“Do it,” he said gently. “But first tell me why.”
A thousand reasons she could give went through his head. Because she needed the submission. Because she knew he craved the control.
Because everything had spun out around them, and this was proof they hadn’t lost who they were or what they meant to each other.
All true, and yet none entirely right.
Not until she spoke, and truth rang out between them.
“Because I love you, Mr. Stark. And,” she added before she took his cock into her mouth, “because I’m yours.”
Chapter Twelve
Because I love you, Mr. Stark. And because I’m yours.
His wife’s words caressed Damien as he eased the Bugatti into traffic, heading toward the 10 and Stark Tower.
Simple, but so special, and so true. Words spoken not because of force or blackmail or bribery. Not because she was trading on his fame and power like some of the women he’d slept with in the pre-Nikki years.
No, she’d meant every word, every breath. Just as he loved her.
It might not be a perfect world, he thought as he accelerated onto the freeway, but there was some room for miracles. He knew, because he and Nikki had found each other.
Slowly, he stroked his cock. Not because he was looking to get off on the freeway, but because he wanted to savor the memory of what had been a truly spectacular morning blowjob. And not just his wife’s skill with tongue and lips and hands, but the way she’d looked. Naked and beautiful and strong. Strong enough to bring him to his knees, that was for damn sure.
And she was strong. Stronger than she believed she was. And strong enough to hand him control when he needed it.
Having a woman like that at his side … well, that was powerful stuff. Maybe he’d had to wait those six long years for her, but never could he say that it wasn’t worth the wait.
Hell, she even put up with the ghosts of his childhood for him. Because she understood that it was important to him. That so long as Sofia was trying to help herself, then Damien wanted—no, needed—to help her, too. They’d endured too much together, and that kind of suffering forged an unbreakable bond.
Not that he’d imagined the depth of their torment when he’d first seen her. No, the first time he’d met Sofia, she was simply his hard-driving new coach’s pretty daughter. She’d sit in the stands and read while Damien practiced, and after, she’d tell him he did great.
Coach Richter blew hot and cold about their growing friendship, some days seeming not to care, some days teasing that they’d grow up and get married, some days telling Sofia to stay away so she didn’t knock Damien off his game.
It was easier when Alaine eased in and made their twosome a threesome. Richter still pushed Damien hard on the court, but after games and practice, he was less rigid. Alaine and Sofia and Damien had the chance to enjoy rare free time. The son of the sports doctor, Alaine was homeschooled and often traveled on the same schedule as Damien, and the three became fast friends.
Then things changed.
In the Bugatti, he tightened his hands on the wheel, grateful to have reached his exit. He needed the distraction of traffic lights and turns as those memories flooded his mind. The way Richter would pull him aside in the shower. The unwelcome touches. The bold move of taking Damien out of the dorms and giving him his own room. One to which Richter had a key.
Those nights were bad enough. That vile creature touching him. Talking to him. Breathing near him. But then Damien would come home to find Sofia there. Or Sofia and Richter. And Richter always had his camera.
Damien shuddered as he whipped the steering wheel to the right, barely making the turn into the Stark Tower garage. He took the turns too fast, then barreled into his parking slot, barely slamming on the brakes in time to keep from crumpling the Bugatti’s front end.
He’d been there.
Watching. Directing. Telling Damien how to touch her. Where to touch her. Telling Sofia how to stroke his cock. Telling her not to stop even though Damien wasn’t hard. Because he would be—eventually, he would be.
And then, to his shame, Richter’s prediction had been right. And Richter told him to put it in Sofia. Because if he didn’t things would get very bad. He had pictures, after all. But he couldn’t—he just couldn’t do it. Not to Sofia. And he got soft, and he thought that Richter would stop. But instead Richter used his hand—oh, holy Christ, Damien had wanted to die—to make him hard, and had kept him that way with a black circle of rubber. A cock ring, he’d later learned.
And he’d made Damien fuck her, and she’d whispered that it was okay. Even begged him to do it. Because if you don’t, he’ll punish me later. And so Damien had. And he hadn’t cried until they’d left his room.
And he’d promised himself that no matter what, he would always—always—protect Sofia. Because her father sure as hell wasn’t going to.
In the Bugatti, Damien pounded his fist against the steering wheel.
He regretted nothing—nothing—about Richter’s death except that if he had to do it all over again, he wouldn’t have simply stood back and watched as Richter’s handhold slipped and he fell to his death. No, in a do-over, Damien wouldn’t hesitate to push the abusive fuck right over the edge.
So yeah, maybe Sofia had her issues. No big surprise there. God knew Damien had a cargo plane full of his own. But she was still his. Not the same way Nikki was—not even close. But Sofia was his responsibility. More, she was his friend. They’d come through hell, and if that didn’t fuse two people together for life, Damien didn’t know what did.
And though Damien had drawn the line and cut all contact with Sofia when she’d gone completely off the rails, he’d been beyond grateful when her doctors had said she’d recovered. She was fragile, yes. But she was better.
And even though he knew it was difficult for Nikki, Damien was glad to have his friend back. And even more glad that his wife understood why.
Slowly, he drew in three deep breaths, forcing all of that shit out of his head. He didn’t need it there. Not today. Not when he needed to be the man who ate billion dollar deals for breakfast.
Although…
He hadn’t yet killed the Bugatti’s engine, and now he used the voice command to dial Alaine’s number. His friend answered on the first ring, speaking English with the kind of accent acquired from living all over Europe…and then settling in Santa Monica to become a world-renowned chef.
“I feel terrible that you have called first, my friend. I keep wanting to check in about little Anne, but I did not want to interrupt your family time.”
“Appreciated,” Damien said. “Actually, today’s the first day that Nikki and I have gone back.”
“I’m glad you are healing, and that the little one is well?”
“She is. She doesn’t remember a thing.”
“That is a blessing.”
“A huge one. Listen, Alaine, I don’t have much time, but I wanted to see if you could come to the house for brunch on Sunday. Not a big party. In fact, Nikki’s going to be out with a friend. It would just be you, me, Sofia, and my girls. I thought that it would be nice to reconnect. And be relatively drama free about it.”
“Sofia is in town? How did I not know this?”
> “She had a rough time recently. A miscarriage. I’m probably speaking out of turn, but you know how she is. I don’t want the subject of pregnancy to come up, and—”
“Of course, of course. I am the very face of discretion.”
“I’ll check with Sofia, but unless she has a conflict, we’ll see you Sunday at ten.”
“I look forward to it.”
Damien ended the call, then nodded. This felt good. Like he was moving forward. Healing.
He thought about what Nikki said after she’d met with the counselor earlier in the week. She’d come back and told him that it had helped. That healing had to be active, and you couldn’t just sit back and wait for scabs to form over all the raw places.
Possibly not the best analogy considering she’d drawn blood, but he agreed with the sentiment.
He had one more call to make, and he listened to the robotic ringtone until the line clicked, and he heard Orlando McKee’s throaty voice say, “Nikki?”
“No, it’s Damien. Just like your phone says.”
“Is Nikki okay?” he asked, and the urgent, obviously sincere worry caused his stock to rise another notch in Damien’s book.
“Nikki’s fine. It’s her first day back at work, and I thought she might enjoy some time with you and Jamie tonight. One of your all-night wine and movie parties. Whatever you three want.”
“Uh-huh. Us three?”
Damien rubbed his temples, amused. He could picture Ollie pushing his glasses up his nose, his brow furrowed in confusion, his longish hair pulled back in a man bun which, surprisingly didn’t look ridiculous. “I’m trying to do a nice thing here, McKee,” he said. “Nikki hasn’t had nearly enough time with her best friends.”
He waited for Ollie to protest that he and Nikki had grown apart. That things had changed when she’d married Damien.
Instead, he just said, “Yeah. Not nearly enough time.”
“I thought about having Edward drive you all to the Arrowhead house—or wherever you decide. Or offer you the Tower Apartment. But I honestly don’t think Nikki wants to get that far away from the girls yet.”