Complete Me (Stark Trilogy 3)

Tonight, all I want is for him to take me.

My body trembles as he approaches, his eyes never leaving mine. He reaches out, and his fingertips brush my neck, flicking lightly over the pearl necklace that I still wear. It is the slightest of contact, but it reverberates through me like an explosion.

I suck in air and tilt my head to the side, elongating my neck for him. My breath is ragged, my skin on fire. He leaves a trail of goose bumps on my neck before his fingertips gently graze the weave of my dress along my shoulder, and then once again stroke my sensitive skin to travel down my bare arm.

He breaks contact and steps away, and I want to weep from the loss.

“Yes,” he says, as if in answer to some question of his own. “This is how I want to see you, standing naked before the world. I want to look at you and know that you are mine.”

“You know I am.” My words are soft, barely a whisper.

“Say it,” he says.

“I’m yours,” I say, because I mean it. More than that, I understand why he wants to hear it. He’s taking back the control that had been wrenched from him—and he’s taking it back through me.

He moves his hand to the zipper at the back of my dress, then slowly tugs it down. Slowly, he brushes the dress off my shoulders. It falls to the floor, the circle of yellow like the petals of a flower. I am left in my newly purchased underwear. A demi-cup bra in a deep purple and matching thong panties. Damien looks me up and down, and there is no mistaking the heat in his eyes.

“Come with me.” He takes my hand and leads me a few steps farther to the window. It’s not floor to ceiling, but it’s close. We are right up against it. Another step and the window ledge would hit me just above the knees. Damien is behind me, his hands on my shoulders and the denim of his jeans rough and cool against my bare ass. In front of us, Munich is spread wide.

Slowly, Damien reaches around and unfastens the front clasp of my bra then eases the straps off my arms. He drops the garment to the floor as I instinctively try to cover myself. “No,” he says simply as he slides his arms down along mine, then holds me firmly at the wrists, my arms now at my sides.

“But the window,” I say, looking out at the stores and offices that rise around us. “The other buildings.”

“No one is watching. The glass is tinted, and there are no lights in here. No one can see.”

I relax infinitesimally.

“But even if they could . . . ” His voice trails off as he releases my wrists. His hands stroke my body, one trailing up until he finds my breast and the tight, puckered skin of my areola. The pad of his thumb flicks roughly over my nipple, and I gasp from the deep, decadent pleasure. His other hand slides down until his fingers sneak under the band of the thong to brush over my damp, trimmed pubic hair. He teases me, his fingers forming a V as he glides over my folds, coming so tantalizingly close to my clit that I want to cry out in frustration and beg him to please, just touch me.

“What if that’s what I wanted?” he whispers. He presses his lips to the back of my neck then lowers himself to trail kisses down my spine, leaving me shivering in the wake of his touch. The sun has dipped below the horizon, and the world outside is fast darkening, turning our window into a mirror. I meet my own eyes in reflection, and see my features soft with desire.

“What if I want you naked before the world, your legs parted, your cunt wet for me?” He is behind me, his hands stroking the curve of my hips. His breath teases the small of my back as much as his decadent words tease my imagination. I have never fantasized about exhibitionism, but right now, I am having a hard time thinking of anything but Damien touching me, Damien fucking me. I don’t give a damn about the windows, tinted or not. I don’t care who sees, I only want to surrender to Damien’s touch. His hands on me, his tongue stroking me, his cock deep inside me.

“Damien—” The word feels wrenched from me.

“Does it excite you?” he asks as he slowly stands, his body sliding against mine as he rises, the brush of his clothing rough against my skin. “Not knowing who might be watching, but knowing that I want you like this? That I want the whole goddamned universe to look down on us and know that no matter what, you belong to me?” He rests his left hand on my hip, his thumb hooked in the thong’s band. The other hand brushes over my belly, then eases down under the triangle of silk again.

I’m desperately wet, almost painfully turned on, and I silently pray for his touch, but once again it doesn’t come. Instead, I hear only his words. “I want you to tell me, Nikki. Does it turn you on?”

God yes. I have to fight to speak. “Keep going,” I manage. “Touch me and see for yourself.”

I hear his smile reflected in his chuckle. His fingers brush my skin, but he’s not going south. “Not unless I hear you say it.”

“Yes,” I breathe.

His lips are in my hair, and I feel the reverberation of his words as he whispers, “Me, too.”

I close my eyes, expecting his touch. Craving it. But still it doesn’t come. Instead, I feel the brush of his fingers over the band of this brand-new thong—and then the pressure as he rips it at the back seam. I gasp—surprised, yes, but also aroused by the violence of the action and by the rush of cool air against my damp sex as he pulls the panties away.

“What are you—?”

“Shhh,” he says. “Lean forward, hands on the window. No, don’t argue. Beautiful,” he adds when I comply, then punctuates his words by stroking my now completely bare ass. “Now spread your legs for me. Oh, God, Nikki,” he groans. “Do you have any idea how much I want you?”

“You have me.”

He slides his hands up over my hips, trailing up the curve of my waist. He presses his body against mine, his torso against my back and his hands upon my breasts. “I do,” he says. “But I’m not taking you. Not yet.”

A tremor runs through me, part frustration, part anticipation. I am so hot, so ready, and I do not know what to expect or where he is taking this. I only know that I want to find out.

He stands upright again, then circles me, finally stopping near my right hand, still splayed out against the window. “I like this,” he says, reaching out to run his finger along the pearl necklace that is the only thing I still wear. “It is said that oysters are a potent aphrodisiac, but I think that pearls are equally enticing. It’s rumored that Cleopatra crushed one and drank it in wine in order to render herself irresistible to Mark Antony. But I think I prefer them as an adornment. For that matter, I can think of a few other adornments that I would like to see.”