Entice Me (Stark Trilogy 3.7)

“Do you?”

“Absolutely,” I say, turning around so that my back is to him as I shake and shimmy in time with the music and very, very slowly ease my skirt off.

When I turn around, I’m dressed only in my bra and panties, and though I should feel silly, I don’t. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Maybe it’s the lingering high from fucking him in the limo. Maybe it’s the heated way that he’s watching my every move.

Maybe it’s the simple fact that I love my husband.

Whatever the reason, I’m enjoying showing off, turning him on and getting turned on in the process. And as I think that, I slide one hand over my bra and the other down my abdomen to cup myself over my panties.

I have my eyes closed, and the music’s loud, but I still hear Damien’s sharp intake of breath. I figure that’s as good a cue as any, and I open my eyes and strut toward him, then reach out a hand to pull him up.

He complies, amused, and I do my own version of a pole dance, with Damien playing the role of my pole. Up and down, stroking and teasing, shimmying and shaking. It’s a little erotic and a little silly, and by the time I have my bra off and am about to step out of my panties, I’m both desperately wet and giggling furiously.

I bend over to untangle my panties from around my ankle, and when I do, my giggles turn to squeals as Damien scoops me up and tosses me over his shoulder. I pound uselessly on his back, then cry out when he pitches me unceremoniously onto the bed.

“What are you—?”

“Shhh.” He puts his finger over his mouth, then strips off his own clothes. And though he doesn’t add any dance moves, I can’t deny that I enjoy the show.

Slowly, he eases onto the bed and straddles me. “I liked your dance,” he says. “I like even more that you did it because I told you I wanted it.”

“Anything you want,” I whisper, my voice throaty. “You know that.”

“I want you,” he says, then brushes a kiss over my lips. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“You have me,” I murmur. “You always have.”

“I know.” His smile is slow, his eyes dark with passion. “You’re my proof that I must be a good man. How else could I deserve you?”

I blink, my eyes suddenly damp, and I pull him down for a long, slow kiss. “Make love to me,” I beg. “And make it slow.”

“Anything the lady wants,” he says, sliding his hand down and finding me very, very wet. “I’m always happy to oblige.”

We make love slowly, easily. And as he takes me over the precipice and my body shatters in his arms, I know without a doubt that I am loved as deeply and passionately as it is possible to be.

And, more, I love him back just as much.

Sated, I curl up against him, and I’m drifting toward sleep when Damien’s voice rolls over me. “We should go to Vancouver for my birthday.”

“Mmm,” I say.

Then the words register on my sleepy brain, and suddenly I’m wide awake. I roll over, forcing myself not to curse. Surely—surely—he’s not going to screw with all my planning. “Vancouver? Really? Why?”

“Because it’s beautiful, and you’ve never been. And I want to show you the world.”

It’s an incredibly sweet thought, and if I weren’t so frustrated that he voiced it, I might actually appreciate it. As it is, I just force a smile and say, “Then it should be my present. Not yours.”

“That’s one way of looking at it. But nothing makes me happier than spoiling you. Vancouver,” he says firmly as he pulls me close. “I’ll plan the perfect trip. I promise, you’ll love it.”

And as he drifts off, I stare at the ceiling, one single thought going through my mind.

Well, damn.

Chapter Five

As the elevator descends toward the Stark Tower lobby, I play back last night’s conversation. Vancouver. How in the hell am I going to get out of going to Vancouver?

The car slows as it approaches the lobby, and I pull out my phone, watching the screen so that I can dial Jamie the second I get a signal. My best friend is devious, after all. Surely she can help me come up with a plan for forestalling Vancouver before Damien makes all the arrangements.

Either that or she’ll talk me into forgetting the surprise altogether and going with the Damien-driven Canada plan.

“No way are you doing Vancouver,” she says as I step off the elevator. I’ve whipped through my summary of last night’s conversation, and she’s as flustered as I am. “He only thinks he wants it because he doesn’t know about the alternative.”

“Agreed,” I say. “But how do I get him to forget about his trip without telling him about the party?”

“I don’t know. Tell him you have a deep-seated hatred of Vancouver. Tell him your mom made you do a beauty pageant there or something.”

I grimace. That would work, actually. Damien would happily sacrifice a vacation if he thought that the destination was haunted by my bad memories.

“The problem is that I actually want to see Vancouver someday. It’s supposed to be beautiful. And if I tell him that, I’ll never get to go.”

“Ah, well, in a year or so you could tell him that you want to bravely conquer your demons, and that you should both go up to Vancouver to face your bad memories.”

I rub my temples. “Just think about it, okay? And let me know if you have any ideas.”

“No problem,” she says. “Seriously. I’m off this morning. I’ll brainstorm ideas.”

“Thanks,” I say. Then I add, “Real ideas, James,” before I hang up.

I pause in the lobby and look around. I’d been so frazzled this morning, that I’d left the apartment without my usual travel mug of coffee, which is why I’d stopped at the lobby instead of heading straight into the parking structure.

Unfortunately for me, the line at Java B’s is at least a mile long, and I consider heading back upstairs and coaxing a latte from our espresso machine. But I honestly don’t have the energy, and so I use the time to scroll through my emails, trying not to think about the Vancouver conundrum, and instead simply operating on the premise that if I just ignore, it will all go away.

“Nikki?” My name is pronounced with a thick, familiar accent.

I look up, unable to place the voice, and find myself looking at the stunningly beautiful face of Carmela D’Amato, an Italian supermodel who also happens to be Damien’s former girlfriend. She’s just picked up her coffee, and she holds it in one hand while she pushes a strand of silky dark hair behind her ear with the other.

She takes a step toward me, smiling brightly, and I return her smile automatically even as I cringe and wish that I had an escape plan. But she looks so genuinely pleased to see me that I want to kick myself for being a bitch.

Yes, there’d been a period there when I’d though

t Carmela was the devil. But things have changed, and we’ve come to an understanding of sorts. She’s hardly my bestie, but I’m no longer afraid she’s trying to screw my husband—or screw with me.

“It’s great to see you,” I say after she releases me from a hug so enthusiastic that I fear she’s going to spill coffee down the back of my pale blue dress. “I’m sorry if I seem off—I’m just surprised. I thought you were in London these days.”

“I am. I have the most darling townhouse just off Portabella Road. You and Damie must come to London so we can spend time. He has an office there, yes? And surely he hasn’t sold the house in Maida Vale? But even if he has, you will stay at a hotel, or even with me. I will take you around to all the best designers. It will be a girls’ weekend, yes?”

Her enthusiasm is infectious. “Sounds fun,” I admit. “Maybe one day we can make it happen.”

“I will tell Damie that you agree, and that the two of you must come as soon as it is possible.”

“Tell Damien?” I suddenly realize what I’d apparently been blocking. “Of course, you’re here to see him.”

Her mouth shifts into a thin line, and for a moment I’m afraid that she thinks I’m jealous. But then I see that it’s not anger or irritation in her face—it’s fear and frustration.

“Carmela?” I reach out and touch her arm. “Hey, what is it?”

She blinks, and a tear clings to her long lashes before falling onto her cheek. “Forgive me. I am—I do not like having to pull you back into this. I do not like that it is my fault, too.”

“What’s your fault?”

“Those photos,” she says, her voice so thick I can barely understand her. “Those wretched blackmail photos of Damie and me.”

“Okay,” I say, pacing in front of the reflecting pool that is the centerpiece of the Stark Tower plaza. “Let me get this straight.”

Since I’d foregone my coffee to take her outside and get to the bottom of this, I’m not thinking as clearly as I’d like. She’d run me through the whole convoluted story, but I want to make sure I really understand what’s going on.