I want Damien--I need him. But he's not here, and I'm so goddamn lost.
My chest aches from gasping--from trying to catch a breath through the body-wracking sobs. I need something--no, not something. I need pain. Release.
I need to cut.
Just one simple swipe of a blade to release the storm that is raging inside me. Nothing more than steel against skin. Just a quick flick and it would be done. Just one cut. Just one clean line of blood.
It would be enough.
And it would be so easy. So very easy.
I'm breathing calmer now, and I climb to my feet, then go over to the library-style ladder. I move it down the rail to the corner, then climb to the top. There's a decorative hat box in the back corner, and I draw it to me, then carefully climb down and put the box on the floor.
I kneel beside it, then yank off the top. The box is full of memorabilia, and I paw through it, looking for the small leather case of antique scalpels I'd tucked away here. Not because I ever thought I would need it, but as a reminder that I had the strength to never touch it again.
But I don't have the strength. I'm not strong at all.
It's there, the brown leather smooth from handling. I take it out and hold it in my palm, imagining the gleaming blades. The way the sharp instruments will twinkle like fairies in the dim light of this closet. And the way the cool steel will feel against my too-hot flesh. The release. That sharp, exquisite pain that can conquer the raging inside me.
Slowly, I unzip the case and stare at those perfect, beautiful blades.
I can do this.
I need to do this.
I want it to do this. I want it, dammit. I want it, I want it, I want it.
Except I don't.
What I want is Damien, and with a scream of frustration so raw it hurts my throat, I hurl the scalpel set across the closet. The still-open case thuds against the wall by the open door, jarring the instruments from their compartments and scattering them across the floor.
I start to lunge for them, then force myself back with a fierce cry of, "No."
And then I curl up by the granite island, press my forehead to my knees, and cry.
I'm still on the floor when I feel Damien's hands on my back, then gripping my waist. "Did you cut?" He turns me over and then runs his hands down my legs, his movements crisp, his eyes full of purpose. "Dammit, Nikki, the floor is littered with blades. Did you cut?"
"No." I choke the word out. "I wanted to--I think I meant to--but no. No, I swear, no."
He pulls me violently to him, then presses kisses to my lips, my face, my hair. He cradles me hard against his chest, holding me so tightly I can barely breathe. "Nikki, oh, God, Nikki. I came home. The door was open, and the box for that damn crib was right there. Then I saw the shattered wine glass, the shards everywhere. I couldn't find you, baby. Christ, it took forever to find you."
His voice breaks, and he bends his head so that his forehead is pressed against mine. "I'm so sorry I wasn't here, baby. I'm so, so sorry."
I don't realize that I've started crying again until I try to speak and choke on my own tears. I give up and just cling to him, letting the tears flow as he rocks me.
"I thought I was better," I say when I can finally squeeze out words. "I thought I was healing. I didn't . . . I don't . . ." I shake my head and try again. "I don't know what happened. I saw the box, and I just--" A wet sob breaks out of me, and I shudder, then look down, feeling stupidly ashamed.
"No," he says, tilting my head up. "Tell me."
I meet his eyes and see my own pain reflected there.
"It's more than just losing the baby," I whisper. "It's that I probably can't ever have one."
"Sweetheart," he whispers, the word holding so much pain I fear I'm going to start crying again.
"We lost more than a child, Damien. We lost the possibility of one. It's like I lost us the future. Our future."
"No," he says firmly. "Sweetheart, no."
"I thought I was healing," I tell him again. "But I don't know how to move forward. I can't," I say as fresh tears trickle down my cheeks. "I can't do this without you."
"Baby, I'm right here."
"No. No," I repeat, and this time my voice comes out strong, fueled by the same sadness and frustration that pushes me to my feet. "You're not here," I say. "But dammit, Damien, you need to be. You're just as ripped up as I am, don't you see that?"
I pace the length of the closet, my heart pounding in my chest. "You went after Tanner. You're beating the shit out of that punching bag downstairs. You're hurting and you're finding relief everywhere you can--but not with me, Damien." My voice breaks. "Not with me."
He looks at me, and as he rises to his feet, I see a new kind of pain behind his eyes. A pain of recognition. Of regret. "Nikki--"
But I'm not done. "You're treating me with kid gloves," I say. "But dammit, you know what I need. And you need it, too. But you're denying us both because you're treating me like some fragile fucking thing. But I'm not fragile--I'm strong. You're the one who's always telling me so. But I'm strong with you, Damien. Without you I break. Without you, I'm that," I say, pointing to the scalpels on the floor.
"Please," I beg. "Don't hold back. Don't turn away from us. You see me so clearly. You always have. So don't pretend you don't understand. Help me," I beg, my words tumbling out like a waterfall, wild and rough. "Help me be strong, and you--"
But I don't finish, because he's pushing me back, slamming me against the rack of clothes, his hands tight around my upper arms, and his mouth attacking mine with such fervor that our teeth clash and I taste blood.
"Is this what you need?" he asks, breaking away long enough to tug the sash from my silk robe that hangs just a few feet to his right. "For me to take you hard? To fuck you? To use you? Do you want feel the sting of my palm against your ass? Do you want me to tie you down so that there's no escape? So that you have to feel everything? Pleasure, pain, unrelenting and unforgiving?"
"Yes," I whisper, closing my eyes. He knows that's exactly what I need, and the fact that he's finally back rips through me like a storm. I'm wildly turned on, and desperately relieved. My body is on fire. My breasts feel heavy, my nipples tight. And I'm so damn wet.
He slides his hands down my arms until he reaches my wrists, and then he yanks my arms up. I gasp, my eyes flying open, and I melt a little bit more at the open passion and heat I see on his face. He uses one end of the sash to bind my wrists together, and then ties the opposite end to the dress-height closet pole, so that I'm forced to stand upright, my arms above my head.
I'm wearing casual work clothes--a simple silk tank top paired with a pencil skirt, and he teases his fingertip down from my wrist to the shoulder strap of the tank, then traces the outline of the V-neck against my skin. "Do you like this shirt?" he asks, but before I can answer he's grabbed either side of the V and pulled it apart like a jacket. The fragile material rips open to expose my bra. The sound is sharp and dangerous--and wonderfully enticing.
"I'll buy you another," he says as he tugs down my bra, freeing my breasts, then squeezes one nipple so hard I cry out.
"Tell me why," he demands, still pinching my nipple. He bends forward to whisper in my ear. "Tell me why you thought about cutting. Tell me why you need the pain."
"Because--" I can't get the words out past the sensations that are flooding me. Pain. Pleasure. Heat. Desire.
A hot cord seems to connect my breast to my cunt to my wrists to my lips to every cell in my body. I'm so turned on that even the whisper of a breath over my clit would send me over the edge--but I don't want that. Not yet. I want to stay here, balanced on a knife edge, teetering in that netherland between pain and pleasure, desire and satisfaction.
Damien knows that--dammit, he's always known that. And thank God he's back and finally--finally--taking me there.
"Tell me," he presses. "Why do you need the pain?"
"To turn it around," I say, forcing the words out. "To draw it in and tu
rn it around and battle it down. To know that I can win." I meet his eyes. "To control it," I say, "and turn something hard into something exceptional."
"Pain into pleasure," he murmurs, pinching my nipple even tighter. "Is that what I give you? Is that what you want?"
"Yes," I say. "God, yes."
"Good girl." He releases my nipple, and I cry out from the cold, sharp rush of blood that returns, the sensation like a hot wire extending from my breast to my core.
"And what do I need, baby?" he asks as he turn me around so that I'm facing the hanging clothes. "Why does having you here make me hard? Why does seeing you bound and your ass red from my palm make me want to fuck you until you scream my name?"
"Control," I whisper, and hear his sharp sigh of agreement. "Because even if the world is crashing down around us and it feels like there's nothing you can control, you can still control me. Please," I beg, because his words have taken me that much further. "Please."
He pulls my skirt up, then yanks my panties down around my ankles. I step out of them, and he strokes my rear. I close my eyes, imagining the sting of his palm. Craving it. So much sweeter than the blade, and yet still giving me something to cling to so that I can pull myself out of the mire.
"I will always give you what you need," he says, punctuating the final word with his palm on my ass. I cry out, imagining the red flush on my skin, and then close my eyes as he rubs his palm over the tender flesh. "Whatever and however you need it," he says, then spanks me again, this time sliding his fingers between my legs after the impact, then moaning when he finds me wet and open and ready.
"You like that." It's not a question, and I'm glad he knows the answer because I'm too gone to answer. I hear his zipper and then the soft swish of material as he sheds his clothes. I expect the press of his cock against me, but instead I feel his fingers tracing my perineum, and making me tremble with anticipation.
He spanks me again and again. Four times, five, until I can't take it anymore. Not the pain--it's shifted into something warm and compelling--but the desperate throbbing. The need to feel him inside me. And I beg for him to please, please fuck me.