Hold Me (Stark Trilogy 4.1)

For a moment he just stands there, and I gaze greedily at him, this man who belongs to me. The sun is sinking low in the sky, casting an orange glow over the patio and illuminating Damien’s skin. I can imagine him as a sculptor’s model, his image carved in marble forever.

But it’s not his beauty that I crave, it’s what’s inside him. I want the man who loves me. Who makes me laugh and makes me feel safe. The man who is the father of my children, and who will always—always—watch over us.

I hold out my hands in a silent demand, and he comes to me, easing up the chaise between my now-spread legs. “Make love to me,” I whisper, then melt a little when he says “Nikki” with such tenderness that his voice feels like a caress.

He kisses me, feather-light at first, but then harder and more demanding, and I cling to him, my hands tight on his shoulders. I want him inside me, to feel the connection, so deep that I don’t know where I end and he begins. And I hook my legs over his, easing them higher until I’m gripping him with my thighs, and his cock is right at my center, and I’m open and wet and so completely ready.

“Damien,” I demand, squirming against him as I close my eyes and soak in the feel of him. “Now. Please, please, now.”

“Look at me,” he says, and I open my eyes, only to see so much heat and longing and intensity reflected back at me that I would swear he was already inside me. I feel my core tighten, clenching and unclenching in a silent demand. And when he shifts just enough so that he barely slips inside me, I gasp from the sensation of being entered—and in anticipation of being filled.

“Now,” he says, his eyes still on mine. And in time with the word, he pistons his hips, thrusting inside of me, and then going deeper and deeper with each slow, mesmerizing thrust.

Gradually, he speeds up, our combined passion fueling a need. Until finally, he’s pounding inside me, thrusting me back against the chaise as I cling even tighter, certain that somehow he’s going to fuck me so hard that we’re going to actually meld into one person.

“Touch yourself, baby. I want to feel you explode.”

I’m so close, and I do as he says, taking one hand off his back and sliding it between our bodies so that I can stroke my clit as he thrusts inside me, until the melding of the sensations is too much to bear and I feel an electrical prickling on my inner thighs, a signal of a coming orgasm.

“Damien,” I beg as I stroke myself, desperate now to go over that edge. “Please,” I add, though I’m not even sure what I’m asking.

But as my body starts to shake—as I arch up and cry out as millions of electric sparks race over my body—I know that I was demanding that he come with me. And now my body is milking him, clenching tight around his cock again and again, in the throes of a massive orgasm.

Above me, I see the storm on Damien’s face, a raw, wild pleasure that fades into an expression of pure adoration when the orgasm passes and his body relaxes.

“Hi,” he says when we can both breathe again. He slowly lowers himself, then settles next to me, using a nearby napkin to gently clean me up.

“Hi, yourself.” I curl up next to him, wanting both his touch and his warmth. After a moment, he eases off the chaise, then returns with one of the blankets we keep in a waterproof trunk by the door. He carefully covers me, making sure I’m all tucked in, then joins me again, pulling me close so that I’m snuggled against his chest.

“Warm?” he asks.

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I thought we could lie here for just a little bit, relaxing and watching the stars.”

I prop myself up enough to see him. “I think you’re pampering me, Mr. Stark.”

“You could call it that,” he says.

“What would you call it?”

“Being.”

I shift, confused, and pull myself all the way upright, the blanket falling off in the process. “What are you talking about?”

“You,” he says simply as his hands roam my naked skin, making it hard to concentrate on his words.

“You’re going to have to give me more to go on.”

He chuckles, then sits up, pulling the lever on the chaise so that we have a back rest. He draws me toward him again, then pulls the blanket back to cover us. “You’ve spent months being a mom,” he says. “And a wife. And a business owner. All of which are wonderful and important.”

“But?” I ask, because he’s clearly going somewhere with this.

“But it’s been a long time since you’ve had the chance to just be. So that’s what tonight is for, baby. To simply enjoy the night and each other. To just be Nikki and Damien.”

“Thank you,” I say, my heart swelling from the sweetness of the sentiment, and from the knowledge that he’s arranged all of this to take care of me.

We stay like that for a while—our fingers twined, our bodies touching—until Damien gets up, telling me to wait while he goes inside to get something.

He’s back in less than five minutes, a paper bag in his hand. “Pick one,” he says as I sit up, already smiling.

“Again?”

He shakes the bag at me in silent demand, and I laugh but comply. When I unfold it, I read it to Damien. “Dinner. Hmmm,” I add.

“What?”

“Just thinking,” I say.

“Always dangerous. What were you thinking?”

“About those slips of paper.” I make a fast grab for the bag, but he pulls it away from me and sets it out of reach on a table behind us. “I’m thinking that if I draw another note, it’ll say dinner, too.” And then, just to prove my point, I make another lunge toward the sack.

This time, Damien grabs my wrists and pulls me up for a gentle kiss, topped off with a sharp bite to my lip and an equally sharp smack on my rear. “Don’t even think about it.”

But I know I’m right, and I grin happily as I hold him close. “Thank you for planning a wonderful date.”

“You’re welcome,” he says. “But it’s not over yet.”

“I know. I’m just telling my husband—” I cut myself off with a frown because my phone is chiming an incoming call, using the ringtone I designated for Abby.

I meet Damien’s eyes, hating the fact that I need to grab it. I see the disappointment in his eyes, too, but he nods, and I leave his arms to go find my phone in my small handbag.

I miss the call, but before I can check to see if she left a voicemail, a text comes through: SOS. Crisis with Greystone-Branch. Can you come to the office?

Damien is standing behind me, and when I turn to meet his eyes, I see the heat fading to an all-business demeanor. A cold wave of regret washes over me. But what can I do? Greystone-Branch is my biggest client next to Stark International, and having them on my roster upped the prestige of Fairchild Development considerably.

So I do the only thing I can do—I text back, On my way.

Chapter 8

I yawn and lean back in my desk chair. Behind me, the sky in Studio City is already bright, morning having come and gone while Abby and I have been holed up here in my office.

We’ve spent the night hunched over our computers, trying frantically to clean up a mess of malicious code left by a disgruntled ex-Greystone employee, and to plug all possible holes so nothing like this could happen again.

But we’ve managed. And as I take a long sip of my coffee, I give myself a few moments to bask. This particular crisis couldn’t have been foreseen, and only a limited number of people have the skill set to pull off that type of sabotage. So Abby and I had faced something unexpected and rare, and we’ve come out victorious.

More than victorious, really, since we’ve prevented further attacks of that nature.

And that, I think, is pretty damn cool.

“You did great,” I tell her, as she returns from the break room with her own mug of coffee. “Let’s lock this place up, get out of here, and call it a day.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.” I glance at the clock. “If I hurry, I can get home befor

e Bree takes the girls to Lara’s very first Gymboree class. And after that, I can take the world’s longest nap. You should do the same. The nap,” I clarify. “Not Gymboree.”

She laughs, but then turns serious. “I’m sorry I couldn’t handle it on my own. I know you were having a night out.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say. “You never have to feel bad about bothering me during a crisis. Especially a crisis involving my business. But,” I add, “for the record, I think you could have handled it just fine if I hadn’t been around.”

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. You did great. You held the client’s hand. You worked the problem. You were ferocious in writing the new code and getting it uploaded. I was a hundred percent impressed.”

Her cheeks turn pink as she smiles. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I say. “Now go home.”

She scurries out, as if afraid I might change my mind. No chance of that—I want too badly to see my kids.

After Edward dropped me off in the limo last night, Damien had offered to stay with me and help, but I’d sent him home. I don’t go with him for a crisis at Stark International. And besides, if we weren’t getting to enjoy our date, at least one of us should be enjoying our kids.

Which means that Coop is still in the garage where I left him yesterday, and I hurry to him, sending a text to Damien as I walk to let him know that I’m done and heading home.