“You said we’d have dinner under the stars,” I say, shifting my legs so that part of the robe falls open to reveal my bare calf and part of my thigh. “I thought I’d facilitate that.”
As I speak, I press the button on the nearby console that operates the sunroof. Above us, two large panels slide open, allowing in the cool night air, and revealing a blanket of stars. We’re in the flats of Beverly Hills now, just starting to climb up toward Mulholland Drive. The ambient light of the city is softer here, and the absence of a moon allows the sky to twinkle above us, as if it’s winking approval at my plan.
He inches forward, then places a hand on each of my knees and gently forces me to uncross my legs. As he does, he grazes my skin with his thumbs. I bite back a moan as the contact sends a wild electric current straight up my thigh to my already sensitive, swollen sex.
Even in the dim light, I can see the corner of Damien’s mouth twitch, and am absolutely certain that he understands the effect he’s had on me. More, I understand that no matter what I’d planned for this evening, I’m no longer the one in charge. I am completely at his mercy, having surrendered everything when I melted at his touch.
“So,” he says as he casually brushes a kiss on my inner thigh, just above my knee. “Dinner?”
“Y—yes.” I have to struggle to get the word out because now he’s sliding his hands along my legs, easing higher and higher with such leisurely progress that I fear I’m going to scream with frustration any moment now. “I, um, had Edward stock a selection of take-out in the buffet.”
“Interesting,” Damien says, glancing over his shoulder to the sidewall of the limo where there is a hidden buffet behind the bench that runs along that side of the vehicle. It’s a match to the full bar that runs the opposite length.
He reaches for the sash at my waist and gives the bow one quick tug. Immediately, the robe falls open. Damien draws in a breath as his gaze skims over my naked body, from my sex, to my breasts, to my eyes.
And then—yes, oh god, yes—he slides his finger over my very wet, very sensitive labia, making me tremble with an unrelenting, demanding need that I feel through my entire body. The tightening of my breasts. The heaviness between my legs. The tingling of my lips. The warmth of my skin.
“Damien.” His name is a plea, but he ignores it. Instead, he lifts his now slick finger to his lips, and so slowly it’s almost painful, he sucks off the taste of me.
Then he looks at me with such desire it’s a wonder I don’t come right then.
“It’s not food I’m hungry for, Nikki,” he says as he gently spreads my legs. “It’s ambrosia.”
I whimper, as he slowly draws his tongue along my inner thigh, teasing and licking as he comes closer and closer to my center. So that when he’s finally there—when he finally closes his mouth on my sex to suck and tease and lick—the sensation is so far beyond incredible that I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to survive.
But it’s not just his mouth teasing me. With one hand, he presses against my inner thigh, his thumb grazing the soft skin between my leg and my sex. With the other, he reaches up to tease my breast, heavy and sensitive in his palm. Every part of me is on fire, and I grind against him, utterly lost, wanting more. Wanting absolutely everything.
I slide my hand up to my other breast, then mimic his touch as he pinches and squeezes my nipple so that threads of heat course through me like strings connecting every erogenous zone on my body.
His hand on my thigh shifts, and his finger teases my entrance even as his tongue flicks over my clit. I cry out, bucking up as he thrusts two fingers inside me, then sucks hard on my clit as I bite my lower lip and try to focus on breathing because I’m close—I’m so damn close—and every sensation is mixing together, building and building to what I am certain will be an explosion that rips me apart, satisfying me by completely destroying me.
“Yes,” I hear myself saying. “God, Damien, yes. Just a little more. Just a little—”
But then his mouth is gone, and I feel the shock of cool air on my sex instead of his warm mouth. I open my eyes to see that he has moved away, his head now tilted up to my face, his eyes burning with sensual intensity as he looks at my fingers, so tight now on my breast.
“Did I say you could touch yourself?”
I swallow, my hips shifting shamelessly as I search for contact that isn’t coming. “Damien, please.”
“Did I say you could touch yourself?”
Slowly, I shake my head as a new kind of excitement builds inside me. “No, sir,” I admit as I lower my hand. My whole body is suddenly hyperaware, on fire simply from the tone of his voice and the anticipation of what is to come.
“That’s twice you’ve been naughty.”
I frown, confused. “Twice?”
“I told you we’d dine under the stars. But since you took the liberty of making arrangements, now I’m going to have to cancel a reservation.”
“Oh.” I lick my lips as he reaches out a hand for me to take.
I do, and he gently kisses my fingertips before pointing to the area beneath the skylight and saying very firmly, “You want to be under the stars? There. On your knees. Elbows to the ground. Head down. Knees apart.”
I comply, then tremble violently when he presses the palm of one hand to my ass, and slides his other hand up between my legs, stroking my exposed sex. “Beautiful,” he murmurs as he thrusts his fingers deep inside me, then traces the rim of my anus with his thumb. “I like you this way, baby. Wide open for me. Ready. Do you know how wet you are?”
“Yes,” I murmur, then squeal as his palm smacks my ass.
“Naughty, too,” he says, then rubs the sting away with a gentle hand. “Can’t have that, can we?”
“No, sir,” I say, craving that sweet sting again, then sucking in a breath when it comes, the impact followed by a lingering heat that settles inside me, making me even wetter. That delicious pain getting all twisted up with the arousal coursing through me, so that with each smack of his hand, I get more and more turned on, my cunt so sensitive and needy that I think I just might die if he doesn’t hurry up and fuck me.
“But you were a bad girl,” he says, then bends forward to whisper in my ear. “How do you think I should punish you?”
Thankfully, he doesn’t make me wait. He strokes me, fingers dipping into my cunt and then stroking my perineum in a wild and crazy rhythm that has me whimpering and begging. And then, when I think I can’t take it any more, I feel the press of his cock at my center as he grabs my hips with both hands. He starts out easy, but I can’t wait, and I press back hard against him, impaling myself on him.
“Nikki! Oh, Christ, baby, yes.”
“Please, Damien,” I beg. “Please.” I can’t manage any more words, and he thrusts inside me, again and again, spinning us both further and further into space. Harder and faster until he’s so close, and he reaches around to tease my clit and take me over with him, until we explode together, and then collapse on the floor of the limo, curled up together in a tangle of limbs.
For a moment, we lie there in total silence, just staring up at the stars that twinkle above us. Then Damien takes my hand and very sweetly lifts it to his lips and kisses my palm.
“I liked my surprise,” he says. “And I think that was one of the best dinners I’ve ever had.”
Chapter Three
It’s easy to keep the secret from him on Saturday, too. We’re home all day, just lazing around. During the day, we both tackle some of the work we’ve brought home, although I spend a lot of time not working on my proposal. Instead, whenever Damien isn’t around, I open a new browser window and search out amazing gifts for his party. Not for Damien, but for gift bags.
Since the guests are all taking time out to travel to Santa Barbara, I want to make sure everyone has something nice to go home with. And, honestly, it’s fun. Before life with Damien, the most I could offer party guests was a really kick-ass margarita, courtesy of my Texas roots.
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sp; Now, I can have a special thank you ready for each of them.
In the end, I come up with body lotion and custom bracelets for the women, shaving soap and designer cufflinks for the men, and tiny bottles of wine and scotch for everyone. The trick, of course, is that all the items have to be delivered by Friday so that I can put them together in the customized gift bags I also ordered. Then I’m going to pass it all off to Rachel, who’s arranged to get everything delivered to the hotel by early Friday morning.
I even have special bags for Ronnie and Jeffery, despite the fact that Syl says that she’s only going to let them stay long enough to yell “surprise” to Uncle Damien before Stella, their nanny, takes them back to their room.
What I still don’t have is an actual gift for Damien. Yes, I told Rachel that the party is the gift, but I didn’t really mean it. I may not adhere to most of my mother’s rules of etiquette, but the Elizabeth Fairchild Birthday Party Guidelines definitely apply in this case: Thou shalt always give the guest of honor a thoughtful present to unwrap.
But what?
It’s a question I’m still pondering on Sunday when we head over to the Pacific Palisades for an afternoon at Jackson and Sylvia’s house.
“Sex toys,” Jamie says, when I tell the girls my dilemma. We’re drinking mimosas on the rooftop patio as the guys hang out on the lawn doing manly things with the grill and supervising Ronnie on the swingset.
“What?” Jamie asks as everyone turns to stare her. “I bet he’d totally appreciate an imaginative sex toy. I know Ryan did,” she adds with a wink.
“But what could I buy him that he doesn’t already own?” I keep my voice deadpan, which makes Jamie bark with laughter and Siobhan go bright red.
“You two are like a vaudeville act,” Cass says, then leans over to Siobhan. “It’s okay, sweetie, they don’t bite hard.”
“I’m not a prude,” Siobhan protests. “Redheads just blush easier.”
“She’s a prude,” Cass says in mock confidence. “Well, in public anyway. In private she’s a wildcat.” That earns her a shove from Siobhan, with whom she’s sharing a two-person lounger. Siobhan is in a loose skirt and T-shirt because she burns easily, and Cass is decked out in tiny shorts and a bikini top that shows off the gorgeous tattoo of a brilliantly plumed bird covering her shoulder and trailing down her arm.
Earlier, I’d pointed out that technically it’s winter, but Cass just shooed my words away. “What’s the point of living in LA if you can’t pretend like every day is summer?” Honestly, I really couldn’t argue with that.
Cass is Syl’s best friend, and she owns a local tattoo shop. Apparently, she’s given Syl every one of her tats. Frankly, I’d been surprised when I learned that Sylvia had any tattoos at all. But that’s the best part of this growing web of friends and family—I keep learning more about the people I love.
Right now, though, I’m close to disowning them all. “For the record, you guys are no help at all,” I protest grumpily.