Unwrap Me, Page 2

  "I haven't seen you in eight days," I say, then pull my foot free. "I think you can guess what I want."

  I slide out of the other slipper, then climb on the couch to straddle him, grinding my cunt against him and probably ruining a perfectly good suit because I'm so damn wet.

  I take the chain and tug on it, adding pressure to my nipples, and then I grin and put it in Damien's mouth. I'm in control now, and I'm enjoying it, but I know my husband well enough to know that this won't last. More, I don't want it to. I lean back so that the pressure on the chain from his mouth to my nipples makes them tight and hot.

  I keep grinding as I'm leaning back, my body at an angle because of the corset. Then I gasp when he slides his hands around to cup my ass before slipping one finger inside my anus. "I want that," I whisper in answer to his question, as his finger dips even deeper into me.

  I bite my lip as my entire body trembles, then I reach for his fly and unzip his slacks to free his cock. "And this," I say as I rise up, then position his cock so that I can impale myself on him, hard and fast just the way I want. And I close my eyes and lose myself in pleasure as I slam myself down so that he fills me completely, then I cry out when his cock pounds against my cervix even as his finger slides deeper into my ass.

  "You've been gone for eight days," I say again, forcing the words out between groans, as I ride him. As I fuck him and he fucks me and I finger my clit and lean back so that my nipples are tight and hot and I'm so incredibly turned on.

  "Eight days," I repeat. "I want everything. I want your mouth. I want your cock. I want you to punish me. I want you to fuck me. I want you, Damien. I want you every way possible. Now, Damien. Please, please, now."

  As if my last word is an incantation, he explodes inside me, and I hold one hand tight around the back of his neck and feel the tremors that run through his entire body. I'm so close, too, and I can tell that he realizes that, but he releases his grip on my ass cheek, slides his finger free, and then tugs my hand away from my clit. "Not for you," he murmurs, letting the chain fall from his mouth. "Not yet."

  I make a small noise of protest, but he only looks smug. "Punishment," he says, and I can't help it--I lick my lips in anticipation even as my vagina contracts around his still hard cock in anticipation of everything yet to come.

  "Off," he demands, moving me even as I shift my weight to comply. He stands, too, then roughly pushes me forward so that my feet are on the ground and the front of my shins are brushing the couch. He bends me forward at the waist, then tells me to hold on to the back of the sofa.

  I do, then feel the first smack of his palm against the circle of my ass that's exposed by the cutaway panties. "Tell me you like that," he says after another smack, followed by the soft rubbing of his palm on my tender skin.

  "You know I do. Harder, Damien. Please."

  He knows I sometimes need the pain. But what I crave tonight isn't because of need. This is desire. I want to feel the heat between us. I want him to take me. To claim and use me. I want it rough and wild, because I've missed this man, and I need to experience everything right now. I need to explode. I need to feel every single thing that he can make me feel. I'm greedy--so damn greedy. I want it right now, I want it all.

  Damien understands that, because Damien understands me, and this time when he spanks me with one hand, he thrusts two fingers inside me with the other. He doesn't soothe between spanks, and I close my eyes as he finger-fucks me, the rhythmic thrusts alternating with the smack of his palm against my ass. "You're so damn sexy," he says. "Your skin is so pink. So sensitive. Tell me, Nikki. Tell me what you want."

  "You." The word is a plea. "All of you."

  I hear him fumbling for something, and for a second I think he's undressing. Then I realize that he was just getting something out of his pocket. I turn my head, and see that it's a small pocketknife. For a moment I'm confused. Then he reaches up, and in one quick motion slices through the laces at the back of my corset. It falls to the couch, leaving me fully naked except for the panties and nipple jewelry.

  My body thrums from the sudden release of pressure, and even as that warmth is washing over me, he slides his hand from my cunt to my ass, teasing me. Lubing me. And when I feel the head of his cock there, I take slow breaths, trying to relax even as I bite my lower lip in anticipation of the sweet sting that I know is coming.

  This is what I want. Rough. Wild. Raw. And I suck in air as he enters me, then thrust my hips back to meet him as he slowly fills me, fucking me slowly at first to get me ready, then hard and deep as passion builds. He's still fully clothed, and I look like a plaything, and the thought turns me on even more, making me wetter and wilder. "Harder," I demand.

  "Oh, baby." His voice is raw and I know he's on the edge, but he reaches around and takes the chain, holding on to it as he thrusts deeper, so that there is an invisible connection from my breasts to my clit to my cunt to my ass.

  My whole body is on fire, and when he orders me to touch myself, I'm so damn grateful. My clit is swollen and so wet, and as he fills me, I finger myself. The growing pleasure sparks through me, making my muscles contract around him, my body tighten. Making everything wilder and deeper and hotter and sweeter.

  And I'm so close--so incredibly close--and I can tell that he is as well. And when he tugs on the chain--when he orders me to "come with me, baby, come with me now"--it's as if everything inside me goes supernova and I explode into a billion pieces, and the only thing that saves me from flying off into space and getting lost forever is the feel of Damien's arms around me. Tight and warm and safe and so full of love.

  We are both breathing hard when he goes to the bathroom and returns with a damp washcloth and a towel with which to clean us up. I have to smile at him, still in his suit, his tie still knotted, his waistcoat still buttoned. "So very corporate, Mr. Stark." I ease up and press my body hard against him. I've taken off the nipple clamps, and my sensitive breasts tingle from the friction against his suit. "I like it," I add, then tilt my head back for a kiss.

  "And I like my welcome home," he says as he pulls me down onto the couch with him. He stretches out and I snuggle against him, feeling warm and safe and loved and used.

  "You're welcome," I murmur. "But don't get any ideas about going away more often just to get an enthusiastic greeting when you return."

  I feel more than hear his soft chuckle. "I wouldn't dream of it," he says. And as I'm closing my eyes and starting to drift, his next words echo all through me. "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Stark. As far as presents go, you're the best one ever."

  Chapter 2

  It seems as though I've barely drifted off when I wake to the smell of frying bacon.

  At some point in the night we'd moved to the bed, and now I toss the sheet aside so that I can sit up and then pad to the closet. I grab a silk robe--one of the many that Damien is always buying for me, and definitely nicer on the skin than the ugly robe I'd worn last night just to yank Damien's chain. I slip it on as I walk barefoot toward the kitchen.

  Unlike LA, the temperature in the mountains is actually cool. There's no snow--not this early in the season, anyway--but there's an early morning chill in the air and frost on the windows. It's probably only going to break forty degrees today, and I can't help but be delighted by how the radiant heat that comes up through the floor tiles warms my feet.

  At nine thousand square feet, the house is huge, but much of that space is taken up by a recreation room, an indoor swimming pool, and a gym. The main great room is really quite cozy, and the huge, open kitchen is adjacent to both the great room and the two wide hallways that lead to the master suite and the guest rooms.

  The hallway is where I emerge now, and the moment I do, I see him, and my heart leaps in my chest.

  He is standing at the stove, his back to me. He has pulled on a pair of gray athletic pants, and they sit low on his hips, clinging to the tight, firm curves of what is a truly exceptional ass. Damien doesn't play professional tennis anymore, but you
couldn't tell by looking at him. He still works out, and his back is smooth and strong, his movements graceful. I could stand and watch him forever, mesmerized by the steady rhythm as he moves from flipping bacon on the griddle, to stirring the scrambled eggs, to pulling the bread out when it pops from the toaster.

  When he's satisfied that it's all done--and when I'm practically salivating from the delicious smell--he puts everything on a large tray upon which already sits a single rose in a glass vase. Then he turns toward the hallway.

  As he does, he sees me, and I want nothing more than to freeze this moment and hold it next to my heart forever. Because the love and passion that I see is so pure, so warm, so real that it has the power to both bring me to my knees and lift me up.

  "Well, good morning," he says. "I'd planned on breakfast in bed, but it looks like my plans have been foiled."

  "How about breakfast at the table and then a shared shower?" To be honest, at the moment, I could go straight for the shower. I'd awakened hungry from the smell of bacon. But now, seeing Damien--his body hard and lean and his erection bulging against the gray sweats--I realize that even though it hasn't been that many hours since he was inside me, I'm no longer hungry for food.

  "My wife is brilliant," he says, then moves to the far side of the kitchen and puts the tray on the round wooden table that's tucked in near the bay window. "There's just one problem," he says as he returns to the kitchen. I've lagged behind him, and am now pulling a bottle of champagne out of the fridge. As far as I'm concerned, mimosas are a Christmas Eve staple, and I'm more than happy to take two into the bathroom with us. For that matter, maybe I should suggest a bubble bath instead of a shower...

  "Wait," I say as his words finally register with me. "What problem?" I put the champagne bottle down, then turn to face him.

  He strides toward me, stopping right in front of me, close enough that I can feel the brush of his erection against the soft silk of my robe. He reaches around me and grabs the champagne bottle, then pops the top, sending a fizz of champagne shooting up to spray over us and then dripping down his hand that holds the neck of the bottle.

  I laugh--but the sound turns into a little gasp when I see the heat in his eyes...when he raises his hand to my lips...when he silently indicates that I should lick the champagne off his fingers.

  I do, moaning as my mouth closes over his fingertip. And then I am lost, all thoughts of a shower, a bubble bath, breakfast entirely abandoned as I suck, harder and deeper, the connection between us spiraling through me, heating and filling me, so that I feel the pressure between my legs, needful and demanding.

  He tugs his finger free, and for a moment, I feel lost. Then his hands close tight at my waist and he's lifting me up onto the counter. He pushes the robe off my shoulders so that I am naked in front of him. He's standing close, his body between my legs so that my knees brush against his heated skin.

  "Damien," I say, simply because I need to hear his name.

  He doesn't respond, but his eyes are full of mischief as he reaches once again for the bottle. I have no idea what he intends to do, but I am not expecting it when he pours the champagne over me, drenching my breasts, and then lowering his mouth to suckle on one breast while he teases the other with his fingers, working each until my nipples are so tight and sensitive that it feels as if there is an electric wire stretching all the way down to my cunt.

  As if he can read my mind, he starts to trail his kisses lower, then lower still. He laps the champagne off my skin, his tongue laving me, his lips teasing me. My stomach muscles tighten as he works his way down and my breath comes ragged as he dips lower and closer until he finally runs the tip of his tongue along the soft skin between my sex and my thigh.

  I close my eyes and arch back, lost in a storm of sensation. I want to feel him more intimately--and at the same time, I don't want this to end. This wondrous feeling of floating. Of anticipation. Of being tended and loved and pleasured.

  He moves even lower next, his kisses dancing along my scarred inner thighs, and the miracle is that I hardly even notice.

  Once upon a time, I'd run from him because of those scars. And then I'd cried when he'd first seen them. But that had all been because of my own fears and expectations. Damien hadn't seen my weakness. He'd seen only my strength and the battles I'd won. He'd seen beauty. And he'd helped me see it, too.

  I'm not completely over it, and I know that I never will be. But with Damien, I'm whole and I'm free, and I love him as much for that as for everything else he is to me.

  Right now, though, I don't want to think about my scars. I don't want my demons in my head, or his secrets, or the torments of our past. I just want his touch. I just want the man. I just want us.

  Damien, thank god, knows that. I see it in his cocky grin when he tilts his head back to look at me. I see it in the twinkle that flashes in his stunning dual-colored eyes before he dips his head back down and starts to methodically kiss his way back up to my sex.

  When he's there--when his intimate kisses make me tremble and moan--he slides his hands along my legs urging them up onto his shoulders as he sucks and teases and makes me squirm. And then, yes, he makes me squeal when he holds tight to my waist and lifts me up, so that I am seated on his shoulders, my cunt right at his mouth, my body curled forward because I'm terrified that he will drop me.

  He won't--somewhere deep inside I know that. He has too much strength for that. But I am vulnerable like this. Vulnerable and exposed and so damn hot. And when he moves to the refrigerator and I can press my back against the cool steel as he eats me out, I can't help but feel as though I am flying.

  I grind shamelessly against his mouth, wondering how the hell he can breathe, but too lost in my own pleasure to even think much about that. I just know that I want to climb higher. That Damien has lifted me toward heaven, and now I'm trying to grasp it.

  And I'm close, so close--and when I finally do explode, he steps away from the fridge and lays me back, so it feels as though I am free-falling even as the orgasm breaks through me.

  I cry out, lost, and then find myself on the warm tile, my mind too full of sensations--of Damien--to keep track of what he's doing to me. All I know is that he is doing it, and I love it, and I don't want it to end.

  Roughly, he pushes my knees up to my chest, and then holds himself over me, entering me hard and fast and deep. I throw my hands above my head, my palms against the base of the fridge, and I push back with every thrust, wanting him deeper and harder. And that's just what he gives me; the friction of his body against my sensitive, used flesh is too much, and I break again. Less violently this time, but still raw, still satisfying. My cunt clenches tight around him, and I watch his face as he loses himself in release. As his muscles tighten and quiver. As he explodes inside me.

  We hold each other as we spiral back down from orbit, and I practically melt into the floor as his body covers me. I close my eyes and start to drift away, lost in the embrace of this man and the fizz of champagne and the heat of the tiles seeping up through my bones.

  When I come back to myself, I sigh, then snuggle closer. My chest is to his chest, and I'm thankful for the warm tile and the hot man. "Pity we don't have a housekeeper this week. We have to clean all this up ourselves."

  His low chuckle reverberates through me. "Not a problem," he says, and I realize those are the first words he's spoken since he popped open the champagne. "I'm sure we must have a cute little maid outfit you could wear. Preferably of the frilly French variety."

  I bite back a grin. "If we don't, we should get one."

  He nips my earlobe. "I'll send Santa a text message."

  "Why doesn't it surprise me that Damien Stark has Santa's mobile number?"

  "It's all about who you know," he says, and when I think of all the people I've met and the work I've gotten through Damien, I have to admit I agree.

  "I think that wonderful breakfast you made has gotten cold."

  "It was worth it," he says, propping hims
elf up on his forearms.

  "I'll make you a new one," I announce. "It's the least I can do."

  He lifts a single brow. "You? Cook?"

  I scowl, feigning offense. "I happen to be excellent at putting frozen waffles in a toaster. I have it down to an art form. But just for doubting me, you're going to have to wait until after I take a shower."

  "You go on ahead," he says, then presses a kiss to my forehead. "I'll make you a new breakfast."

  "Join me?"

  I see the temptation, but he only shakes his head. "Not if we want to get this cleaned up before Jamie and Ryan get here."

  Since he has a point, I go, then enjoy the warm water and the memories of Damien's hands on me as I get clean and champagne-free. When I return, breakfast has reappeared on the table.

  "Wow. You're fast."

  He kisses my neck as he pulls the chair out for me. "Would you think less of me if I confess that I cheated? I microwaved the bacon."

  I smile up at him. "Doesn't matter. You always take care of me."

  He pours us both mimosas and then slides into the seat next to me. As he does, he sets a red-wrapped cylinder tied with a big gold bow next to me.

  "What?" I ask. "Damien! It's not time yet." We'd promised to open presents on Christmas morning, and we'd agreed to only one each.

  "It's an early one. Go ahead. Open it."

  I consider debating, but he looks so eager that I give in without arguing. I reach for the tube, surprised to find how light it is. As soon as I've ripped the paper off and opened the plastic end, I understand why--there are just a few sheets of paper inside.

  Curious, I pull them out, then frown as I try to process what I'm seeing. "My office?" I look up at him, my chest feeling hollow and my voice sounding raw. "You bought my office condo?"

  He smiles, clearly proud of himself, and I stay seated. I'm a little queasy. A little unsteady. And I'm really not sure what to say.

  Honestly, I feel numb. I've been poring over numbers for weeks, trying to make it work. Damien knows that; hell, it's pretty much all I've been talking about over dinner and last week during our phone calls. And in just the last few days I've been coasting on a wave of pride when I realized that with the next contract payment on the Sykes project, I could do this on my own.