I frown, remembering that I still have to find a photographer, and it’s already Thursday and the wedding is Saturday. Shit . If it weren’t my own wedding, I could take the pictures myself. For that matter, I suppose I could take my Leica to the ceremony . . .
I shake off the ridiculous thought. Honestly, the black camera strap would totally clash with my dress.
Still, I should use this time in the limo to be productive. Maybe call some of the folks on my initial list of maybes and see if they’re booked for the day. But my head is too light from my Manhattan indulgence, and all I want to do is sit back, enjoy the ride, and think about seeing Damien again in just a few minutes.
The fact that I tossed my phone across the bedroom and broke it also puts a crimp in my plan to manage a little work.
Frustrated at being without Damien, and irritated about my own foolish temper, I glance out the window and frown, because this isn’t the way that we usually go home. I am about to hit the button for the intercom when a phone rings, which is odd because there is no permanent phone in the back of the limo, and, as I have just reminded myself, my iPhone is toast.
The ring comes again.
I lean forward, cock my head, and decide the sound is coming from the bar. I get off the leather bench and move carefully in that direction. Another ring, and I narrow the source down to the ice bucket. I pull off the lid, glance down, and find a phone in the otherwise empty container.
With a grin, I answer the call. “Hello?”
“Ms. Fairchild,” he says—his voice is low and enticing and flows over me like warm chocolate.
“Mr. Stark,” I say, unable to hide my amusement. “Funny you were able to call me, since I have no phone.”
“I told you—I will always take care of your needs.”
I smile, feeling warm and satisfied. “Where are you?”
“I’m not with you,” he says. “Other than that, does it matter?”
My mouth curves into a smile. “No, but you’re wrong. You are with me. You’re always with me.”
There is a pause before he answers. “Yes,” he finally says, and I don’t think I have ever heard that simple word spoken with so much meaning and complexity before.
I sigh with satisfaction, then close my eyes. He may not be beside me, but for the moment, I am content.
“We’ve done this before,” he says. “You, alone in the back of my limo. Me, somewhere else, thinking of you. Imagining you. Wanting you.”
I swallow, my body already tightening in anticipation of where these words are going. Because we have done this before—and the caress of his voice upon me that night is one of my most treasured memories.
“Tell me what you did,” he says.
“That night in the limo?” I ask, though I know that is not what he means.
“Tonight. At Raven.”
“I watched the dancers.”
“What did they do?” His voice has a hard edge, and I shiver a little, remembering his promise to punish me.
“They danced,” I say. And then, because I’m feeling reckless, I add, “They stripped down to thongs. They were slick with oil. They got close.”
“How close?”
I think of the way the cowboy was gyrating right in front of my face. I remember the way that Jamie laughed and Lisa and Evelyn egged him on. “Pretty close,” I whisper.
“I see.”
There is a pause, and I squirm on the seat. My legs feel prickly, my sex clenches greedily. I’m thinking of Damien’s promise to punish me, and I yearn to be home. To feel his hands upon me.
“Did it turn you on?” he asks, with that low, dangerous tone.
I almost lie, but I can’t do that. “Yes,” I whisper. “But only because it made me think of you. Your body hard and naked in front of me. Your chest close to me. That thin strip of hair that leads down to your cock, so near I could lick it. And those amazing muscles that form a V as if arrowing down to heaven.”
“Christ, Nikki.”
I smile, pleased I can bring that ragged tone to his voice.
“Mostly, though, it turned me on because I was watching other men. Because they were nearly naked, and I knew that when I got home to you—” I cut myself off, my bravado suddenly evaporating.
“What?” he asks. “What will happen when you get home?”
“You said you’d punish me,” I say, so softly I’m not sure that he can hear me.
“Did I?” There is a note of triumph in his voice, and it makes me weak. “How should I punish you?”
I lick my lips. “You should probably spank me.”
“I probably should,” he agrees. “Would you like that?”
“Yes.” My voice is nothing more than a whisper of air.
“Why?”
I close my eyes. It’s a question that I expect whenever I ask for the pain, and I know that after my dreams he will be even more careful with me. I love that he understands me so well, but it means that I have to say aloud what I want from him, and that voicing of my desires is both awkward and undeniably exciting.
“Why, Nikki? I want to hear why you want the sting of my palm.”
I lick my lips, forcing them to wrap around my words. “Because of the way it feels.”
“Tell me.”
“Tiny pinpricks of pleasure,” I say, my soft words becoming bolder even as they sizzle through my body, sparking like currents of electricity that fire my senses. “They melt into heat, into liquid desire. It makes me wet, Damien, you make me wet.” I pause, knowing that my words have captured him. “Pleasure and pain, Damien, and you’re the only one I trust to give me both.”
For a long moment he is silent. Almost too long. And then I hear his intake of breath, followed by his slow, clear words. “There is no one else who has the power to tear me apart the way you do, Nikki. No one else who can reach in and squeeze my heart. You are my world, Ms. Fairchild, and I love you desperately.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“But, baby,” he adds, with a lightness now coloring his words, “that doesn’t change the fact that you were naughty.”
“Was I?” I am breathing hard now, anticipating what is to come.
“Have you seen the Internet?”
I frown. That wasn’t a question I was expecting. “Um, no.”