Complete Me (Stark Trilogy 3)

I whimper a bit, and keep my eyes on Damien.

Slowly, he peels the jeans off. They’re slung low on his narrow hips, and as I follow that disappearing trail of hair down to where it nestles against the base of his cock, I have to silently curse Damien. I want to touch him. Hell, I want to suck him. But I am trapped. Trapped and turned on and so goddamned needy.

He is naked now and fully erect, hot and huge, and my sex clenches in anticipation. He moves back to the bed, and I feel the mattress shift as he gets on behind me. His hands are warm upon my hips, and when he strokes the tip of his cock down the crack of my rear, I have to bite the comforter in order to anchor myself as bone deep shudders rake through me. Not an orgasm—but close enough that I am teetering on the very edge of desperation.

“That’s it, baby,” he says as his hands stroke my back, and the hard length of his cock continues to tease my ass.

My skin is hot and blood pounds through me. I can feel my pulse in my throat, in my temples, in my heavy, swollen breasts. Most of all, I can feel the blood surging in my sex. Pounding me, teasing me. Making me want so much more that I wiggle my ass shamelessly and beg Damien to please take me now.

“Not just yet,” he whispers, and it is all I can do not to scream with frustration. He leans closer, his voice a low, sensual tease. “Do you remember what you told me once? About how you own a very nice vibrator?”

All the blood that was pounding in my cunt now seems to rush to my cheeks.

Considering everything I’ve done with Damien—not to mention everything he’s done to me—I don’t know why the fact that I own a vibrator should raise modesty flags, but it does.

“Nikki?” He rubs his palms over my rear, then slides his hand down to stroke my sex. Slowly, he slips one finger inside me, then another. My body responds greedily, the muscles of my vagina tightening around him, my hips thrusting, my breathing coming fast and shallow. And then, suddenly, his hand is gone, and there is nothing. Just that electrical charge that I always feel when Damien is near. But there is no touch, and I close my eyes and whimper in frustration.

His low chuckle rises from behind me, and I do not doubt that he understands the extent of my discomfiture. “Do you want me to touch you, Nikki? My palm stroking you? My fingers filling your cunt? Do you want me to spread you wide and thrust inside you, our bodies moving together, my hand on your clit stroking and teasing until we both explode?”

I bite my lower lip, determined not to answer aloud. He already damn well knows what I want.

“Then tell me where, baby. Just tell me where.”

“Drawer,” I manage. “Bedside drawer.”

He is back quickly, and he has the small pink vibrator in his hand. He turns it on, and I hear the familiar buzz, then feel the decadent vibration as he trails it over my ass cheeks, along my spine, down the back of my thigh. Slowly he slides the vibrator over my sex, and I close my eyes, letting the pleasure roll through me. “Is this how you use it?” he asks. “Stroking your clit? Making it hard and hot and ready? Or like this?” he asks, slipping it easily into my so-soaked sex. “Or maybe both?” He moves the toy in a slow in-and-out motion, but angles the device so that with each thrust, the shaft brushes my clit, the vibrations enough to send tremors through me, but the sensation not lasting long enough to let me come.

“I—yes,” I say, because I’m having a hard time remembering the question.

He slides the vibrator deep inside me, then holds it there. I bite my lower lip as pleasure builds at my core, then starts to roll out in slow, languid waves. “I don’t like you saying no to me,” he says.

“If this is my punishment, I think I may have to say it more often.”

“Mmm.” It’s not even a word, but it holds all sorts of promises—and punishments—and when I feel his other hand, slippery with lube, slide up between the cheeks of my rear, I can’t help the frisson of desire and trepidation that shoots through me.

“Damien,” I say. “What are you doing?”

“Fucking you,” he says, as he teases the pucker of my ass with his well-lubed thumb. He stretches me even as he keeps up the erotic rhythm of the vibrator inside my sex. I feel the head of his cock pressing against me, then the pressure and bite of exquisite pain as he thrusts inside. He waits, letting my body acclimate to his thickness, to the way he’s filling me so deliciously and completely. I am completely exposed to him, completely used by him—and so desperately excited by him.

Slowly, he begins to thrust, matching the strokes of his cock with the motion of the vibe. Deeper and deeper, each stroke filling me, teasing me. His hand brushes my clit as he moves, his other anchoring me with a firm hand on my hip. “You’re so hot,” he says. “So wet, so goddamned tight around me.”

“Harder,” I say, wanting him to take me even further—all the way to the edge. “More.”

I can tell by his low, animal groan that my words have excited him even more.

And then the power of reason leaves me. He is pounding into me, and my shoulders shift almost painfully on the bedclothes. I can’t hold on—can’t anchor myself, can’t adjust to accommodate my own pleasure. I am Damien’s, to use as he wants, and it is that single thought that fills my head when Damien’s hand closes tight upon my hip and he slams hard against me, coming so powerfully inside me.

The shudders of his body crash through me and that spins me over the edge. Pleasure and pain and need and hunger slam together at my core, sending me shooting off into space, with Damien’s name upon my lips.

When the tremors stop, he gently unties me, then strokes my body, easing tight muscles and setting my skin afire again. Somehow, I end up on my back with Damien hovering over me, his fingers playing upon my skin, his expression one of exquisite tenderness.

I can almost taste his strength and control, and I feel safe and warm and loved, as if there is nothing in the world that can touch us. Nothing that can harm us.

But even as that thought seems to hang in the air, the shrill crash of glass shatters the night—followed by the irate howl of one very pissed off cat.

Chapter Fifteen

The rock that smashed through the curtained window near the front door is painted black with the exception of four white letters that have been stenciled in block letters on the smooth surface:

SLUT

I stand about two feet from the thing, my feet in flip-flops, my entire body trembling. This is not just a piece of paper. This is more. This has crossed a line and as I dig my fingernails into my palms, I am suddenly, acutely aware of just how fragile my grip on control has been.