That’s why he’s beside me. That’s why he said that he needs me.
Tears clog my throat as I process that simple reality. “You have me, Damien. No matter what. You know that, right?”
“I do,” he says. “And I’m thankful every damn day. Because God knows I don’t deserve what we have.”
“Yes,” I say. “You do.” I let go of him, then stand up. “We both do,” I say as I lift the cover-up over my head, then let it fall to the deck. I reach back and untie my bikini top where it fastens at my back and neck. It pools near my feet as I watch Damien’s eyes and the knowing heat that is building there.
Then I take my hand and slip it into my suit bottom, touching myself as he watches, his head cocked a little to the side, his expression hungry. “Don’t make me do this alone,” I tease.
“Then take them off,” he says, and I comply eagerly, using my thumbs to help me wriggle out until I’m naked on the patio, my body singing with awareness and desire.
“Jamie’s here?”
“She’s down for the count,” I say. “We polished off a lot of wine, and she and Ryan were up all last night. It’s just us.”
“Good.” He stands, still in his suit, the tie loosely knotted around his neck. He doesn’t make a move to undress. Instead, he looks me slowly up and down, his gaze hot and possessive. I can see the bulge of his erection against his tailored Savile Row slacks, and the anticipation of what’s to come makes my core clench with need.
“Damien,” I whisper, simply for the pleasure of his name on my lips.
His mouth curves into a grin, erasing the lingering shadows from his face. And the knowledge that I did that sends a fresh rush of desire through me. I feel the tightening in my breasts, the hardening of my nipples. My pulse pounds between my legs, and my clit begs for attention.
“Yes, Ms. Fairchild?”
I can barely conjure my voice. “You say you need me. Tell me how.”
“So many ways, my love.” He takes a step toward me, then dips his gaze back down to the chaise as he pulls his tie out of his collar. “But right now, I need you on your back.”
I lift a brow, then look pointedly at his erection. “You wouldn’t rather have me on my knees?”
“Do I have to spank that pretty little ass?” His tone is stern. “On your back, baby. Arms above your head. Legs spread wide.”
His words dance over me, making me tremble, and I comply eagerly. I straddle the chaise so that my legs hang over the sides, my toes on the flagstones. I lie back, the cushion covers cool against my bare back.
“Arms up,” he says, as if I’d forgotten. “And your wrists crossed.”
I do as he says, and he stands beside me holding the tie. Then he bends over me and expertly weaves it around my wrists, binding them together. Next, he loops the loose end to the frame of the chaise, then knots it, effectively binding me in place.
Out of reflex, I tug on the bond, testing its strength, but I’m not going anywhere. “Damien,” I murmur as he moves to the foot of the chaise, then starts to take off his belt.
I assume that he’s undressing, too, but I’m wrong about that. On the contrary, he’s using his belt to bind one of my legs to the chaise, threading it through the frame, and then tightening it around my thigh. “For me to tie you at the ankle, you’d have to bring your legs together a bit,” he explains. “And I like you spread open for me.”
My mouth goes dry, but that’s the only part of me that does. Because I can’t deny that I like it too. I’m so wide, my legs are practically in splits. I had to get that way so that I could straddle the chaise. Now I’m completely exposed. And I’m incredibly wet.
Since there’s nothing left to restrain me with, I assume he’s going to order me to keep the other leg in place, but instead he reaches down, then rises with my bikini top, which he efficiently uses to bind me to the frame.
Now I’m exposed and helpless, and from the slow smile crossing Damien’s still-haunted face, I can tell that’s just the way he wants me. It’s the way I want me, too. Anything to chase away those demons. Anything he needs, any time he needs it.
He knows that, of course. Knows that I’m his. Fully. Completely. Every minute of every day. And he is mine, too.
Which is why I don’t understand why he hasn’t confided in me. But it’s also why I’m confident that he will when he’s ready.
And, to be honest, I’m rapidly starting to not give a damn, because now I’m too preoccupied with the light touch of his fingertips along my calf as he trails slowly upward, his touch so light it could be the wind.
Higher and higher, his fingers dance along my inner thigh, skimming around and over the deep, angry scars that I used to be so ashamed of, but now rarely think about. Not with Damien. With Damien, I just want more, and now I whimper because he’s coming so close, intentionally driving me crazy, and doing a damn good job of it.
“Damien.” There’s a plea in my voice, and I hear his low, smug chuckle.
“Trouble, Ms. Fairchild?”
“Please,” I beg. “Touch me.”
“I am touching you,” he says as his fingers trail up the V of my pubic bone, then slowly stroke my lower abdomen and my pubis, never dipping lower despite the fact that my hips are rising and falling in a silent, desperate plea.
“I like that,” he says. “That you want it. That you’re ready. Tell me, baby. What do you want?”
“You,” I say. “Always you.”
“Tell me,” he orders, his fingertip tracing the line of my C-section scar.
“Your fingers inside me,” I say as those same fingers graze higher, teasing a pattern just below my breasts. “Your cock,” I whisper. “All of you.”
“Patience, sweetheart.”
But I’m not patient. I’m hot and I’m needy, my skin prickling with desire, my sex clenching in silent demand, my nipples tight, and my breasts heavy.
“You’re so fucking beautiful.” I hear the awe in his voice and it humbles me. Then his fingers pinch my breasts, and I arch up as hot threads shoot through my body, connecting my breasts to my sex, and oh, dear God, I just want.
Damien.
I think I say his name out loud, but soon realize I didn’t. He knows, though, and as I writhe again
st my bonds—wanting the friction against my skin, needing to release some of the pressure building inside me—he bends close so that his lips hover over mine, so that we’re sharing breath, and then he whispers, “Do you want me to kiss you?”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
I see the smile bloom behind the heat in his eyes. “Then I will.”
I close my eyes, anticipating the feel of his lips on mine. But that’s not what I get. Instead, he moves between my legs, then slowly dances kisses up my inner thigh before drawing the tip of his tongue along the soft skin between my thigh and my sex. I moan, lost in the sensation of Damien’s lips, his tongue, his breath.
His hands slide up my body as he laves my sex. First caressing the curve of my waist, then easing higher, his large hands spread over me, then cup my breasts, his fingers finding my nipples right as his mouth finds my clit. And then he’s tugging and sucking, and sparks shoot along my body, cutting a path from my breast to my core.
I squirm, wanting more. Wanting escape. Because it’s too much. The intensity. The pleasure bordering on pain, and just when I think I can’t survive another second, he flicks the tip of his tongue over my clit one more time, and the world explodes around me.
I cry out, twisting and turning in my bonds, trying to bring my thighs together, to shake off Damien’s hand that now cups me, but I can’t. I can’t.
And all I can do is ride the wave, gasping, all the way to the stars and back.
When the world finally settles again, I’m limp. A thin layer of sweat covers me, and I’m tingling in the cool night air.
“Holy hell,” I say. “Damien. That was … wow.”
“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” There’s truth in his voice, but a tease in his tone. “So did I. Very much.”
I believe him. He wears such a self-satisfied expression, how could I not?
“Your turn,” I say, dragging my teeth over my lower lip. “Untie me. Or better yet, strip and straddle my face.”