Take Me (Stark Trilogy 3.1)

“Damn straight,” I say, then capture his mouth in a kiss.

His arms go around me and he pulls me close, until I have no choice but to straddle him if I want to sit in any sort of comfortable position.

Not that straddling Damien is a hardship, especially when his erection is rubbing against my folds in a way that is very effectively taking my mind off the day’s drama.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, trapping me in the circle of his arms.

“I’m proud of me, too,” I say. “I took control of the situation. I decided what I wanted for this wedding, and I did what had to be done.” I kiss him. “I think I’m going to make a habit of going after the things I want.”

“Haven’t you always?”

I press a finger over his lips. “That’s not the point.”

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” I say, reaching between us to cup my hand around his erection. Slowly, I stroke the length of him. “Taking control can be very rewarding,” I say.

“Oh, yes.” His voice sounds raw.

“Something wrong, Mr. Stark?” I ask innocently. “You seem distracted.”

“On the contrary,” he says. “I’m very focused. Very aware.”

“Are you?” I increase the pressure on his cock, then tease the tip with my thumb.

He sucks in air, and I see the shudder cut through him and the heat in his eyes.

He looks at me, and I smile, slow and easy and with all sorts of promise.

“Kiss me,” he says. “Ride me.”

Now it’s my turn to shudder in anticipation. I rise up, capturing his mouth in a kiss that is hot and deep and demanding. His tongue wars with mine, thrusting and teasing. I lower myself onto his cock and ride him, lifting myself up and down in a frantic rhythm that sends water sloshing around the tub.

Over and over, deeper and deeper, until I have no choice but to break the kiss, because I have to arch back simply from the weight of the pleasure that is shooting through me.

When I do, his mouth closes over my breast, and his teeth nip at me, the pain sending hot wires of pleasure down through my body to my cunt, to that deep place inside me that he’s touching, thrusting against with every stroke, building a delicious pressure that grows and grows until finally we explode together, sending water flying out of the tub and me collapsing back against Damien’s chest in utter satisfaction and release.

We stay that way until we fear that we will shrivel in the tub, then Damien lifts me out, dries me off, and carries me to the bed, tucking me gently under the cool sheets.

“You haven’t told me what you’re doing about your dress,” Damien says moments later as we twine together in the bed, half drifting off to sleep.

“I went back inside after Mother left,” I tell him. “It’s not perfect, but they had a dress that was my size in the back.”

“Do you like it?”

I shrug. The truth is that it’s a lovely dress that any bride would be thrilled with. But it’s not my dress, and what girl is happy with sloppy seconds?

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, kissing my bare shoulder.

“It’s okay, really. I promise you’ll think I’m stunning.”

“I always do.”

I smile, and I’m still smiling as I start to drift off. I’m just about to slide into the sweet oblivion of sleep when I remember one other thing. “You still awake? I have a brilliant idea.”

“I’m always awake for brilliance,” he says.

“I got the idea from those tweets of us from Raven.”

“Us?”

“Us girls,” I clarify.

“Uh-huh. If this is about inviting the Raven men to the wedding, I’m going to exercise my veto power.”

“Very funny. No, I was thinking about our photographer problem. I know I told you I wanted to make sure we had wedding portraits, but we can sit for a portrait anytime. Besides, I want to remember the day, not a pose. And I was thinking that we could do the same thing all those folks did in tweets.”

“Which is?”

“Candid shots. We give each guest a camera as a wedding souvenir. And then we have them drop the memory cards in a bowl before they leave. We’ll get a ton of fabulous pictures of our friends, us, dancing, eating. They won’t be professional, but they’ll be fun. And they’ll be us . And not the kind of tacky pictures that the paparazzi will snap from the beach. What do you think?”

“I think you’re brilliant,” he says. “Brilliant and beautiful. And I cannot wait to be your husband.”

I smile in contentment and love. “Me, either,” I say, and then, finally, I close my eyes, snuggle closer to Damien, and let sleep tug me under.

Damien is already gone when I wake up on Friday. He’s left word with Grayson that he has some business to attend to before we leave on our honeymoon and that he will either be at the office or looking at various properties with Mr. Black.

I put a waffle in the toaster—which pretty much sums up my culinary skills—and eat it without syrup on the patio while I make some morning phone calls. The first one is to Sylvia, and I explain my plan about the cameras. She thinks it’s brilliant, and swears that she has plenty of time to handle it.

“I’ll make sure they’re delivered by morning. Seriously, Nikki, don’t worry about it. Rest a little today. You deserve it. And you’ll need it for your honeymoon.”

I roll my eyes, but since she’s right, I don’t argue. Instead, I actually do the delegation thing and email her the names of three bands I auditioned, liked, but rejected. It’s not a perfect solution, but it is a low-stress one. She promises to call them, see who’s still available, and to pick the best one.

I thank her and sign off, then try to decide on the appropriate form of pre-wedding relaxation. I actually managed to finish Damien’s scrapbook last night, so that’s out. And while my own work has been stacking up, somehow the idea of getting onto the computer and programming just doesn’t appeal.

About the only thing that does, actually, is a walk along the beach. And since I don’t want to go alone, I head downstairs to the first-floor guest suite, knock, and then head into Jamie’s darkened room.

Normally, I’d let her sleep. But since this is my last day as a single best friend, I figure an exception is in order. I pull the covers back and give her a little shake.

“Mmm, Ryan . . .”