Take Me (Stark Trilogy 3.1)

“For what?

“For distracting me. From my nightmare.”

He laughs. “I didn’t realize I was that transparent.”

“Only to me. Like you said, we know each other.”

He kisses the tip of my nose. “You have nothing to be nervous about.”

I nod, but the truth is that he is wrong. I realize it now. I want this wedding to be a reflection to the world. An outward manifestation of what he and I are together. Beauty and grace and something special and unique. I want it for him. For us. And for the whole damn world.

And so yes, I am nervous.

“I want the wedding to be perfect,” I confess.

“It will be,” he assures me. “How can it be anything else? Because no matter what happens, the wedding will end with you being my wife. And that, my darling Nikki, is the only thing that matters.”

I brush a kiss over his lips, because he’s right. I mean, I know that he’s right.

But I also know that he’s forgetting about the cake and the dress and the band and the photographer and the tents and the tables and the champagne and on and on and on.

Men, I think, and then snuggle close, reluctantly acknowledging that for tonight, at least, he’s distracted me.

For tonight, I care only about this man who will soon be my husband—and who already is my life.

Chapter Three

I awake to an empty bed and the smell of frying bacon. I roll over to find my phone on the bedside table, then glance at the time. Not yet six.

I groan and fall back among the pillows, but I don’t really want to go back to sleep. What I want is Damien.

I slide out of bed, then grab the tank top and yoga pants I’d left draped across a nearby armchair. I head barefoot out of the bedroom and move the short distance down the hall to the third-floor kitchen.

We’re in Damien’s Malibu house, and the wall of windows that faces the ocean is wide open, the glass panels having been thrust aside to let in the breeze. The smell of the ocean mingles with the scent of breakfast and I breathe deep, realizing that I am content. Whatever demons had poked at me during the night, Damien effectively banished them.

I glance toward the windows and out at the darkened Pacific. Waves glow white in the fading moonlight as they break upon the shore. There is beauty there, and part of me wants to walk to the balcony and stare out at the roiling, frothing water. But the siren call of the ocean is nothing compared to my desire to see Damien, and so I turn away from the windows and head straight to the kitchen. It is larger than the one in the condo I used to share with my best friend, Jamie, and it is not even the primary kitchen for this house. That is on the first floor, and could easily service a one-hundred-table restaurant. But this—the “small” kitchen—was installed as an adjunct to the open area that serves as a venue for entertaining, and since it is just down the hall from our bedroom, Damien and I have gotten into the habit of cooking our meals and eating in this cozier, more informal area. Usually we’re joined by Lady Meow-Meow, the fluffy white cat I took custody of when Jamie moved out. I know Lady M misses Jamie, but she’s also enjoying having the run of this huge house, and Gregory—the valet, butler, and all around house-running guy—spoils her rotten.

Now I lean against the half wall that marks the break from hallway to kitchen. Damien is standing at the stove cooking an omelette as if he were nothing more than an ordinary guy. Except there is nothing ordinary about Damien Stark. He is grace and power, beauty and heat. He is exceptional, and he has captured me completely.

At the moment, he is shirtless, and I cannot help the way my breath stutters as my eyes skim over the defined muscles of his back and his taut, strong arms. Damien’s first fortune came not from business, but from his original career as a champion tennis player. Even now, years later, he has both the look and the power of an elite athlete.

I let my gaze drift down appreciatively. He is wearing simple gray sweatpants that sit low on his narrow hips and cling to the curves of his perfectly toned ass. Like me, he is barefoot. He looks young and sexy and completely delicious. Yet despite his casual appearance, I can still see the executive. The powerful businessman who harnessed the world, who shifted it to his own liking and made a fortune in the process. He is strength and control. And I am humbled by the knowledge that I am what he values most of all, and that I will spend the rest of my life at his side.

“You’re staring,” he says, his eyes still on the stove.

I grin happily, like a child. “I enjoy looking at pretty things.”

He turns now, and his eyes rake over me, starting at my toes. “So do I,” he says when his gaze reaches my face, and there is so much heat in his voice that my legs go weak and my body quivers with want. His mouth curves into a slow, sexy smile, and I am absolutely certain in that moment that I am going to melt. “You spoiled my surprise,” he says, then nods toward the breakfast table where a tray sits with a glass bud vase displaying a single, red rose. “Breakfast in bed.”

“How about we share breakfast at the table?” I move to him, then stand behind him with my arms around his waist. I gently kiss his shoulder and breathe in the clean, soapy scent. “Early meeting?” Damien is hardly a slacker, but he usually doesn’t go into his office until after nine. Instead, he works from home, then showers after a brief workout before heading downtown. Today, apparently, we’re operating on a compressed timeline.

“Not early,” he says. “But also not here. I’ve got a meeting in Palm Springs. The helicopter’s coming in twenty.”

“I’ve got an appointment in Switzerland,” I counter airily as I step back so he can finish putting our breakfast together. “The jet’s coming in an hour.”

His mouth twitches with amusement. The omelette is already on a plate, and now he adds the bacon. I follow him to the table, pour us both orange juice and coffee, then sit across from him. Putting a napkin in my lap, I realize I’m smiling like an idiot. And the best part? Damien’s smile matches mine.

“I love this,” I say. “Breakfast together. Domesticity. It feels nice.”

He sips his coffee, his eyes never leaving my face, and for a moment there is nothing between us but contentment. Then he tilts his head, and I see the question rising in his eyes. I should have expected it. Damien wouldn’t leave for a meeting without being absolutely certain that I am okay. “No more shadows this morning?” he asks.

“No,” I say truthfully. “I feel good.” I take a bite of the omelette we’re sharing, and sag a bit in my chair in ecstasy. I’m a lucky girl in so many ways, not the least of which being that my fiancé can cook. “How could I not with you taking such good care of me?”