Indulge Me (Stark Trilogy 6.1)

We’re led up two flights of stairs to a luxury suite with three bedrooms, four baths, a living room, a sitting room, a dining room, three bars, a library, and a gorgeous, huge balcony that looks out over an interior courtyard.

There is no kitchen, and I realize that’s because the staff will jump to our every culinary whim. There’s already a welcome plate with wine, cheese and chocolate on the coffee table in the sitting room.

The best part is the closets that, as the manager shows me, are already stocked with our clothes. Damien keeps a set of outfits stored in the hotel for his frequent trips, and the staff routinely brings his cases to the suite before his arrival and unpacks. I don’t have a secondary wardrobe, but someone purchased a number of outfits for me, per Damien’s instructions.

As soon as the manager leaves, I explore, absolutely delighted. “This place is amazing. I’m going to come with you on all your trips from now on.”

“I don’t usually stay in this suite,” he tells me. “But you’re welcome any time.” He smiles indulgently as I peek into every nook and cranny, and he lets me enjoy the suite for a full ten minutes before calling me to him. I stand in front of him, grinning. “I’m enjoying our trip so far.”

“Good,” he says. “Take off the coat.”

I comply quickly, anticipating his touch. I’ve been in an almost constant state of sexual excitement since we left the resort, and it’s been even more intense since the jet. Honestly, I haven’t been this aware of the heat between my legs since before I got pregnant with Ashley, the baby girl I miscarried before we adopted Lara.

Not that I’ve been unsatisfied with Damien recently—far, far from it. But this reminds me of our early months together, when my body seemed permanently, constantly aroused.

“You’re smiling,” he says. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“That I like the way you make me feel.”

“How’s that?”

I meet his eyes. “Like any minute you’re going to fuck me.”

He holds out his hand. “Come with me.”

I take it eagerly, and he leads me to the bedroom. He nods to the bed, then tells me to get on. I do, then turn to look at him, only to find him pulling a tie from the bureau drawer.

For a moment, I expect that he intends to use it on me. Then he hangs it around his collar, studies himself in the dresser mirror, and begins to expertly knot it.

“What—”

“I have a meeting, remember?”

I pull my knees up, hugging them to my chest, my back to the headboard. “But I thought—”

“Thinking’s my job this trip, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, looking at me in the mirror’s reflection. “Try to keep that in mind.”

I begin to speak, then change my mind. He watches me, then continues to knot his tie. When he’s finished, he turns. “You should get comfortable,” he says, in a tone that makes clear that’s an order and not a suggestion. “Take a nap. And stay in bed. I want you rested tonight.”

I perk up a bit at that. My disappointment still lingers, but I do realize that this trip didn’t originally include me. And I allow myself to cling to the anticipation of the night to come.

“Actually,” he says, with a devious gleam in his eye, “let me help you get comfortable.”

He crosses the room in two long strides, then positions me in the center of the bed, my legs spread wide.

I consider telling him that this isn’t an ideal napping place, but at the same time I know that this situation is rife with erotic possibilities. I weigh speaking against eroticism, then stay silent. Proving once again that, push comes to shove, sex wins out over reason in almost all situations.

He binds my legs to the bedposts using two coils of rope that I’m pretty sure he brought from our bungalow at the resort. He chooses not to bind my arms, though, telling me that he’s keeping my hands free in case I want to adjust the blanket he also left for me.

I consider pointing out that I can simply sit up and bend over to untie the leg restraints, but I say nothing. I’m sure he already knows that. And if he doesn’t … well, it’s not really my job to tell him, is it?

* * * *

“Did you get out of bed?”

Damien’s voice startles me, and I struggle up onto my elbows, blinking into the dark hotel room. “I—What?”

“I asked if you got out of bed.”

“No, sir,” I say.

“No?” His brows rise, and I silently curse. He’s caught me out. Of course he’s caught me out. “Care to try again?”

I lick my lips. “I had to pee.”

“Did I tell you to stay in the bed?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And did you leave the bed?”

I sigh. “Yes, sir.”

He sits on the edge of the mattress. “Then you can obviously unstrap yourself. Do that, and then I want you over my knee.”

“You’re going to spank me?” Already, my body is reacting. My sex aching from the mere thought of his hand smacking hard against my ass before his palm gently soothes the sting. Even the thought makes me wet, but that’s nothing compared to how aroused I know I’ll be when my ass is red and stinging. That’s when he’ll finger fuck me, thrusting deep and hard while ordering me to come for him, to explode for him. And after I do, he’ll lay me gently on the bed and take me all over again.

So, yeah, I don’t really hesitate.

“Five,” he says. And true to his word, he lands five solid smacks to my rear, each one followed by his palm on my reddening ass, the gentle rubbing motions meant to soothe.

With each spank, I get wetter and wetter, until he finally stops. I hold my breath, expecting the exquisite sensation of his fingers deep inside me.

Except there is no touch. No tease. No anything.

All he does is tell me to get dressed.

For a moment, I consider arguing. Even begging. Because it’s almost embarrassing how profound my disappointment is.

Then I remember what he told me on the plane—that after his meeting he was taking me to À la Lune. And that, I think, will definitely take the edge off.

Chapter Eight

“Wear this,” Damien says, handing me a pale pink shift that I have to pull on over my head.

Although my thighs are still slick with my arousal, he’s refused to let me wash up, and underwear is out of the question as well.

Even so, the dress is modest enough, though my rock-hard nipples are obvious through the thin silk, and the cut is such that it hugs my body a little too closely, outlining the curve of my ass and revealing the V of my sex when I walk. I know, because I made a point of walking in front of the mirror, and this dress definitely wouldn’t be in my wardrobe back home in LA.

Still, considering where we’re heading, I think it’s more than appropriate. But, of course, it turns out that isn’t where we’re going at all. At least, not right away.

Instead, we walk the short distance down the Rue du Castiglione toward the Jardin des Tuileries. We cross the Rue de Rivoli and enter the park. I hadn’t bothered to check the time, but the park is thinning out. It closes at nine, and I assume we’re getting close to that time. For the first time, I wonder how long Damien had been back in the hotel before he woke me.

When we reach the park’s center promenade, we turn left. In the distance, the Louvre museum stands majestically in front of us, and we continue toward it, the glass pyramid that marks its entrance glowing in the dimming light. “Where are we going?” I ask, and when he tells me that we’re going to dinner at the Louvre, I almost beg him to let me go back to the hotel and change.

I don’t, though. For one, I know he’d say no. For another, the dress is fine—it’s just not entirely appropriate. And whatever else I might be afraid of, having people stare at me because of my attire is low on the list.

It turns out we don’t dine inside the museum itself, but in Café Marly, located beneath the arcade of the Louvre’s Richelieu wing. We sit on the outdoor ter

race, which provides a stunning view of the pyramid, brilliantly illuminated in the deepening night.