"Damien," I say, simply because I need to hear his name.
He doesn't respond, but his eyes are full of mischief as he reaches once again for the bottle. I have no idea what he intends to do, but I am not expecting it when he pours the champagne over me, drenching my breasts, and then lowering his mouth to suckle on one breast while he teases the other with his fingers, working each until my nipples are so tight and sensitive that it feels as if there is an electric wire stretching all the way down to my cunt.
As if he can read my mind, he starts to trail his kisses lower, then lower still. He laps the champagne off my skin, his tongue laving me, his lips teasing me. My stomach muscles tighten as he works his way down and my breath comes ragged as he dips lower and closer until he finally runs the tip of his tongue along the soft skin between my sex and my thigh.
I close my eyes and arch back, lost in a storm of sensation. I want to feel him more intimately--and at the same time, I don't want this to end. This wondrous feeling of floating. Of anticipation. Of being tended and loved and pleasured.
He moves even lower next, his kisses dancing along my scarred inner thighs, and the miracle is that I hardly even notice.
Once upon a time, I'd run from him because of those scars. And then I'd cried when he'd first seen them. But that had all been because of my own fears and expectations. Damien hadn't seen my weakness. He'd seen only my strength and the battles I'd won. He'd seen beauty. And he'd helped me see it, too.
I'm not completely over it, and I know that I never will be. But with Damien, I'm whole and I'm free, and I love him as much for that as for everything else he is to me.
Right now, though, I don't want to think about my scars. I don't want my demons in my head, or his secrets, or the torments of our past. I just want his touch. I just want the man. I just want us.
Damien, thank god, knows that. I see it in his cocky grin when he tilts his head back to look at me. I see it in the twinkle that flashes in his stunning dual-colored eyes before he dips his head back down and starts to methodically kiss his way back up to my sex.
When he's there--when his intimate kisses make me tremble and moan--he slides his hands along my legs urging them up onto his shoulders as he sucks and teases and makes me squirm. And then, yes, he makes me squeal when he holds tight to my waist and lifts me up, so that I am seated on his shoulders, my cunt right at his mouth, my body curled forward because I'm terrified that he will drop me.
He won't--somewhere deep inside I know that. He has too much strength for that. But I am vulnerable like this. Vulnerable and exposed and so damn hot. And when he moves to the refrigerator and I can press my back against the cool steel as he eats me out, I can't help but feel as though I am flying.
I grind shamelessly against his mouth, wondering how the hell he can breathe, but too lost in my own pleasure to even think much about that. I just know that I want to climb higher. That Damien has lifted me toward heaven, and now I'm trying to grasp it.
And I'm close, so close--and when I finally do explode, he steps away from the fridge and lays me back, so it feels as though I am free-falling even as the orgasm breaks through me.
I cry out, lost, and then find myself on the warm tile, my mind too full of sensations--of Damien--to keep track of what he's doing to me. All I know is that he is doing it, and I love it, and I don't want it to end.
Roughly, he pushes my knees up to my chest, and then holds himself over me, entering me hard and fast and deep. I throw my hands above my head, my palms against the base of the fridge, and I push back with every thrust, wanting him deeper and harder. And that's just what he gives me; the friction of his body against my sensitive, used flesh is too much, and I break again. Less violently this time, but still raw, still satisfying. My cunt clenches tight around him, and I watch his face as he loses himself in release. As his muscles tighten and quiver. As he explodes inside me.
We hold each other as we spiral back down from orbit, and I practically melt into the floor as his body covers me. I close my eyes and start to drift away, lost in the embrace of this man and the fizz of champagne and the heat of the tiles seeping up through my bones.
When I come back to myself, I sigh, then snuggle closer. My chest is to his chest, and I'm thankful for the warm tile and the hot man. "Pity we don't have a housekeeper this week. We have to clean all this up ourselves."
His low chuckle reverberates through me. "Not a problem," he says, and I realize those are the first words he's spoken since he popped open the champagne. "I'm sure we must have a cute little maid outfit you could wear. Preferably of the frilly French variety."
I bite back a grin. "If we don't, we should get one."
He nips my earlobe. "I'll send Santa a text message."
"Why doesn't it surprise me that Damien Stark has Santa's mobile number?"
"It's all about who you know," he says, and when I think of all the people I've met and the work I've gotten through Damien, I have to admit I agree.
"I think that wonderful breakfast you made has gotten cold."
"It was worth it," he says, propping hims
elf up on his forearms.
"I'll make you a new one," I announce. "It's the least I can do."
He lifts a single brow. "You? Cook?"
I scowl, feigning offense. "I happen to be excellent at putting frozen waffles in a toaster. I have it down to an art form. But just for doubting me, you're going to have to wait until after I take a shower."
"You go on ahead," he says, then presses a kiss to my forehead. "I'll make you a new breakfast."
"Join me?"
I see the temptation, but he only shakes his head. "Not if we want to get this cleaned up before Jamie and Ryan get here."
Since he has a point, I go, then enjoy the warm water and the memories of Damien's hands on me as I get clean and champagne-free. When I return, breakfast has reappeared on the table.
"Wow. You're fast."
He kisses my neck as he pulls the chair out for me. "Would you think less of me if I confess that I cheated? I microwaved the bacon."
I smile up at him. "Doesn't matter. You always take care of me."
He pours us both mimosas and then slides into the seat next to me. As he does, he sets a red-wrapped cylinder tied with a big gold bow next to me.
"What?" I ask. "Damien! It's not time yet." We'd promised to open presents on Christmas morning, and we'd agreed to only one each.
"It's an early one. Go ahead. Open it."
I consider debating, but he looks so eager that I give in without arguing. I reach for the tube, surprised to find how light it is. As soon as I've ripped the paper off and opened the plastic end, I understand why--there are just a few sheets of paper inside.
Curious, I pull them out, then frown as I try to process what I'm seeing. "My office?" I look up at him, my chest feeling hollow and my voice sounding raw. "You bought my office condo?"
He smiles, clearly proud of himself, and I stay seated. I'm a little queasy. A little unsteady. And I'm really not sure what to say.
Honestly, I feel numb. I've been poring over numbers for weeks, trying to make it work. Damien knows that; hell, it's pretty much all I've been talking about over dinner and last week during our phone calls. And in just the last few days I've been coasting on a wave of pride when I realized that with the next contract payment on the Sykes project, I could do this on my own.