Claim Me (Stark Trilogy 2)

With Damien, however, I don’t have to beg. As soon as he has fastened the other shoe, he puts my feet on the ground. Because of the heels, my knees now rise above the bench, which means my skirt has lifted a bit as well, giving the man in front of me an even more intimate view.

Gently, he presses his palm against my bare knee. Then he leans in and brushes his lips over the sensitive skin on the inside of my right thigh. I shiver from the contact, the pressure from the cord making the sensation that much more erotic.

“You’re like a drug to me.” Damien’s voice is low and his breath upon my skin is so tantalizing that I have to close my eyes and clutch the bench even tighter. “I wasn’t going to touch you—not yet. But I don’t have the strength to deny myself the taste of you.”

“Yes.” It is the only word I can manage, but right then it is the only word that matters.

His hands ease up my legs as he presses gentle kisses along the insides of my thighs.

“Up,” he says, as he pushes at the skirt. I rise off the bench and he lifts the skirt over my rear so that when I sit back down, my bare ass is against the warm leather bench. His hands are still on my hips, and his thumb gently strokes the worst of my scars. The one where I’d cut too deep and been too scared to go to the ER. I’d fixed myself up with duct tape and superglue. I’d survived, but the scar now acts as a hideous reminder of the emotional damage that had put it there in the first place.

Between my legs, Damien’s lips brush over another angry scar. “You are so beautiful,” he murmurs. “Strong and beautiful, and mine.”

I tremble and blink back tears. I desperately hope that he is right, but I still fear that my strength is like a rubber band. Stretch me too far, and I will snap.

I can’t worry about that now, though. I can’t think about anything except the brush of Damien’s lips against my skin and the pressure of his hands upon my legs.

Gently, he urges my thighs farther apart and I comply willingly, almost desperately. I need him now—need to lose myself in his touch—and Damien does not disappoint. I feel his breath upon my sex, and my own breath comes faster, my breasts rising and falling, my nipples tight against the knit sweater.

He teases me, his tongue gently stroking the tender flesh between my legs and my vulva. I squeeze my eyes tight and try not to squirm. I cannot help it, though, and when I do, that wonderful, damnable cord slides over my dripping sex. I am so wet, so turned on, and just that tiny bit of friction is enough to shoot electricity all through me. I curl my toes in the shoes, shifting them so that only the points touch the ground and my knees raise even higher. I want more—so help me, I need more—and then, thank God, his tongue flicks gently over my clit and that is all it takes. I shatter, leaning back, my hands gripping the bench so hard I’m afraid I might dent the frame.

He holds me in thrall, his mouth pleasuring me so fully, his tongue dipping intimately inside me. The orgasm that is racking my body seems to go on forever, and I squeeze my legs shut, trapping Damien, not certain if I am trying to ensure that he never stops, or trying to make him stop because I cannot possibly survive such an onslaught of pleasure.

I feel the stubble of his beard against my thigh and gasp, then realize that I have been holding my breath. I lean forward, my senses returning, and twine my fingers in his hair. I don’t want him to stop, and yet right then, I need his arms around me. I need to hold him close and kiss him, and I roughly pull him up. I claim his mouth with my own, kissing him fiercely and relishing the taste of me upon his lips.

“Take me to bed,” I plead moments later. I’ve had only a taste of Damien, and like a long-starved refugee, I am nowhere close to having my fill. “Please, take me to bed,” I repeat.

“Not yet,” Damien says, and his eyes are dark with promise. “First, I’m going to take you out.”

I shift on the soft, leather passenger seat as Damien maneuvers the sleek and speedy Bugatti Veyron onto the Pacific Coast Highway. Damien has not actually said as much, but I think that of all his cars, this one is his favorite. It’s certainly the one we use the most, and I have even managed—finally—to memorize the make and model. Now it’s “the Bugatti,” not “that unpronounceable car.”

He’s smiling, obviously enjoying putting the car through its paces, leading us away from Malibu to God knows where. He hasn’t told me, and I haven’t asked. Wherever we’re going, I trust that it will be fabulous, and I am happily lost in the pleasure of watching him. Damien Stark, my playful, sexy billionaire. I smile even broader. Mine, I think. That is what he said about me. That I am his.

But is the reverse really true? Is Damien mine? For that matter, can a man like Damien Stark—a man who holds power close, but his secrets closer—ever belong to anyone?

His attention shifts from the road, and his brows rise in question, creating two horizontal furrows on an otherwise perfect forehead. “Penny for your thoughts,” he says.

I force my lips to curve, banishing my worries. “I haven’t taken a look at your balance sheets, but I think you’re worth more than a penny, Mr. Stark.”

“I’m flattered.”

“At my assessment of your value?”

“That you were thinking of me,” he says, taking his eyes off the road long enough to meet my eyes. “Then again, I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. There isn’t a moment that goes by that I don’t think of you.” His words are as smooth as whiskey and just as intoxicating. “Even at the bargain-basement price of a penny, if I was required to pay each time my thoughts turned to you, my fortune would have evaporated days ago.”

“Oh.” My smile is soft and ridiculously, foolishly shy. He has, in that Damien Stark way that he has, completely banished my troubled thoughts. “I guess I won’t charge you, then. I’d hate to see you destitute.” I flash an impish grin as I snuggle back against the soft leather seat. “I like your cars too much.”

“I imagine they make putting up with me more palatable.”

“Oh, absolutely,” I say. “The cars, the clothes, the jet.” I’m counting on my fingers now.

“The paparazzi?” He glances sideways at me, and even in that quick flick of his gaze, I see the concern on his face.

I grimace. “They make me want to pull out my Leica and snap pictures of them. Then we’d see how they like it.” I frown. “On the other hand, I love that camera.” I think back to the day that Damien surprised me with it after I’d told him how I dabble in photography. “I don’t want to soil it by taking pictures of them.” I say the last word as if there’s a nasty taste in my mouth.