Release Me: A Novel Part 7

He's about to make me moan again, but I manage to remain valiantly silent.

"Tell me then, at what level of intimacy can jealousy rear its head?"

"I-I've drunk my weight in champagne tonight. I am not even going to attempt to answer that."

He laughs, full and genuine. I like the sound. And, yes, I like Damien Stark. He's not what I expected, but there's something compelling about him-and it's more than just the fact that he's hotter than sin and got me worked up into quite a lather. He seems perfectly comfortable in his own skin. I'm reminded of Evelyn, who so brashly told me that if her party guests didn't like the way she ran the event, they could leave. I'd been shocked-my mother would have had a coronary right then and there. But I'd also been impressed.

As far as I can tell, Damien Stark takes that att.i.tude to an extreme.

"Her name is Giselle," he says, and his voice is soft. "She owns the gallery that's showing Blaine's work."

"I thought Evelyn was showing the work."

"Evelyn hosted the party. She's become something of a patron for Blaine. But tomorrow morning the paintings will be transported to Giselle's gallery. This c.o.c.ktail date with Giselle and her husband has been on my calendar for over a week now. It's business, and not something I could get out of. But I did step away in order to call you."

"Oh." Her husband. "Oh."

On the one hand, I'm frustrated that I'm so transparent. On the other hand, he's calling to soothe me, and the sweetness of that gesture moves me. Of course, I shouldn't let it. I should be strong and tell him he shouldn't have bothered. Because whatever is happening between us, it needs to be quickly nipped in the bud.

"So where are you?" I ask, completely ignoring my own wise counsel.

"Sur la Mer," he says, naming a Malibu restaurant and bar that's so chic even I've heard of it.

"I've heard it's excellent."

"The food is exquisite," he says, "but it's the ambience that really sets the place apart. It's charming, but intimate. It's the perfect place to have a drink and discuss business when one doesn't want to be overheard. Or to not discuss business, for that matter."

The intimate edge has crept back into his voice, and I squirm a little. "And you're there strictly for business?"

His low chuckle rocks through me. "I a.s.sure you that a tryst with Giselle and her husband is not on the agenda. I'm not interested in men. Or in married women."

I keep silent.

"I want to see you again, Nikki. And I think you would enjoy the food here very much."

"Just the food?" In my head the words had been teasing. Out loud, they are soft and provocative. I close my eyes, trying to steady myself before I go hurtling down that slippery slope.

"Well, the coffee is good, too."

"I-I like coffee," I admit. I take a deep breath. "But I don't think it's a good idea."

"Thousands of coffee bean growers across the globe would disagree with you."

"Dinner. Coffee. A date. With you. I don't think it's a good idea."

"Really? I find it exceptionally appealing."

"Mr. Stark ..."

"Ms. Fairchild," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice.

"You're exasperating."

"So I've been told. But I prefer the word 'persistent.' I don't take no for an answer."

"Sometimes, that's the only answer there is."

"Perhaps. But this isn't one of those times."

I can't help but smile as I settle more comfortably back against the soft leather upholstery. "Isn't it? You forget that I'm the one who has to say yes or no, and I've already told you my answer, and I don't intend to change it."

"No?"

"Sorry. But I'm afraid you've met your match, Mr. Stark."

"I certainly hope so, Ms. Fairchild," he says.

I frown a bit as I try to guess just where he's shifting the conversation. Because I know d.a.m.n well he's not giving in. To be honest, I'd be disappointed if he was.

"I asked you this once and you evaded the question. Let me try again-are you attracted to me?"

"I-excuse me?"

His laugh is low and soft. "I'm quite certain you heard me, but in the interest of fair play, I'll repeat the question. Slowly and clearly. Are you attracted to me?"

I open my mouth, then shut it again because I have absolutely no idea how I should respond.

"It's not a trick question," he says, though of course I know it is.

"I am," I finally say, because it's the truth and I have no doubt he knows it. "But so what? What straight female on this planet isn't attracted to you? I'm still not going out with you."

"I get what I want, Nikki. You should know that about me right from the start."

"And you want dinner with me? I'd think a man in your position would want something a bit more impressive. Like to colonize Mars."

"Dinner is just the beginning. I want to touch you," he says, his voice low and commanding. "I want to run my hands over every inch of you. I want you wet for me. I want to finish what we started, Ms. Fairchild. I want to make you come."

8.

It is suddenly very, very hot in the limo, and I seem to have forgotten the basic steps required for breathing.

I don't think ...

I realize the words are only in my head and try again. "I don't think that's a good idea."

"It's an extremely good idea. h.e.l.l, it's all I've been thinking about since I put you in that limo. Touching you again. Stroking you. Kissing you."

I squirm, determined to hold it together. But I am weak and well-liquored, and my determination is fraying around the edges.

"Tell me you haven't thought of it, too."

"I haven't," I say.

"Don't lie to me, Nikki. That's rule number one. Never lie to me."

Rules?

"Is this a game?" I ask.

"Isn't everything?"

I don't answer.

"Simon Says, Nikki. Have you played before?" His soft voice is like a caress.

"Yes."

"Is the privacy screen in place?"

I glance up. I'm at the very back of a very long limo. I can see the driver in the front, his shoulders in the black jacket, the stark white of his shirt collar. He has reddish hair, mostly hidden by a black cap. It seems to me that he is a million miles away. But he's not, he's right there, probably listening to every word we've been saying.

"He's very discreet," Damien says, as if reading my thoughts. "But why torment the man? The silver b.u.t.ton on the console behind you controls the screen. Do you see it?"

I twist around and see a bank of b.u.t.tons set into the paneling behind me. "Yes."

"Push it."

"You didn't say Simon says."

His low chuckle delights me.

"Good girl. Are you suggesting you'd rather leave it down? Think before you answer, Nikki. For what I have planned, most women would like some privacy."

I lick my lips. If I push that b.u.t.ton I'm saying yes to so much more than the d.a.m.n screen.

Do I want that? He's talking about seeing me naked. About touching me. About kissing me. About running his fingers over my skin.

I rest my finger lightly on the b.u.t.ton, remembering the feel of his hand. Remembering how I almost let him get too close, how I almost revealed too much.

But he's not in the car. I can do this. I can lose myself to the champagne and the night and the allure of Damien Stark.

But am I leading him on? Making him think that fantasy will become reality?

I swallow again, because I don't care. I want the release. I want this man's voice in my head and the fantasy of his hands on my body. He'll deal. He has rules? Screw that. Right now, I'm making my own d.a.m.n rules.

I press the b.u.t.ton.

Slowly, the privacy screen rises, and I'm alone in the luxurious comfort of Damien Stark's stretch limo. "It's up," I say, but my voice is so soft I'm not certain he heard it.

"Take off your panties."

Apparently he heard it.

"What if I told you I already did?"

"I'm in public, Ms. Fairchild. Don't torment me."

"You're tormenting me," I retort.

"Good. Now take them off."

I lift my skirt and slide my panties down. My shoes are already off, so it's easy. I leave them on the seat beside me.

"They're off," I say. And then, because I'm making this into my fantasy, too, "I'm wet."

His low groan sends a spark of satisfaction running through me. "No talking," he says. "And no touching. Not unless I tell you to. That's the game, Nikki. You do what I say, and only what I say. Are we clear?"

"Yes," I murmur.

"Yes, sir," he corrects. His voice is gentle, but firm.

Sir?

I say nothing.

"Or I can simply hang up." His voice is hard, but I think I hear triumph. I frown, because I don't want to give him the satisfaction of winning this battle, but I also don't want the game to end. And I'm certain Mr. Nice to Ice means what he says.

I swallow my pride. "Yes, sir."

"Good girl. You want me, don't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want you, too. Does that make you wet?"

"Yes ..." The word comes out strangled. The truth is, I'm aching now. Hot and wet and desperately turned on. I have no idea what he has planned, but I know I'll agree to anything if only he'll take this further. Take me further.

"Put your phone on speaker and leave it on the seat beside you. Then lift up your skirt and sit back down. I want your naked a.s.s on the leather. I want you wet and slippery on that seat, so that when I get in that limo later tonight, I can lose myself in the scent of you."

"Yes, sir," I manage to say as I comply. The brush of my skirt against the bare flesh of my thighs is achingly erotic, but the feel of the warm leather against my naked rear makes me moan.