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.—FIVE YEARS, FIVE MILLION CHILDREN. AND GROWING.
“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?”