I frown, then tap out a reply.
I have Coop here. I drove my Mini Cooper into the office this morning and he’s tucked away in the small parking garage that serves my building.
He can stay in the garage overnight. I want you relaxed. We have plans tonight.
I laugh, delighted.
Are you handling me, Mr. Stark?
His reply is swift: Absolutely.
Love you. (Whispers: but I want to see my babies)
I can almost picture him smiling when he sends the next reply.
No need to whisper. I want to see them, too. Then I want to see you. Alone.
I sigh and realize that I’m smiling, the stress of the last twenty-four hours fading to zero. Maybe Jamie and Abby are right. Maybe I have got this.
Sounds good to me, I reply.
His final text comes almost immediately, tugging at my heart—and at other more intimate places.
Excellent. I’ll see you tonight, Ms. Fairchild. Until then, imagine me, touching you.
For the rest of the day, I spend a lot of time doing exactly that, and by the time Edward—Damien’s personal driver—comes into the office to tell me that he’s ready to take me home, I’m very much in the mood to see my husband.
I leave Abby in charge of the few outstanding threads of the day’s work, then follow Edward out to the street. He’s brought the limo, which surprises me, and I half-expect to find Damien in the back waiting for me. He’s not, and a tug of disappointment washes over me. I’m not deprived of sex or cuddling—not by a long shot—but as I settle into the far back seat of the limo, I realize that it actually has been a while since we’ve gone out for a romantic evening. Not since we brought Lara home, in fact.
A truism of parenting, I suppose, but I feel a pang of regret nonetheless.
“Mr. Stark asked that I pour you a drink. Wine? Whiskey?”
“Bourbon,” I say, since apparently it’s a night for alcohol. “Straight up.”
He hands me the drink and a small box wrapped in silver paper with an envelope on top, tucked in under a matching silver bow. I take it, delighted, as Edward tells me that I’m supposed to read the card first. Then he shuts the door and leaves me alone. I pull out the envelope first, then run my finger around the edge of the fancy linen stationery, with DJS embossed on the flap. I almost don’t want to open it, because I’m enjoying this game so much.
But since it is a game, I realize I have to. After all, there will undoubtedly be instructions, and I carefully slide my finger under the flap, open the envelope, then pull out the card inside.
It’s a simple message, and my skin prickles with anticipation when I read it:
Take off your panties before opening the box. Touch yourself—but don’t come.
Then open the box—you’ll know what to do.
And for the rest of the ride, imagine me, touching you.
D
P.S. Tonight you’re all mine, all ways, all night.
My mouth is dry, and my pulse is pounding with anticipation. I glance at my phone, wondering if he’s going to text. Surely he knows that I’ve received his message by now.
But my phone stays silent, and I decide not to text, either. After all, it’s fun to let him wonder, too.
For that matter, I consider disobeying. Leaving the box for later. Keeping my panties on. Sitting here in the back of the limo as I sip my bourbon and check my emails. He’ll know I’ve disobeyed, of course. And sometimes with Damien, the punishment can be very, very satisfying.
It’s such a tempting idea that I seriously consider it for a few minutes. But what if the punishment doesn’t involve touching me? That’s something I don’t want to risk.
I toss back the rest of the bourbon, feeling the burn in my throat and the immediate flush of heat over my skin. I pumped before I left the office, and I’m going to dump all the milk I pump later, just to be safe. So right now, I’m going to enjoy myself.
I close my eyes and lean my head back, knowing that the alcohol will hit me soon, and I’ll feel pleasantly buzzed. And, with Damien’s words lingering in my mind, that I’ll soon feel even more pleasantly turned on.
Touch yourself, he’d ordered, and though the command had been on paper, I hear his voice in my head. A low whisper in my ear. Commanding and insistent. Now, baby. Imagine it’s me. My hand, easing up your skirt. My fingers, tugging down your panties.
There is no voice I know more intimately. No touch as familiar as Damien’s. And as my imagination conjures him, I put the box on the seat beside me, then rest my hands on my thighs. I’m wearing a stretchy knit skirt, and the material is smooth under my palms.
Slowly, I flex my fingers, easing the material up. Over my knees. Up to mid-thigh. Good girl. All the way. I want your bare ass on the leather. I want you hot. Wet.
I actually whimper, the fantasy of him beside me making me a little crazy—and a lot turned on. I raise my hips so that I can gather the skirt around my waist, and then slip my hands back down, taking my panties with them.
Now I’m just as he ordered, the leather warm against my bare skin. And his voice in my fantasy urging my fingers to slide between my legs. To imagine it’s him. Touching me. Spreading me.
Fucking me.
I gasp as I stroke myself. I’m already so damn wet—but why that should surprise me, I don’t know. Just the thought of Damien makes me melt. And the knowledge that he has something wild in store for us makes me throb in all the right places.
My fingers dance over my clit, and my body trembles. Immediately, I pull my hand back, because Damien said I couldn’t finish. And as much as I want release, I don’t want it without him. Not really.
Not tonight.
I squeeze my legs together, squirming a bit to fight off this rising need, then reach for the package, hoping that the simple act of opening it will distract me.
I really should know better.
I peel the paper off slowly, thinking that the extra time will calm this sensual feast. But that’s just foolish. All I can think of is slowly undressing. Myself. Damien. And this package is standing in proxy for both of us.
Finally, I rip it the rest of the way open. Beneath the paper is a black cardboard box with a top that lifts off. I open it, then push back the tissue to reveal my present. And I laugh with delight even as I squirm a bit on the seat.
Because I know what this is, all shiny and silver and shaped like a small egg. I’ve seen it before. Hell, I’ve used it before.
We’d been dating—if you can call it that. I’d agreed to some rather unconventional modeling terms. A million dollars in exchange for me posing for the nude, albeit anonymous, portrait of me that now hangs on the rock wall that’s visible upon climbing the stairs to the third floor. And during those days and nights when I was a model, I agreed to belong to Damien.
Completely to Damien.
When it was over, he got the painting, I got my million, and we both got each other.
It was by far the smartest deal I ever made, I think as I carefully pull the egg out and hold it in my hand. It’s not vibrating now, but I can already imagine the feel of it. Not moving in my palm, of course. But inside me. Because this little egg is a remote control vibrator…and I’m already on the edge of exploding merely from the knowledge that Damien could turn it on at any moment.
Hell, for all I know, he’s in the front seat with Edward. Or driving right behind us in another car.
I press my legs together in defense against a persistent, needy throbbing. But I can’t stay like that, I know.
There are rules to this game. And I bite my lower lip as I slowly spread my legs.
And as I reach down to slide it inside me, all I can think is, Oh, yeah. Tonight is going to be fun.
Chapter 7
Damien meets me at the door with one hand in the pocket of his jeans and a fresh drink in the other. He may not have texted me during the drive, but apparently Edward contacted him to let him know my drink of choice.
&nbs