Release Me: A Novel Part 6

"Don't be patronizing." I stop in the center of the room and glance around, taking in the collection of canvases that fill the s.p.a.ce. I pause, then deliberately turn and look him straight in the eye. "I a.s.sume you want a nude?"

I see the heat rising, struggling to burn through his mask. I force myself not to smile with victory.

He lifts a single brow. "I thought you were disinclined to help me."

"I'm in a charitable mood," I say. "So? Nude? Landscape? Still life with fruit? I'm a.s.suming that since we're here at Evelyn's show, you're thinking nude."

"It's certainly at the forefront of my mind, yes."

"Do you see anything here that appeals to you?"

"I do, actually."

He's looking right at me, and I think that maybe I've played this game a little too cavalierly. I know I should back off, but I don't. Maybe it's the tiny bubbles talking, but I like seeing the desire in him. No, that's not true. I like seeing him desire me.

It's a simple yet startling realization.

I clear my throat. "Show me."

"Pardon me?"

I have to force myself to sound nonchalant. "Show me what you like."

"Believe me, Ms. Fairchild, I'd be very happy to do that."

The hidden message in his words isn't very hidden, and I swallow. I opened this door. Kicked it open, really. But now I have to actually walk through it. I shift my weight, uneasy-and stumble on the d.a.m.n shoe.

He catches my arm, and I gasp as the shock of his touch against my bare skin rumbles through me.

"You need to take them off before you hurt yourself."

"Not happening. I don't do bare feet at parties."

"Fine." He takes my hand and leads me toward the hall with the velvet rope. He moves slowly, allowing for my sore feet, but then looks at me with a wicked grin. "Or perhaps I should simply use the caveman carry?"

My glare changes to a gape when he unfastens the velvet rope and steps into the darkened, private hall behind it. I hesitate, then follow. He rehooks the rope, then sits on the velvet-covered bench. He looks up at me without even a hint of apology, as if he owns the world and everything in it. Then he pats the seat next to him, and because my feet hurt and my head is spinning, I sit without argument.

"Now," he says. "Take your shoes off. No," he adds, before I can protest, "we're behind the rope, so we're not officially at the party now. You're not breaking any rules."

He says the last with a grin, and I match it without thinking.

"Move sideways," he instructs. "Put your feet in my lap."

Social Nikki would protest; I slide my feet up onto his trousered legs.

"Close your eyes. Relax."

I do, and for a moment there is nothing, and I fear that he's punking me, after all. Then his fingertip traces along the bottom of my foot. I arch back, surprised and delighted. The touch is featherlight and almost tickles, and when he does it again, I release a shuddering breath. My whole body stiffens as I concentrate only on that one spot. I feel the sparks shoot through me, and realize that I'm aroused.

I clutch the edge of the bench and let my head tilt back farther. A few tendrils of hair brush the nape of my neck. The combination of sensations-his touch on my feet, the soft caress of hair-is overwhelming. My head truly is spinning now, and not from the champagne.

He increases the pressure, using the pads of his thumbs to work the soreness out of my feet, then gently strokes the sensitive spots where my shoes have rubbed. It's slow. It's intimate. It's confusing as h.e.l.l.

I'm breathing hard, and I can't deny the small knot of panic that is beginning to unravel in my stomach. I've let down my guard. I've let things progress. I'm edging dangerously close to where I never, ever go-but d.a.m.n me, I don't know that I have the strength to turn back.

"Now," he says.

I open my eyes, confused, and the rapturous expression on his face almost does me in.

"I'm going to kiss you," he says, and before I even have a chance to process his words, his palm is pressed against the back of my head. Somehow, he's shifted our positions, and it's no longer my feet on his lap, but my thighs, so that our bodies are close and he's bent over me, his lips pressed against mine. I'm struck by how soft his mouth is, yet firm, too. He's completely in charge. Demanding. Taking exactly what he wants-and what I'm so willing to give.

I hear myself moan, and he takes advantage of my parted lips to dip his tongue inside.

He is an expert kisser, and I lose myself in the pleasure of it. I don't know when, but at some point I realize that one of my hands is clutching his shirt and the other is twined in his hair. It's thick and soft and I make a fist around a handful and use that to leverage his mouth even harder against mine. I want to lose myself in his kiss. I want to let the fire that's spreading over my body grow. Maybe it will consume me. Maybe, like a Phoenix, I will rise again after being incinerated by Damien Stark's touch.

His tongue strokes mine, sending erotic sparks dancing through me. My skin, already so sensitive just from his proximity, now seems like an instrument of torture, because the antic.i.p.ation of his touch is simply too much to bear. A low, demanding ache builds between my thighs, and I press my legs together in both defense and in an attempt at satisfaction.

He makes a growling noise and shifts me in his arms. Suddenly, his hand is on my hip and the soft material of my skirt caresses my skin as he glides over it toward my crotch. I tense, aroused and nervous, but I don't push him away. My body is pulsing, my c.l.i.t throbbing, and I want release. I want Damien.

His entire body is hard against mine. He holds me close and deepens the kiss as his hand slopes down toward my s.e.x, just slow enough to drive me crazy. I shift, leaving one leg on his thighs, but our position is awkward and my other leg slides off. I press the ball of my bare foot to the ground for balance even as I feel a rush of cool air find its way in underneath my skirt to tease my damp panties.

In this position I'm wide open and vulnerable, and Stark cups his hand over my s.e.x and moans into my mouth. Even through the material of my skirt and the satin of my panties, I can feel his heat. He strokes me through my clothes, his fingers teasing my c.l.i.t, making me so wet I think I will melt.

My skirt is. .h.i.tched up, but it still covers my thighs. Even so, he's close-so close to the secrets I don't want to share, and I know that if he tries to stroke my inner thighs that I will bolt. I'm nervous. Afraid, even. But danger and fear have added an edge to my excitement. I don't think I've ever been more turned on in my life.

His fingers tease me, making a wild fever burn through me. I'm right on the edge, just a little more- But then his hand is gone. I open my eyes, and for just an instant, his expression is warm and open, and I think that I'm the only thing in all the world that he sees. Then something alters, and his face changes as the mask clicks back into place. He shifts my position, pulling me up so that I am sitting half on his lap.

"Damien, what-"

But then I hear the voice behind me, a bright, cheery feminine voice saying, "I've been looking everywhere for you. Are you ready?"

Oh my G.o.d. Did she just walk up? How long has she been there?

I look helplessly at Damien, but he doesn't notice. He's looking over my shoulder at whomever is speaking. "I need to see Ms. Fairchild home," he says, and I shift on the bench so that I can see behind me-and find myself looking at Audrey Hepburn.

She nods at me, smiles at Damien, then turns and walks away.

Gently, he slides me off his legs. He stands, then holds his hand out for me. "Let's go."

My legs are weak-my whole body still limp from his ministrations. But I shove my feet back into my shoes and follow him without question. I'm confused and embarra.s.sed and not entirely sure what to think.

We find Evelyn and say goodbye as we pa.s.s through the thinning crowd. She gives me a hug, and I promise to call her in a day or so. It's a promise I mean to keep.

At the door, he slips his jacket around my shoulders. We walk down the sidewalk to where a limo waits in the circular drive. A liveried driver holds open the back door, and Damien gestures for me to get inside. I haven't been in a limo since I was a kid, and I pause to take it all in. Black leather bench seats line the back and one side. On the other is a full bar, the crystal decanter and gla.s.ses twinkling from recessed lighting hidden in the polished wood of the bar. The floor is carpeted. The entire s.p.a.ce screams luxury and money and elegance.

I sit down on the backseat so that I'm facing the front of the car. The leather is soft and warm and seems to hug my body. I glance at the door, waiting for Damien to enter.

Except that he doesn't.

"Goodnight, Nikki," he says, in the same business voice I heard him using earlier in the evening. "I look forward to the presentation tomorrow."

And then he slams the door and walks away, back to Evelyn's house and Audrey Hepburn who's now silhouetted in the doorway holding out her hand to welcome him in.

7.

I am alone, and I'm angry, mortified, and embarra.s.sed.

I'm also turned on. Thus the embarra.s.sment.

It's my own d.a.m.n fault, of course. I'd been playing with fire-and I knew it.

Damien Stark is out of my league. More than that, he's dangerous. Why could Ollie see it and not me?

But I did see it.

That hardness in his eyes. The mask he pulls down so skillfully. My first instinct was to tell Damien Stark to f.u.c.k off. Why the h.e.l.l didn't I just go with that?

Because I thought I saw more than was actually there?

Because I wear a mask, too, and thought I'd found some sort of kindred spirit?

Because he's hot and so clearly wanted me?

Because part of me actually craves that danger?

I close my eyes and swallow. If this were a multiple choice test, I'd have to pick all of the above.

I tell myself it's just as well. At the most, Damien Stark wants to conquer me as he's conquered industry. And while I might crave the feel of his body against mine, I am now even more certain that I can never let that happen. I won't expose myself like that to a man who wants nothing more than a fast f.u.c.k-h.e.l.l, I don't want to expose myself like that to anyone. I don't want to hear the questions; I don't want to make the explanations. My secrets are bound up tight inside me.

I kick my shoes off, then lean my head back and keep my eyes closed. I'm thankful the limo ride is smooth, because my head is already spinning enough as it is.

The champagne that seemed like such a good idea at the time now seems rather foolish.

I'm starting to doze off when my phone jars me awake. I jerk upright and dig into my itty-bitty purse to retrieve it. I don't recognize the number, but since I've only given my new California number to Jamie and Carl, it doesn't take a degree in statistics to figure out it's one of them calling from an unfamiliar number or a telemarketer.

I answer, expecting Jamie, since I'm sure Carl wouldn't interrupt me, not if he thinks that alone time with me is what Stark wants.

"I am so wasted," I say, because if it's a telemarketer, it just serves them right.

"I'm not surprised," replies a familiar voice that does not belong to my roommate. "I believe I suggested you slow down."

"Mr. Stark? How did you get this number?" I push myself back upright too quickly.

"I wanted to hear your voice." His voice is low and sensual and despite everything I've been telling myself, it curls through me like liquid heat.

"Oh."

"And I'd like to see you again."

I force myself to breathe. "You will," I say primly, because I have to nip this in the bud. "I'll be at the meeting tomorrow."

"I'm very much looking forward to it. Perhaps it would have been more prudent for me to wait and talk to you then. But the thought of you relaxed and tipsy, leaning back against the leather of my limo ... well, that was an image I simply couldn't pa.s.s up."

My mind is in a whirl. What happened to the man who so coolly deposited me in the back of this car?

"I want to see you again," he repeats, this time more forcefully. I don't even pretend to misunderstand. He is not talking business.

"Do you always get what you want?"

"I do," he says simply. "Especially when the desire is mutual."

"It's not," I lie.

"Really?" I hear the interest in his voice. This is a game to him. I am a game to him. The thought p.i.s.ses me off, and I'm grateful. Angry Nikki has a lot more control than Wasted Nikki.

"Really."

"How did you feel when I put you in the limo?"

I shift uncomfortably. I'm not completely certain where this is going, but I'm pretty confident that I won't like getting there.

"Nichole?"

"Don't call me that," I snap.

I hear silence on the other end of the line and I realize that I'm afraid he's hung up.

"All right, Nikki," he says, as if he knows that he's soothing a very deep wound. "How did you feel when I put you in the limo?"

"I was p.i.s.sed. And you d.a.m.n well knew it."

"Because I was sending you home alone in a limo? Or because I was sending you home alone in a limo so that I could keep a date with a beautiful woman?"

"In case it escaped your notice, we barely know each other. You are perfectly ent.i.tled to go out with whomever you want, whenever you want."

"And you're within your rights to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous, and no, I wouldn't be within my rights. Let me repeat the salient point: I hardly know you."

"I see. So the fact that we crave each other doesn't play into it? Nor the fact that I made you wet? That I held your c.u.n.t in my hand and made you moan?"