Play My Game (Stark Trilogy 3.3)

“I like the sound of that,” I admit. We’ve been back home from our honeymoon for a few days, but neither one of us has gone back to work officially yet. I’ve done some coding at home, but not much. Just minor tweaking of a few of my smartphone apps. And Damien, of course, has fielded dozens of phone calls and read god-only-knows how many emails. But considering all he usually handles in the course of running the universe, his work activities over the last several weeks have been nonexistent by comparison.

He takes my hand to lead me out of the kitchen and toward the bedroom, then pauses in front of the stack of cat food that I’ve moved from the pantry to the counter.

“Please tell me that’s not your secret ingredient.”

I know he expects me to laugh, but I just can’t manage it. Instead I lift a shoulder. “I’m going to box it up to take to Jamie.”

Damien presses a soft kiss to the top of my head, obviously understanding my mood. “I know, baby. I miss the fluff ball, too.”

Technically, Lady Meow-Meow belongs to both Jamie and me. More technically, she belongs to Jamie, who was the one who actually rescued her from the shelter when she was a one-month-old ball of white fur. I’d taken temporary custody when Jamie rented out her condo and set off for Texas to get her shit together.

That didn’t work out as planned, though. Texas turned out to be more of a pit stop than a relocation, and not long after she’d moved in with her parents, she was back in LA. She’d come for my wedding. She’d stayed because of Ryan Hunter, Damien’s security chief, who as far as I can tell is head over heels for her. And the feeling, thank goodness, is mutual.

Now, it’s the two of them and the cat living in the tiny Venice Beach house that Ryan has rented for years. According to Jamie, it’s a temporary arrangement until her tenant moves out in a few months. Then she’ll move back to the condo.

She hasn’t said as much, but I expect that Ryan will go with her. We had drinks with them the day after we got back to California; I’ve seen the way he looks at her. More important, I’ve heard the way she talks about him. And I couldn’t be happier for both of them.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not sad about losing the cat.

I tilt my head back and smile up at Damien. “I’m fine. It’s all fine. I just saw all the food in the pantry and it made me sad. Besides, it gives me an excuse to have lunch with Jamie,” I add with a devious lilt in my voice. “I haven’t seen her alone since we got back, and I have to fill her in on just how spectacular our honeymoon was.”

Damien laughs. “Two best friends discussing a honeymoon. Why do I feel like I’m facing a performance review?”

My grin is pure wickedness. “Don’t worry, Mr. Stark. As always, you scored a perfect ten.”

He kisses me again, long and lingering, then pulls me close. I sigh happily and lean against him, trying as always to absorb the fact that this is my life now. He is my life now.

“I love you,” I say softly, then feel the tightening of his arms around me in response to my words.

“You’re my everything, Nikki. And I love you desperately.” He takes my hand and leads me back to our bedroom. He tugs the apron over my head, then slowly unbuttons the shirt I am wearing. He eases it off my shoulders, and it falls gently to the floor behind us. I’m naked beneath it, and the material caresses my back as it falls, making me shiver from both the sensuality of the moment and the anticipation of Damien’s touch.

He doesn’t disappoint. He tilts his head down as if to kiss me, but then only brushes his lips across mine in the lightest of touches. I want to protest, but the words die in my throat as he moves to trail kisses down my body. The curve of my neck. The sensitive skin along my collarbone.

He pauses at my breast long enough to tease my nipple with his tongue. It is as if he has opened a conduit, and threads of electricity go racing through me, making my nipples tighten with need and my clit throb with demand. I close my eyes and part my lips, concentrating on breathing. On not losing all control and begging him to just take me right there.

But then his kisses move lower, and his tongue dances down my abdomen, then over my pubic bone, and then—oh, dear god—his tongue flicks over my clit, and I have to reach back and grab the iron footboard of our bed in order to remain upright.

I spread my legs, wanting and expecting more, but he pulls away, letting his fingers trail sensually up my body as he stands. I am gasping. Hot and needy. But when I reach out and brush my fingers over the erection that is straining against those goddamn sexy sweatpants, Damien just takes a step back and shakes his head. “Later,” he says, making the word sound like both torture and a promise.

“Christ, Damien. How am I supposed to do anything today other than want you?”

“Sweetheart, there’s nothing else today that you need to be doing.”

I take a moment to gather myself while he heads into the bathroom. I find him in the closet, where he hands me a pair of capris and my favorite light sweater.

“I should grab a shower,” I protest as I watch Damien slide into a pair of jeans and a threadbare Wimbledon T-shirt.

“Casual Sunday morning,” he says. “And you look amazing as always. Besides,” he adds with a wicked gleam in his eye, “if you want a shower later, I’ll be happy to help you out. Make sure you get very thoroughly clean.”

“I bet you would.” And though I’m laughing, I already know that’s an offer I absolutely will not refuse.

We’re both hungry, and so we drive to the Upper Crust, a charming local bakery about a mile up the beach. It’s one of my favorite places in Malibu, and while Damien orders, I find a table on the wooden deck with a wide-open view of the ocean.

Damien’s house—our house—has an equally stunning view, but is set much farther back from the beach. One thing that I love about the bakery is that it is built practically on top of the dunes, so that all you have to do is descend the stairs at the back of the deck to be on the sand.

I mention that to Damien when he returns with big mugs of coffee and two flaky chocolate croissants.

“Then we’ll build a bungalow right at the edge of the property. I’ll talk to Nathan about drawing up plans,” he adds, referring to Nathan Dean, the architect who designed the main house.

I gape at him. “I was just making conversation.”

He looks almost confused. “So you wouldn’t like that? I would.” He reaches out to wipe a stray bit of chocolate from the corner of my mouth, then licks his fingertip. “I can’t tell you how many times I’ve wanted to strip you naked on that beach, and yet I had to wait until we were all the way up the hill. But if there was a conveniently located bungalow …”