien,” I whisper, my voice a plea. But whether I’m begging him to stop or continue, even I don’t know.
His mouth is at my ear, his voice so carnal, so full of lust, it makes my clit throb. “I’m going to fuck you, Nikki. Pleasure? We’re going to blow the roof off pleasure. I’m going to make you beg for it. I’m going to claim you. I’m going to tease you. I’m going to torment you. And you’re going to come for me like you’ve never come in your life.”
I can barely breathe I’m so turned on by the power of his words. And as he’s talked, his hand has been snaking down under the waistband of my skirt, over my panties to cup my swollen, dripping cunt.
“You’re so wet,” he whispers. “Oh, baby, you’re soaking.”
I make some sort of rough noise in my throat. Maybe a response, I’m not sure. I’m shifting my weight shamelessly, wanting to feel his fingers against my swollen clit. What was it he’d said about making me beg? I was on the verge right then.
He roughly yanks my panties to the side, and in what feels like one movement, he slides two fingers into me. “Tell me you like that.” His voice is rough, demanding.
“Yes. God, yes.” My vagina spasms around him as his fingers move in and out, finger-fucking me, teasing my clit, and sending me higher and higher until I’m close, so close, so close.
I cry out as he pinches my nipple, and the delicious pain triggers my release. I come in violent, shuddering waves, his fingers still inside me, my body trying to draw him in, to keep him there, to hold on to the moment.
“Nikki,” he whispers, gently pulling out of me. He turns me around—I am a limp rag—and his mouth closes over the tender nipple. He suckles it, pinching and pulling at the other one, the sensation of near-pain keeping my sensitive sex throbbing. Slowly, he kisses his way down my cleavage, my belly. I’m still in my skirt, and as his tongue dips into and out of my belly button, I hear the rough scrape of his palms over the raw silk of my skirt.
I am jelly. I am lost in a haze. I am floating.
But even here in my new heaven, that low rumble of fear is growing. I know what’s coming, and even though I want it—want him—I don’t think I’m strong enough yet to stand it. But maybe … maybe …
He wants you. Your snark. Your attitude.
I cling to Jamie’s words, hoping, even as Damien whispers that I’m beautiful, beautiful, so very, very beautiful. “I have to taste you,” he says. “I want to lick all of that sweetness up and then kiss you. I want you to know how fucking amazing you taste.”
His hands have reached the hem of my skirt, and now his fingers graze along my stockings as he pushes the skirt up, up until he’s reached the band of my thigh-high stocking, and I’m no longer breathing and holding so tight to his shoulders that I fear I may break a bone.
And then his hands are on my flesh, rising above the tops of the stockings, and he’s stroking the soft inner thigh, and I know the hard, swollen ugliness he’ll feel as his hands climb higher and higher. I tense, fighting shame and fear and pain and memories. They beat their way in, through the haze of lust and desire. Through the sweet moment of being in Damien’s arms.