Release Me (Stark Trilogy 1)

I don’t know what I expect, but Damien drops to his knees. His face is about level with my hips, and he gently rubs the pad of his thumb over the thickest scar on my hip. I’d cut too deep, and I’d been too scared to go to the emergency room. I’d closed the wound with duct tape and super glue and kept pressure on with an Ace bandage wrapped tight around me. I’d kept my secret, but the scar was vile. Even now, years later, it’s still slightly pink.

“Oh, baby.” His voice is soft, like a caress. “I knew there was something, but …” He trails off, his other hand tracing the scars on the inside of my thighs. “Who did this to you?”

I close my eyes and tilt my head away, ashamed.

I hear his soft exhale and know that he understands. I force myself to look back at him.

“Is this what you were afraid of? That I’d learn about these scars? That I wouldn’t want you?”

A tear is clinging to the end of my nose. It falls and lands with a plop on his arm.

“Sweetheart …” I hear my pain in his voice. And then he leans close to me and runs his tongue over the inside of my left thigh. Over my flesh, over my scar. I can’t believe this is real, but it is. He’s not running. He’s kissing me there, so sweetly, and then he takes my hands and pulls me down until I’m kneeling in front of him.

I’m a mess, tears spilling, my nose running. I’m hiccuping and it’s not easy to breathe.

“Shhhh,” he says, and then he’s gathered me in his arms. I cling to him as he carries me back to the bed and lays me down, naked except for my tank top, which he very slowly pulls off.

I cross my arms over my chest and tilt my head to the side, not looking at him.

“No,” he says, and eases my arms to my sides. He takes some pity on me, though, and doesn’t make me look at him.

Slowly, he explores my scars, as if I am a road map, his finger tracing over each of them. He speaks soothing words, and there’s no horror in his voice. No disgust. “This is what you were trying to hide. Why you’ve run from me. Why you wanted to be painted exactly the way you are.”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. He already knows.

“You’re a goddamn fool, Nikki Fairchild.” The harshness in his voice makes me turn my head. I look at him, expecting anger or disgust or exasperation. What I see is desire.

“I don’t want an icon. Not on my wall, not in my bed. I want the woman, Nikki. I want you.”

“I—”

He presses a finger over my lips. “Our deal is on. No arguments. No exceptions.”

He eases off the bed and goes to the window, then pulls down one of the drapes. I hear the rattle of the ornate clips that have connected the material to the bar.

“What are you doing?”

“What I want,” he says as he ties the end of the drape to the bedpost. “Raise your arms.”

My pulse quickens, but I comply. Right now, I don’t want to be in charge. I don’t want to control. I want to be swept away, to be taken care of.

Gently, he twists the drape around my wrist, then weaves it through the bedposts before repeating the process with my other wrist. Finally, he ties the loose end off on the other bedpost.

“Damien.”

“Hush.” He kisses the soft skin of my wrist, then trails his lips down my arm, my shoulder, then over the curve of my breast. His mouth closes over my right nipple, and he sucks hard, making the areola pucker and tingle as he twists and strokes my other breast. Hot threads seem to crisscross my body, tracing from my breasts to my clit. My sex is throbbing, and I bring my legs together, trying to quell some of the building pressure.

He lifts his head and grins at me, and his expression is so devilish that I’m certain he knows exactly how I’m suffering. Then he sets off on his trail of kisses once more, moving down my stomach, to my navel, to my pubic bone, and then—oh, yes, oh, please.

But he shifts his attention, sitting up and putting his hands on my knees. “Spread your legs, Nikki.”

I shake my head, and he chuckles, then stands up and rips down another drape.

“What are you doing?”

“You know.”

“Damien, no. Please, no.”

He pauses and looks at me. “Do you know what a safeword is?”

“I—yes. I think so.”

“No doesn’t always mean no. But the safeword always means stop. If I go too far, that’s what you say. Do you understand?”

I nod.

“What do you want your safeword to be?”

My vocabulary has entirely left my mind. I look around the room, as if something will leap out at me, then gaze out at the ocean. “Sunset,” I say finally.

His mouth curves into a smile, he nods, and then he ties the drape to the post at the foot of the bed. I swallow and watch him.

Slowly, he reaches for my right foot, easing my legs apart. He looks at me, and I see the question mark in his eyes.

“Will you hurt me?”

His eyes dart to my scars. “Do you want me to?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Do you know what passion is?”

I blink, confused.

“Most people think it only means desire. Arousal. Wild abandon. But that’s not all. The word derives from the Latin. It means suffering. Submission. Pain and pleasure, Nikki. Passion.” The flash of heat that burns across his expression is unmistakable. “Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitating.

“Then trust me to take you where you’ve never gone before.”

I nod, and he looks at me with such naked desire that warm satisfaction fills me. Gently, he binds my ankle, then moves on to the other. When he’s done, I’m spread-eagled on the bed, naked and helpless and undeniably turned on.

“You’re mine, Nikki. To touch. To soothe. To pleasure.” He tenderly cups my sex. I’m slick and hot and he groans with desire. “I want you, Nikki. I want to bury myself in you and fuck you hard. I want to hear you scream when you come. Tell me you want it, too.”

“Yes, oh, yes.” I’ve wanted it since he first touched me. Wanted to feel him inside me, filling me, claiming me.

He sits beside me on the bed, still in jeans and T-shirt. He trails his index finger up my stomach to my breasts. Slowly, he circles one, then the other. “Should I make you beg for it?” he teases.

“I will,” I say, utterly shameless.

His expression is devious. “I want you hot, I want you desperate.”