Claim Me (Stark Trilogy 2)

“Open your eyes,” he says.

I do, and I see long strands of red crisscrossing my breasts. The skin beneath the wax is puckered and tight, and with my breasts and nipples already so sensitive, the sensation is beyond incredible.

Damien still straddles my waist, but now he slides down and gently spreads my legs. Slowly, he enters me, then he leans forward and, as he thrusts in and out, he tightens his hands over my breasts in time with his movements.

The wax cracks as my orgasm builds, and when I finally do come, my body clenching around him to draw him farther in, Damien tightens his grip and the last of the wax cracks.

I cry out, lost in the exotic sensations that shoot through me, arching up as if I could keep the feeling from ending.

And then, when my body quits quivering, I close my eyes and succumb to the lure of sleep as it tugs me under.

19

I wake to the smell of bacon and discover that not only are my arms free, but I am snuggled under the covers. I smile and stretch, feeling well fucked and well taken care of.

I slide out of bed, find a shirt in the closet, and follow the scent to the huge black-and-steel kitchen. An electric skillet sizzles on the granite island, while Damien stands at the stove holding an omelette pan. Diced avocado, cubed cream cheese, and something else I don’t recognize neatly cover a small cutting board off to one side.

Two flutes of champagne are half-filled, and beside them sits a carafe of orange juice.

“Are we celebrating?” I ask, coming up behind him and peering into the omelette pan.

“We are,” he says. “After the day we had yesterday, I thought we should celebrate the important things.”

“The day?” I repeat. My body is still deliciously sore and aching. I stretch and smile slowly. “What about the night?”

“That was a celebration in and of itself,” he says. His eyes skim over me. I am wearing one of his button-down shirts, and it hangs to mid-thigh. The sleeves are rolled up, and the unfastened buttons reveal more than a little cleavage. The desire in his eyes is as unmistakable as his slow, sexy Damien smile. I’m pretty sure I melt a little.

He traces his finger down the open neck of the shirt. “I like you in my clothes.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“I like you out of them as well.”

I laugh, and dance back out of reach of his fingers. “Don’t even get ideas,” I say. “I’m starving.”

He laughs.

“So what exactly are we celebrating?”

He brushes a quick kiss over my lips. “Us.”

That single word sends a thrill running through me. “I’ll drink to that,” I say.

“Good. You can pour the OJ into our glasses. Then go sit.”

He points to one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “If you stay back here you’ll only distract me, and while that might lead to very interesting kitchen sex, it would also undoubtedly burn the omelettes.”

“I am hungry,” I concede as I pour the OJ and hand him a glass. I take my own with me and go sit at the bar that is attached to the island. It gives me a nice view of Damien looking deliciously domestic. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I’m a man of many mysteries,” he says.

“I’m a terrible cook,” I admit. “There’s not much point in learning when your mother is convinced that all you really need to eat are carrots and iceberg lettuce.”

“After my mother died, my father would drag us out to restaurants for every meal,” Damien says. “I couldn’t stand being that close to the man for that long, so I told him that if he expected me to be more competitive, I needed to eat better. I cooked, then took my plate to my room and he took his to the television. Worked out great.”

“And you learned a valuable skill.” I’m smiling, but my heart is breaking. My childhood had been seriously less than stellar, but at least I’d had Ashley during the years when my mother doled out calories as stingily as free time. Damien had no one except a vile father and an abusive coach. “Did you have friends?” I ask. “When you were competing, I mean. Did you make friends with the other players?”

“Other than Alaine and Sofia? Not really.” He spoons the cheese, avocado, and mystery food into the omelette, then expertly folds it onto a plate.

“Tell me about Sofia.”

His smile is sad. “We had a lot in common. Both our fathers were assholes.”

“Are we talking friend or girlfriend?”

“Friend, then girlfriend, then friend again.”

I nod, greedily soaking up these bits of Damien’s past.

“Was she your first?” I ask.

His face darkens. “Yes. But it wasn’t a moment of joy and bliss for either one of us. We were young, and we definitely weren’t ready.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up a difficult subject.”

“It’s okay,” he says with a flicker of a smile that takes the edge off the flatness of his words. “Really.” He takes a sip of champagne, adds some bacon to the plate, then slides it in front of me. “Well?”

I take the fork he offers, sample a small bite, and moan with pleasure. “This is amazing. What’s in it?”

“Lobster.”

“You just happen to have lobster in your fridge?”

“Sure,” he says, deadpan. “Don’t you?”

“Not hardly. Apparently the cars, hotels, jets, and chocolate factories aren’t the only perks of being filthy rich.”

He laughs and I dig into my breakfast while Damien stands at the stove keeping a close eye on his own meal. I’m surprised when my cell phone rings until I see that Damien has plugged it into a charger and left it on the breakfast bar. I consider letting it roll to voice mail, because I am not interested in having the real world intrude. But it’s Jamie, so I answer.

“Holy fucking crap,” she says, not bothering with the traditional “hello.” “Douglas just came over to tell me that you’re all over the Internet,” she says. “Like I didn’t already know. Douglas!” she adds, as if that is the worst affront of all.

I want to tell Jamie that if she’s so irritated by our one-night stand of a next-door neighbor, then she shouldn’t have slept with Douglas in the first place. But I stay silent. We’ve been over all that before.

“So it’s really everywhere?” I ask. “I haven’t wanted to look.”

“Sorry,” she says, her voice thick with sympathy. “Your mom even called me.”