I can only moan. Words are impossible, the power of speech obliterated by the violence of the emotions raging through me.
He leans over and punches the intercom button, then asks the driver how close we are to the hotel. We’re just a few blocks away, and I don’t know whether to be relieved or frustrated when Damien tells the driver to circle the block until he says otherwise.
Then he clicks off, smiles at me, and pours himself a shot of whiskey over ice. His eyes never leave my face as he tilts the glass back and takes a long, deep swallow before moving back to my side, the glass still in his hand.
“Open,” he says.
I open my mouth, and he takes out a cube of ice, holding it between two fingers and his thumb. He brushes it gently over my lips, and I open wider, reaching out with my tongue to taste the smooth liquor. It’s gone too soon, though. Because he eases down until he is holding the ice cube over my belly, and three fat drops fall from the cube to land upon my overheated flesh. The sensation is electrifying, and I arch up, gasping. Wanting. The droplets swirl on my skin with the motion, leaving a cool trail down to my pubic bone. My skin quivers, my need like a palpable thing.
Damien meets my eyes, then slowly—too damn slowly—trails the cube between my thigh and the sensitive skin of my sex. My body bucks, and I’m not certain if I’m trying to escape because it is too much to bear or if I am desperate for more. All I know is that I cannot escape. I am bound, tied down, and right now, Damien can do with me whatever he wants.
“Oh, God. Damien, what are you doing?”
“Unless I’m doing it wrong, I’m getting you very, very worked up. And, my dear,” he adds, as he tosses the tiny shred of ice that remains back into the glass, “I think I’ve succeeded.”
He eases back over to his seat and presses the intercom button. “Once more around the block,” he says. “Then you can take us to the hotel.”
It is then that I am certain that, at least for now, he is not taking this any further. Well, damn.
“Are you punishing me?” I ask. “Because right now, I’m really not above begging.”
He chuckles. “Punishing you? I was simply following your lead.”
“My lead?” I haven’t got a clue what he’s talking about.
His eyes twinkle with amusement. “You said you’d never gone down on me in a moving limo in Munich. I assumed you’d never been tied down half-naked in a limo. In Munich or elsewhere. Or was I mistaken?”
“Not mistaken,” I say. “And I’ve never been fucked in a limo in Munich, either,” I add, almost petulantly. “But you seem to have overlooked that.”
“Complaining, Ms. Fairchild?”
“Hell yes, Mr. Stark.”
“You know, I’m tempted to keep you like this forever.” His gaze trails slowly over every inch of me. The inspection is slow, lingering upon my breasts, then my bare abdomen, and then my sex. I shudder as the muscles of my vagina clench with need of him. “We could tour Europe by car, you splayed out in the back of a limo, open to my pleasure.”
“Or we could go back to the hotel this very second, and you could have your wicked way with me.” I glance up at him and smile. “Your call, Mr. Stark,” I say, shaking my bound hands. “But at the very least, you have to untie me.”
We move through the lobby of the hotel with blinders on, heading straight for the elevator, which seems to open magically upon our arrival, as if this hotel understands just how desperately we need to get upstairs.
We have the car to ourselves, and I lean against Damien, relishing in the way his arms go automatically around me. Right then, it feels as though nothing can go wrong in our world.
Then we’re on our floor and the doors open and we step out. Immediately, I feel my phone vibrate, and the corresponding ping signals an incoming text. I frown, mentally flipping a coin between Ollie and Jamie. I have no intention of texting with either of them, but my phone is set to repeat buzz incoming texts three times so that I don’t miss any, which means that at the very least I have to open the messaging app.
I do—and then freeze in the hallway when I see the text. It’s not from anyone I know, and the phone number is unfamiliar.
The message, however, is something I’ve seen before: Bitch. Slut. Whore.
I recall the anonymous letter that arrived for me care of Stark International and tremble as a finger of foreboding creeps up my spine. I had thought that letter had been prompted by the fact that I’d accepted money to pose nude. Now I wonder if it’s about something else.
“Nikki?” Damien has turned to face me, his forehead creased with worry. “What is it?”
I don’t want to show him the text—I don’t want the magical bubble of this evening to pop. But I know that it already has. More, I know that Damien needs to know.
Wordlessly, I hand the phone to Damien, my entire body tightening as I wait for the explosion I see building in his eyes.
“Is this the first time you’ve received a text like this?” His voice is steady and firm and cold as hell.
“Yes,” I say flatly. Once again I feel the weight of the real world pressing in around us. The thin glass of our protective bubble is starting to crack. I don’t know what will happen when the pressure is too much and those tiny fissures finally explode under the weight of the world. I fear, though, that I’m going to find out.
And when the explosion comes, I hope I can resist the urge to pick up one of the shards and grind it into my own smooth flesh.