Indulge Me (Stark Trilogy 6.1)

“Sit.” Damien nods at one of the two middle seats, and I comply, feeling nervous and uncomfortable and, yes, aroused.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and there’s no missing the desire in his voice. It both flatters and calms me. “Arms on the armrests, and spread your legs.”

That extra bit of exposure adds to my nervousness, but I’ve already crossed the magic line, and I comply without hesitation.

He kneels in front of me, his hands on my knees. I close my eyes in anticipation of his mouth on my sex, then open them again in surprise when I feel the straps go around my right wrist. He’s using Velcro bands to restrain me. And once he’s done with my arms, he bends lower and secures my legs in place.

“Damien…” I can hear both nerves and arousal in my voice, and from the way he’s smiling, I’m sure he can, too.

I wait, certain he’ll tell me again to close my eyes. Certain he’s going to go down on me or tease me with a vibrator or find some other way to fill me with a pleasure so potent I’ll want to squirm away from it, and absolutely won’t be able to. Honestly, I can’t wait.

He walks away, then sits in one of the arm chairs.

I gape as he pulls out a leather file bag, then takes out a sheath I recognize as the technical specs for the prototype that is the focus of his upcoming meetings. When he leans back and starts reading, I scowl, realizing that I’m not getting anything I want. Not yet, anyway.

“You’re enjoying this,” I accuse.

He doesn’t even look up from the papers. “Of course I am. That’s the point.”

I let out a resigned breath, and he puts the papers in his lap, giving me his full attention. “Do you remember our honeymoon in Paris?”

“Oh,” I say innocently. “Did we go to Paris?”

He raises a brow.

“Yes, sir,” I say. “Of course I remember it.”

“And the club? À la Lune?”

“God, yes.” My body reacts merely from the mention of the private sex club located in the Quartier Pigalle.

Early in our relationship, I’d dragged Damien into a dark, secluded alley, so desperate for him, I would have happily let him fuck me against the brick wall. He’d told me he didn’t do public sex, and that has never changed. Not literally. But he’s taken me in dressing rooms and limos—oh, God, the limos. He’s made me come in restaurants, his fingers hidden beneath tablecloths, and fucked me in front of hotel windows. He’s fingered me in dance clubs and made me touch myself in the passenger seat of convertibles.

At the club in Paris, we took things up a notch. We weren’t public—on the contrary, we were well-hidden in a curtained alcove and still dressed. More or less. But we had a view of the couples and threesomes in the public area, all stroking and teasing like a cornucopia of sex. Except for porn, I’d never watched other people having sex, and I’d been surprised by how turned on the sight made me. Especially with Damien’s hands on my breasts and his voice in my ear. And when he fucked me from behind while we both watched in the dark, I thought my body would rip apart from the pleasure.

“Do you remember why I took you there?”

“You said you didn’t want us to ever feel too settled. Too domestic.” I glance down at my naked body, spread wide and tied down in an airplane seat. “I’m thinking domesticity isn’t really an issue for us.”

A laugh bursts from him. “God I love you.”

“Ditto,” I say happily. “But why are you asking?”

“We’re going back. Tonight, after dinner.”

“Oh.” I draw in a breath, feeling my nipples tighten, my sex clench. Damien lifts a brow, and though he says nothing, I know he’s well aware of my reaction. “And now?” I hear the anticipation in my voice, the longing for his touch.

He holds up the papers. “I have to prep for my meetings.”

“Oh.” I swallow. “You’re really leaving me like this?”

“Mmm.” He’s already absorbed in the specs.

I watch him for a few moments, wondering if he’s really focusing on work, but he must be because he never once looks at me. Instead, he makes a constant series of notes in the margins, flips pages back and forth as if cross-checking facts, and nods to himself.

Well, fuck.

I end up dozing, closing my eyes and letting the vibrations of the plane against my bare ass entice me into erotic dreams. Dreams that dissolve into reality when I wake up and find Damien on the ground in front of me, his hands under my ass and his tongue teasing my clit.

I arch back as much as I can, trying to scoot my hips forward, desperate to latch on to the rising excitement. Wanting it to pull me right over the edge and out to the stars.

Damien, damn him, stops right as I’m teetering on the cusp.

“Please,” I beg, though I know it’s futile.

He says nothing as he unstraps me, and though I don’t stand—he hasn’t told me I can—I stretch the kinks out of my muscles as he goes to the bar, then returns with a shot of bourbon on ice for me. I toss it back, enjoying the burn, then meet his eyes. “Are we almost there?”

“No.” He takes the seat next to me, then starts to unzip his slacks. “Come here, baby. I want those lips on my cock.”

I do as he says, relishing the feel of him, the taste of him. Enjoying the way his hand twines in my hair, guiding my motion. I’m deliciously wet, the insides of my thighs slick, and I press my legs together as my sex pulses, craving what my mouth has.

“And Masque?” Damien says, as if we were still on the same sex club conversation from earlier. “I know you remember that.”

I don’t answer—my mouth is otherwise occupied, and the pressure on my head makes it clear he doesn’t need or want a reply. He knows well enough that I remember. The private Beverly Hills sex club is owned by a friend—Hollywood mogul and well-known bad boy Matthew Holt—and we went to his club not long before the horror with Anne began.

We went further there. Not entirely public sex, but Damien had led me to a second story alcove, from which we could look down and see the masked strangers engaged in every manner of intimate act below us. We’d been turned on, both by the surroundings and the knowledge that though many in the club switched partners, that was the one thing we would never do.

Before, in Paris, he’d said he would never let another man see me. But that was years ago, and Damien is a man who likes to show off what belongs to him. He’d released the tie at my neck, letting my halter-style top fall, baring my breasts to anyone who might look up. And though they couldn’t see the rest of it, he bent me over, lifted the back of my skirt, and fucked me from behind.

It had been wild. Decadent. And one of the more erotic things we’ve ever done together. There’s always a risk where Damien is concerned. Of being recognized. Of intimate pictures being released to the press. Both clubs have a strict privacy policy, and yet there is always that fear.

I’d conquered the fear those nights. Conquered, and embraced it. Even turned it around and let it fuel my desire, adding another layer of eroticism to my already intensely aroused state.

That’s what he’s doing now, I realize. That’s why he’s said we’re going back there. This trip—this game—is all about facing my fears.

And since I’m looking forward to this second visit to the Paris club, I can’t help but think that it’s working.

“Do you remember how exposed we felt at both clubs? How much it excited you?” Again, he doesn’t expect my response, but he’s voicing the things I’ve been thinking. “I wonder what you would do if we took the hidden part out of the equation. If I pushed this button to unlock the door, switching the light to green. If I called Katie over the intercom and asked her to bring me a drink.”

I’ve gone completely still. Surely he wouldn’t really…

“I think I’d like to sip a bourbon while my beautiful wife sucks me off. What do you think?” he asks, releasing his grip on my hair. “Should I call her?”

I lift my head, trying to ca

lm my pounding heart. “You’re not making me afraid,” I lie. “I know you won’t let Katie in.”

“Won’t I? We’ve been pushing boundaries, sweetheart. And so far, we’ve both enjoyed every step forward we’ve taken.”

I open my mouth, but can think of nothing to say. I’ll admit there’s something enticing about the fantasy of being watched. Of being secretly caught out doing something naughty. But I’m not about to admit that to Damien. And Katie is not on my imaginary audience list.

“Come here,” he says as he urges me onto his lap. I rock my hips, enjoying the feel of his cock at my entrance, then cry out at the wonderful sensation of my husband filling me as he holds my hips and forces me down. I arch back, wanting even more of him. Wanting all of this man I adore. This man who pushes my limits even while holding me close.

I move against him, my own private lap dance, trying to take him even deeper. I’m watching his face, the way his eyes darken as passion overwhelms him. And I’m listening to his low, rasping groans as he grows even harder inside me, coming closer and closer to exploding.

His hand moves to the call button, his finger hovering just over it. He’s bluffing. I’m certain.

My certainty dims as his finger starts to lower. I bite my lip, afraid I’ve misjudged him. And, dear God, I do not want Katie to find us like this, because how the hell would I be able to fly with her again?

“Damien…”

“I’m going to push the button, baby. I told you I was going to push you, didn’t I?”