Complete Me (Stark Trilogy 3)

I need to feel the connection between us. I need to revel in it, to bathe in it.

I need to feel what I already know—that Damien is mine, and that I am and always will be his.

His hands are holding fast to my wrists, keeping my arms stretched above my head. He holds me tight, and I wince from the pain of my skin twisting in his grip, then cry out again when he violently kneads my breasts through my thin cotton shirt. “Do you like that?” he asks.

“Yes, oh, God, yes.”

He lowers his mouth to my breast, suckling through my shirt before shoving it up, then tugging my breast free from my bra. He is straddling me at the hips, and I am breathing hard, unable to move as his hands hold me down and his mouth closes over my now bare breast. He draws the nipple in between his lips, sucking so intensely that I arch up, then cry out when he bites down, his teeth drawing tighter than the little silver rings from the night before.

He pulls away, tugging the nipple with him, and I arch up, wanting more—wanting that sensual bite, that seductive sting.

“Tell me what you need,” he demands.

“You,” I say. “I need you.”

“Goddammit, Nikki,” he growls, “that’s not what I mean. Tell me what you need.”

And that’s when I realize—of course he saw the flute. Of course he knew what I was thinking. Damien knows; hell, he always knows.

“I need you,” I repeat hoarsely. “That’s all I need. I wasn’t going to do it, I swear. I thought about it, but I wasn’t going to do it.”

“Oh, baby.” His mouth closes over mine, and he is kissing me, wild and hungry and with so much fervency I feel as though we will both get lost in it. His hands move over my body and I writhe under his touch, every sense firing. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I brought you there, and I’m so fucking sorry.”

“No,” I say. “It’s me. Only me. And you’re what keeps me strong. Oh, God, Damien, please,” I add, because I cannot have his hands on me and have this conversation at the same time. “Now, please, I need you now.”

“Nikki.” My name is an anthem as his fingers thrust aside the negligible material of my thong and his fingers sink deep inside my already dripping cunt. “Oh, baby.”

I shift my hips and struggle against his hand that still holds me fast. Whatever anger or hurt I’d felt moments ago has completely evaporated. This is Damien, the man that I love. The man that I need, and I want him inside me. I want him touching me. I want—dear God, I simply want.

He releases his hold on me to unfasten his pants and free his cock. I tilt my head up, then suck in air when I see him, thick and hard. I shift my arm, my fingers itching to stroke him.

“No,” he says, and I have to bite my lower lip to hold back my cry of disappointment as I comply, keeping my arms stretched high above my head.

“Hurry,” I beg. I spread my legs wider, desperate for him. I am liquid flame. I am hedonism personified. I am lust and need and passion.

And then he is above me, his mouth upon mine, wild and wet even as the head of his cock slides over my sex, cruelly teasing me but never entering me.

I arch and writhe, begging him with my body, and when that doesn’t work I nip his lower lip with my teeth and demand, “Now, Damien, fuck me now.”

And then I moan as he thrusts hard inside me. My skirt is around my waist, my thong shoved to one side. He balances with one hand beside our joined bodies. The other hand is twined with my fingers above my head.

The plane hits a pocket of air, and I cry out in alarm and pleasure as we free-fall, then slam back at altitude, the motion thrusting Damien even deeper inside of me. I want my hands to be free—I want to cup his ass and push him hard inside me—but he is giving me no leeway. He breaks the kiss and as he balances above me, he looks deep in my eyes. Our bodies are touching only where his hand circles my wrist and where his cock is thrusting so enticingly in and out of me.

“That’s it, baby,” he says, going deeper with each stroke, his body rubbing my clit with each motion. “I want to watch your face as you explode. I want to know that I’ve taken you to the brink, and then I want to go over the edge with you.

“Come on,” he urges as the storm rises like a wellspring of colors inside me. “Come on, baby—oh, yes,” he groans as my body explodes around his. The orgasm ripples through me, making me arch up and cry out and writhe with a wanton desperation. I’m not sure if I’m trying to escape this riot of sensation or if I’m trying to make it go on and on. All I know is that Damien has not stopped thrusting and the muscles of my sex are still spasming around him and I am clawing at the cover on this bed and arching up and trying to breathe and—

“Oh, God,” I cry as one final, violent jolt of electricity cuts through me just seconds before Damien finds his own release. I collapse, limp, onto the bed and though my eyes are heavy, I cannot pass up the joy of watching pure sensual satisfaction play across his face. Then he smiles at me, his expression so tender that I can think of nothing more than curling up next to him.

As if in answer to my thought, he lowers himself beside me, and the hand that just a few minutes ago held so fast to my wrist now traces lazy strokes down my arm.

“Welcome to the Mile High Club,” he says, and I burst out laughing.

I roll closer and nestle against him, sated and satisfied and happy. “You are what I need, Damien. You’re all that I need.”

I have surrendered to this man completely, and now, once again, it feels wholly right. Between Damien and me, sex is as necessary as conversation. It is our method of discovery. Our sharing of trust. And our ultimate surrender.

It is, I think, his “I love you” spoken with his body, if not with his words.

I’m drifting, neither awake nor asleep, when Damien’s words bring me fully back to myself. “No matter what the German court decides, there’s a good chance those pictures are going public.”

There is no emotion in his voice, and that chills me more than anything. I don’t move. We are spooned together, my back against his chest, his arm draped over my waist. I keep my eyes closed, as if that somehow makes the words less real. “Why would you say that?”

“I think your earlier thought was right,” he says. “I think my father might be the one behind this.”

“Damien, no.” I roll over now—I have to see him. “Do you really think so?”