Claim Me (Stark Trilogy 2)

“Goddammit, Damien!”

I watch the two men, trying to understand what is really going on here. Trying to intuit why Damien’s refusal to attend the dedication and his very public announcement as to the reason means so much to the elder Stark. Damien did not outright say that Richter abused him, and he certainly didn’t say that his father was involved. Is that what Jeremiah fears will come next? That once Damien spills one truth, the rest will come tumbling out? If, as I suspect, that truly is the rest.

I don’t know, and all I can do is hold tight to Damien’s hand.

Damien has not responded to the criticisms his father poured out. Instead, he has been staring at the elder man’s face, his eyes narrowed as if the older man’s features were some sort of equation with a missing variable.

When he finally speaks, I do not understand the context: “How much of this is your doing?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jerry says, sitting up straight, his eyes wide as a child getting chastised. Even I can see that he is lying.

“Let’s get this straight,” Damien says. “I am not interested in your opinion or your help. Now get out. Edward, pull over.” We’ve circled three blocks, and now we’re at Pershing Square, two full blocks from where we started.

“I’m not even parked near here.”

“I don’t care,” Damien says. “Out.”

Suddenly, Edward is outside pulling the door open. Jerry hesitates, then looks from Damien to me. “Does she know? I wouldn’t tell her, Damien,” he says, and there’s malice in his voice. “If you want her to stay, I wouldn’t tell her a thing.”

He gets out, and Edward immediately slams the door, as if the driver wants him gone as much as Damien and I do.

Damien runs his hands through his hair and sighs. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“So, you’ve met my mom and I’ve met your dad. I guess that means we’re really dating.” I’m shooting for a light moment here, but Damien’s expression doesn’t change. “Hey,” I say. “It’s okay.”

“Very little about this entire day falls into the category of okay.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “I rather enjoyed dancing with you.”

“Yes,” he says. “So did I. Come here.” I am already right beside him, but I slide closer and lean against him. His arm is draped over my shoulder and his fingers are idly stroking my arm. I slide down and put my head on his lap. I kick off my shoes and curl my legs up on the seat as Damien strokes my hair. Part of me wants to stay like that forever, warm and safe in Damien’s lap. But another part of me has questions—so many questions. I want to understand what Damien’s father was talking about—why he cares so much whether or not Damien endorses the tennis center. But I don’t want to ask—I want Damien to tell me because he wants me to know.

If you want her to stay, I wouldn’t tell her a thing.

I shiver. I can think of nothing so horrible that I would walk away from Damien. But is that because nothing exists that is so bad it could rip us apart? Or do I simply lack the imagination to think of it?

Damien holds me calmly for the short drive to the Tower apartment.

He remains coolly collected as Edward pulls into the parking garage beneath Stark Tower.

His composure doesn’t break during the ride either to the building lobby or from the lobby to the penthouse fifty-seven floors up that houses his private office on one side and his residential apartment on the other.

It is only once the doors to the apartment slide open and we have entered the residence that Damien’s equilibrium shifts and the facade of calm vanishes. There is something desperate in his eyes, and he grabs both ends of the scarf that is still draped around my neck. “What was it you said about tying you up?”

His words are as rough as the anger that still clings to him. “Yes,” I say, because I know he needs it. He needs to get lost in the passion that is always ready to burst between us. He needs to forget what just happened—the paparazzi, his father, Ollie, and even my own refusal to meet him here tonight.

He needs to do something about that tapestry of his that is coming undone.

He needs to be in complete control—and right then, I want nothing more than to surrender to him.

“Yes,” I repeat, my voice raw. “Yes, please.”

He uses the scarf to shift our position until my back is against the wall, and he is against me, and I am breathing hard, my body quickening with excitement and expectation. With one hand, he holds both ends of the scarf while the other hand strokes slowly down my body, over my breast, down my belly, over my hip. His touch is slow, the movements designed to make me melt. It’s working. My lips are parted, my skin hot and sensitive. If I was not already leaning against a solid structure with Damien keeping me upright, I think I would sink to the floor, my body too limp and malleable to hold myself up.

He slips his hand inside my sarong skirt, his finger dipping under the string of my thong to find me wet.

I tremble, a small shiver rushing through me, as if a portent of an explosion to come.

“Why, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, “I do believe you want me.”

I bite my lower lip and say nothing; he doesn’t need to hear my answer. He already knows he’s right.

Slowly—so painfully slowly—he starts to peel me out of my clothing. The knot of the sarong. The tiny thong panties. The tank he tugs gently over my head. Even the scarf falls into a pile on the floor. I see it there, a lonely bit of pink in a sea of black, and I sigh.

“Trouble?”

“I thought you were going to tie me up.”

“Maybe I changed my mind.”

“Oh.”

“Complaining, Ms. Fairchild?”

“Never with you, Mr. Stark.”

“Good answer. For that, you get a reward.” His expression takes on a dangerous edge. “Come with me.”

I follow him to the bedroom, where he lays a blanket on the floor, then opens one of the leather trunks. He pulls out two lengths of rope and slowly twines them between his hands. I can feel my eyes go wide. We’ve moved a long way from soft pink scarves.

“What are you going to do?”

But Damien doesn’t answer. He just nods at the floor and tells me to lie down. I hesitate only a moment, and then comply, my head near the foot of the bed and my body stretched out on the blanket.

“Hands above your head,” he says.