Claim Me (Stark Trilogy 2)

“Nikki! Is it true that you were fired from Innovative for violating a morals clause?”

“The tennis center dedication begins in four hours, Mr. Stark. Can you elaborate on your previous statement regarding Merle Richter?”

“Damien! Have you been informed about the content of Mr. Schmidt’s affidavit? Is it true that he was paid to keep quiet?”

I don’t know who Mr. Schmidt is, but I make it a point not to glance at Damien. There’s no way that I’m letting these bastards catch my ignorance on film.

“What are you going to do with your million dollars, Nikki?”

I almost answer that one. Surely, if I explain that the money is going to fund a business, they’ll find me less interesting.

A thin-lipped reporter in a neatly pressed suit steps forward and shoves a microphone in my face. “Can you comment on the rumors that you’ve slept with men in the past for money? Is Mr. Stark your most lucrative client?”

The words strike me like a blow, and I stumble backward, suddenly nauseous. Worse, I’m caught off guard, and my facade has dropped. Tomorrow, all the tabloids will have a shot of my horrified expression. And I know damn well that the captions will suggest that I’m horrified that my secret has been revealed—not that the story is bullshit.

I don’t even realize that Damien has released my hand until I hear the sharp crack of his fist intersecting with the reporter’s jaw.

“Damien! No!”

He turns to me, and I see the fire in his eyes. And I know that right then, his violent, fiery temper is one hundred percent aimed at vindicating me.

“No,” I repeat, grabbing his hand before he can take another swing. “Do you want to get arrested? They’ll take you away from me, and even if it’s only a few hours until you post bail, I’ll be alone until you get out.”

That calms him somewhat, and he takes my hand and yanks me back into the store. He has his phone out, and I hear him telling Edward to bring the limo around.

The salesgirl had been watching through the window, and now she turns to Damien. “Um, mister? Tell him there’s an alley in the back.” She nods toward the throng still gathered in front of the store. “Unless you want to go through those creeps again.”

Damien looks at her, and the slow smile erases the last remains of his fury. I want to give the girl a hug.

Damien keeps his arm around me for the ride back to the apartment, but he says nothing until we are back in the penthouse. His eyes go quickly to where the mirror once hung. He does not have live-in help, but the crew from the office also cleans the apartment, and they’d swooped in quickly and removed all the glass. Even the drywall is now repaired. There is no evidence of Damien’s fury left, and yet he and I both know it is there.

“I should have smashed his face in,” Damien says.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” I say. I draw a breath, because I have been thinking about this. “Besides, in a way he’s right.”

Damien’s sharp glance almost halts my words, but I press on.

“That million wasn’t just a modeling fee and we both know it.”

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again and rubs his temples. “I’ve done this to you.” The words are soft and filled with pain. “I swore that I would never hurt you. That I would be the one you could hold tight to. And yet I’m the one who has done this to you.”

“No.” My tone is harsh. Vehement. “You’ve never done anything to hurt me. Ever. And I took the money because I wanted it. And I took your deal because I wanted you. To be honest,” I add with a wry grin, “I would have said yes for a lot less money.”

“Really?” He lifts a brow. “Now I really do feel like a fool. Come here,” he adds, then kisses me.

My words, however, have not soothed him enough. I can feel the tension coming off him, like a spring wound too tight.

When he looks at me, his face has the dark intensity of a hunter, and I feel as vulnerable as his prey.

“Come on,” he says. “You know what I want. And what we both need.”

I follow him to the bedroom, wanting nothing more than to forget the outside world once again, and when I see what he has in mind, I know that in a few minutes I’ll be thinking of nothing but Damien. He has pulled out his box of toys and is dangling the metal handcuffs from his index finger.

“It occurs to me that this is the most surefire way to keep you in my apartment—and in my bed—while I’m in London.”

“You wouldn’t dare,” I say, and scoot to the other side of the bed.

“Wouldn’t I?”

He leaps onto the bed, then rolls to the side, cutting me off as I try to break for the door. I squeal as he pulls me down on top of him, then very quickly fastens one cuff to my wrist, and then that cuff to the eyebolt.

“Don’t you even think about it,” I laugh, even though I know he’s joking. Or, at least, I’m pretty sure he’s joking …

“No?” he asks, as he starts to push my skirt up my body. “You don’t want to stay like this, in my bed, constantly ready to be fucked by me?”

“Now that you put it that way,” I say, and then close my eyes with pleasure as he starts to kiss his way up my thigh. It is sweet torment, because Damien knows exactly how to drive me crazy. His breath teasing my sex, his lips making me wild.

I struggle under his ministrations, as with each touch he finds some new sensation, some new way to make me writhe and beg. Even the way his finger strokes my ankle and his tongue licks the back of my knee sends ribbons of pleasure curling through me.

I twist and turn on the sheets, but the cold metal that surrounds my wrist prevents me from escaping the sensual onslaught that is coming so near to driving me out of my mind.

The cuff digs into my skin, and with each turn, with each motion, I tug hard at it. I want the pain. I want the pressure. I want a bruise to rise there. And not because I want to escape the horror of this afternoon—that, in fact, is the least of it.

No, I want it because it represents now. This moment, with Damien’s mouth on my naked body. With his fingers exploring every inch of me, finding all sorts of erogenous zones and erotic secrets.

I want the bruise because it is a physical reminder of how Damien makes me feel.

A bruise will be proof when he is London that I was in his bed—and a reminder that he will come back to me.

And so I struggle against my bonds, not because I want to get free, not even because I want the pain. I want what it represents. That I am Damien’s.