Claim Me (Stark Trilogy 2)

I stretch my arms up, my excitement building along with my curiosity, and he uses the shorter length of rope to tie my wrists together. Then he fastens my bound hands to the center leg of his king-size bedframe.

“I’m going to please you, Nikki,” he says, then strokes his fingertip slowly down my arm. He starts at my wrist, then gently teases the soft flesh of my inner arm, then the bend of my elbow, his fingertip finally trailing along my upper arm to the sensitive flesh of my underarm.

I bite my lower lip and squirm. The sensation of his finger upon my skin is exquisite. It is feather-soft, almost a tickle, and desperately, wildly erotic.

“Do you see how you writhe?” he asks. “That movement lets you control the intensity so that you’re not overwhelmed by the onslaught of sensations. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“I’m going to take that away from you,” he says as he begins to position me. He moves the soles of my feet together, and then slowly wraps the jute rope around them once, twice. I test the bindings and find that I cannot move my feet at all. I am strangely helpless, and it’s unnerving and exciting all at the same time.

“There will be no writhing,” Damien says as he gently spreads my knees and brings my joined feet up higher on the blanket. “No shifting. No place to hide.”

I’m essentially in the butterfly pose from yoga now, my knees spread wide and each only inches off the floor. I’m not particularly athletic, but my mother kept me doing both yoga and ballet long enough that I am sufficiently limber, so that Damien has no trouble positioning me.

My back is arched, the inside of my thighs tight from the stretch. And, yes, my sex is completely exposed. The position is undeniably erotic, and not only because I am so wide open. As Damien has said, there is nowhere to go. Not now, and certainly not when he finishes what he has started. I will be utterly at his mercy—and that, of course, is the point. Damien has lost so much tonight, but these ropes and my body can give him some of it back.

But this isn’t just about what Damien needs. I want this, too. I want to surrender to him. I want to abdicate my pleasure to Damien’s command. I want to float, with only Damien to tether me.

Damien’s eyes meet mine, and when he then trails his gaze down my body, there is so much heat, it is a wonder that he doesn’t leave scorch marks on my skin.

He has used the middle section of the long length of rope to bind my feet, and now he takes one of the free ends and begins to encircle the shin and thigh of my left leg.

“I’m giving you pleasure, pain, and beauty combined,” he says. “I want to look at you like this, open for me, your legs bent, your body like a diamond shining bright and glistening for me.”

He pulls the rope tight so that it both marks my flesh and ensures that my legs stay at the proper angle. Then he ties it off. I am now half-bound—and completely turned on.

“You’re like the portrait,” he says. “A vision of erotic beauty. But a portrait isn’t flesh, and its beauty can’t feel pleasure.”

He closes his mouth over my breast and sucks and I feel a fast, electric trill race from my nipple to my cunt. My sex tightens, as if begging for attention, but Damien is in no hurry, and he suckles and teases, his teeth grazing my tender nipple, his mouth drawing against my flesh until my areola is tight and puckered. His tongue teasing my skin, and he is right—I am desperate to move beneath him, to escape even slightly from the overwhelming sweetness of this onslaught. But I am trapped and the sensual assault continues, edging me high and higher until I am certain I have no choice but to fall.

Just when I am certain that I will scream if he doesn’t relent, he trails kisses down my belly until he reaches my navel. He takes a quick, playful nip, then sits up and returns to the task of tying me down. He takes the rope again, and this time moves to my other leg. Before he does, though, he gently strokes my sex. I’m hot and needy, and a tremble runs through me. I want him to do it again, another stroke, his mouth, his fingers deep inside me. I want that tremble to turn into a full-blown explosion. I want that—and Damien damn well knows it.

He does nothing about it, though, except focus on my other leg. “You’re wet, baby. And every quiver, every sign, every dewy hint of your arousal is on display for me. Tell me you like it, Nikki,” he says as he finishes binding me. “Tell me you like being open and ready for me.”

As he speaks, he trails his finger up and down my leg, then traces the rope that binds me. My body trembles and shivers run through me, sparked in the wake of his touch. I can barely breathe, much less talk. I want to tell him everything that’s bubbling inside me. That there is an exquisite joy in surrendering to him. In giving myself over for his pleasure and trusting that he will see to mine.

I want to tell him that “like” doesn’t even come close to describing how I feel, and it is certainly a poor measure of the extent of my arousal.

I want to pour my heart out to him, but I can manage only one simple word: “Yes.”

He has finished binding me, and the ropes are tight. They cut into my skin just past the point of pleasure and into the realm of pain. I close my eyes and draw it in, idly wondering if other women need time to get used to this. I do not. I simply lie back and revel in it. After the night we’ve had, I want this; I want everything that Damien is willing to give.

I want the pain and the pleasure and everything that comes between.

Slowly, methodically, Damien places his hands on my shoulders, then traces his fingertips down my body, over my breasts, along my waist, down my inner thighs.

I bite my lip, fighting against the painfully sweet sensation, but he’s right; bound like this, there is no escaping—and the pleasure crescendos, leading toward the edge of pain.

When he finally stops touching me, I exhale in a burst, only then realizing that I’ve been holding my breath. I gasp, my chest rising and falling, my eyes wide open as I watch Damien rise and stand near my own bound feet.

Slowly, so painfully slowly, he takes off his clothes. His cock is hard and thick and I inhale, my breath shuddering in my chest, the desire pooling in my wide open sex. Then, with slow deliberation, he comes to me and kneels over my bound feet. Gently, he places the pads of his thumbs on each of my inner thighs, then slides his hands upward. I shiver, my body primed to explode, but he still doesn’t touch me where I crave him most, and I am left hanging on a precipice.

“You’re a cruel man, Mr. Stark.”