Release Me (14 page)

“Did you feel harassed last night?”

“No,” I admit. As much as I’d like to take the easy way out, I can’t lie to him.

I see the relief wash over his face, banishing the anger. Or was it fear? I’m not sure, and it doesn’t matter. Right now, I see only desire.

“I thought about you last night,” he says. “Giselle and Bruce will probably never have me out for drinks again. I was terrible company.”

“I’m so sorry to have ruined your evening.”

“Hardly,” he said. “And the ride home—I think that was the first time in my life I wanted a drive to be longer. Me, alone in the back of the limo, surrounded by the scent of you.”

He doesn’t mention the panties. I wonder if he’s found them. And if he hasn’t …

Oh, dear. Who else does he let use that limo?

I feel my cheeks warm, and from the way his eyes crinkle with amusement, I know that he’s noticed.

“I imagined undressing you,” he says, reaching for the top button on my blouse. He pops it open effortlessly. “I pictured you naked.”
Pop
, another button. “You’re beautiful,” he whispers.

With the side of his thumb, he gently strokes the swell of my breast and the lace of my white satin bra.

My breath catches in my throat. I open my mouth to tell him to stop, but no words come out.

His hands find the bra’s front clasp, and as efficiently as he unbuttoned my blouse, he’s released me from my bra, which hangs limp from my shoulders. His groan is low and needful and desperately arousing. I want nothing more than to close my eyes and surrender, but I can’t, I can’t—

“Damien, please.”

He lifts his eyes to mine. He’s breathing hard, and there’s longing in the hard angles of his face. “Free will, Nikki. Tell me to stop, and I will. But tell me fast, because I’m going to kiss that damnable mouth of yours, and goddammit, Nikki, I’m doing it to keep you quiet.”

Faster than I can react, his mouth covers mine. Claiming me, marking me. Making me his. My mind goes blank, all thoughts dissolving, replaced only by pleasure and the need to be claimed by this man. To open my mouth and take and be taken.

Blindly, I grope for him, my fingers clutching at his hair, pulling him closer. It’s as if all my protestations have been nothing but a sham, and now that they’ve been beaten aside, the pressure of emotion—of
need
—that’s been building inside me has to burst out, wild and hot and desperate and demanding. The kiss lasts either seconds or an eternity, I’m not sure. But when he releases me, I suck in air, craving oxygen because I am light-headed and weak.

This is my chance, and I know it. Tell him to stop now, and he will. Tell him to leave me alone, and he’ll walk out of my life.

I throw myself at him
. Wanton. Willful. I’m risking everything, but right then I don’t care. All I can feel is the fire.

Our mouths clash as I draw him in, and he’s right there, tasting me, his low moan of pleasure making all my risks worthwhile.

He breaks our kiss roughly, then closes his mouth on my neck. I gasp and arch back, and as I do, his hands slide into my shirt, cupping my breasts, and then his mouth is there, suckling, drawing me in until my nipple is a tight pearl against his teeth. I realize he’s tugged me closer, so that my ass is barely on the bar stool and his thigh is wedged between my legs. I’m bucking against him because the pleasure has shot like a hot spark from my breast to my sex.

“Baby,” he whispers, as he comes up for air. His fingers quickly finish unbuttoning my shirt, and his hands ease down to my waist, leaving my skin hot and prickly in his wake. He slides me off the stool so that I am standing in front of him. I’m damp from the heat of my desire, and my body aches all over, craving his touch.

“So soft,” he says, as he untucks my shirt and brushes his fingers lightly over my skin. His fingers skim around the waistband of my skirt, then slowly unzips it. It falls a bit, hanging loose around my hips. “So damn beautiful.”

The awe in his voice unnerves me, and cold fingers of trepidation creep in beneath the fog of pleasure.

I tremble, not sure if it’s from my fears or from his touch. “Reach back,” he orders. “Hold on to the stool.”

“Damien …” I hear the protest in my trailing voice, but my actions don’t match my words. I do as he says, my hands clutched tight, my back arched, my head tilted back with pleasure.

He opens my blouse fully, so that the thin material hangs limply on either side of me, and I feel the gentle flutter of the
edges against my bare flesh. He brushes his mouth over my nipples, and I groan, wanting to feel him suckle me, but he’s only teasing, and with each soft, feathertouch of a kiss upon my nipple, I feel my sex tighten and throb. I want him—I want him desperately. And yet I don’t. And all I can do is hold tight to the stool and try to ride out the storm, afraid all the while that I will shatter and break.

“Did you know you glow?” he asks. He is trailing kisses down my cleavage, to my belly, to the waistline of my skirt. I tense, afraid he’s going to slide the skirt the rest of the way down over my hips and leave me exposed in the tiny bikini panties I put on that morning.

He doesn’t, though, and I glory in the brief reprieve. Instead, he pulls me roughly to him, then shifts our positions, so that he is the one leaning against the bar, and I am in front of him. “Turn around,” he says roughly, but doesn’t wait for me to comply. Instead he turns me, and I feel his mouth tug at my earlobe even as one of his hands closes over my naked breast.

His other hand snakes around my waist, and he pulls me tighter against him. I gasp, both in surprise from the quick motion and from the pressure of his denim-clad cock against the swell of my ass.

“Damien,” I whisper, my voice a plea. But whether I’m begging him to stop or continue, even I don’t know.

His mouth is at my ear, his voice so carnal, so full of lust, it makes my clit throb. “I’m going to fuck you, Nikki. Pleasure? We’re going to blow the roof off pleasure. I’m going to make you beg for it. I’m going to claim you. I’m going to tease you. I’m going to torment you. And you’re going to come for me like you’ve never come in your life.”

I can barely breathe I’m so turned on by the power of his words. And as he’s talked, his hand has been snaking down under the waistband of my skirt, over my panties to cup my swollen, dripping cunt.

“You’re so wet,” he whispers. “Oh, baby, you’re soaking.”

I make some sort of rough noise in my throat. Maybe a response, I’m not sure. I’m shifting my weight shamelessly, wanting to feel his fingers against my swollen clit. What was it he’d said about making me beg? I was on the verge right then.

He roughly yanks my panties to the side, and in what feels like one movement, he slides two fingers into me. “Tell me you like that.” His voice is rough, demanding.

“Yes. God, yes.” My vagina spasms around him as his fingers move in and out, finger-fucking me, teasing my clit, and sending me higher and higher until I’m close, so close, so close.

I cry out as he pinches my nipple, and the delicious pain triggers my release. I come in violent, shuddering waves, his fingers still inside me, my body trying to draw him in, to keep him there, to hold on to the moment.

“Nikki,” he whispers, gently pulling out of me. He turns me around—I am a limp rag—and his mouth closes over the tender nipple. He suckles it, pinching and pulling at the other one, the sensation of near-pain keeping my sensitive sex throbbing. Slowly, he kisses his way down my cleavage, my belly. I’m still in my skirt, and as his tongue dips into and out of my belly button, I hear the rough scrape of his palms over the raw silk of my skirt.

I am jelly. I am lost in a haze. I am floating.

But even here in my new heaven, that low rumble of fear is growing. I know what’s coming, and even though I want it—want him—I don’t think I’m strong enough yet to stand it. But maybe … maybe …

He wants
you.
Your snark. Your attitude
.

I cling to Jamie’s words, hoping, even as Damien whispers that I’m beautiful, beautiful, so very, very beautiful. “I have to taste you,” he says. “I want to lick all of that sweetness up and then kiss you. I want you to know how fucking amazing you taste.”

His hands have reached the hem of my skirt, and now his
fingers graze along my stockings as he pushes the skirt up, up until he’s reached the band of my thigh-high stocking, and I’m no longer breathing and holding so tight to his shoulders that I fear I may break a bone.

And then his hands are on my flesh, rising above the tops of the stockings, and he’s stroking the soft inner thigh, and I know the hard, swollen ugliness he’ll feel as his hands climb higher and higher. I tense, fighting shame and fear and pain and memories. They beat their way in, through the haze of lust and desire. Through the sweet moment of being in Damien’s arms.

I try to battle it back, the voice in my head that tells me to run. I don’t want to run. I want to try. I want to stay and I want to feel and I want to get lost in Damien’s touch. I’m so hot and I almost believe what Jamie has said about him wanting me, me,
me
.

But then he whispers the one word that destroys everything. The one word that makes the fantasy disappear.

“Perfect,” he says. “Dear God, Nikki, you’re perfect.”

I jerk away, twisting sideways and banging my thigh against the side of the bar as I shove free from Damien’s embrace.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t look at him. “I have to go. I’m sorry.” I yank my skirt down and reach back to zip it. My fingers shake as I button my blouse. I don’t bother with my bra, but hold my jacket closed with one hand as I hurry toward his foyer.

“Nikki—”

There’s pain and confusion in his voice, and I feel like shit because I’m the reason it’s there and he doesn’t deserve this. I should have cut this off sooner. Hell, I should have cut it off last night.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, even though it’s lame. I’m at the elevator, and the doors open the instant I press the button. I’m relieved; I was afraid I’d have to wait for it. But then I realize that Damien is on the premises, so of course his elevator is going to be parked wherever he is.

I step inside and stand erect until the doors shut tight. Then I melt against the glass panel and let the tears flow. I have fifty-seven
floors to get them out of my system. No, sixty, because my car’s on the third parking level.

When the car eases to a stop, I hastily wipe my face and stand up straight, sliding my mask back into place as I fluff my hair and flash a quick smile at the mirror.
Perfect
.

But my act isn’t necessary. There’s no one waiting when the doors open. Still, I keep the mask on and the act up as I make the long walk across the Stark Tower side of the parking structure to the area beneath the bank building wherein C-Squared is housed. My car is on the far side, and I’m walking fast now, because I can feel the cracks all over me. I’m going to shatter soon, I know it, and I need to be in my car when I do.

It’s right there, parked opposite the stairwell. The whole corner is dark and despite being open, it makes me twitchy. I reported it to the property manager my first day, but so far they’ve yet to put in a new bulb. Once again, I remind myself to ask Carl for another assigned space, because this corner is too damned creepy.

I hurry to the car and shove the key in the lock—because my Honda’s almost fifteen years old, and I don’t have a keychain remote. I yank the door open, then slide inside, letting the familiar sounds and smells surround me. I tug on the heavy door and the instant it slams shut, I lose it. Tears stream down my face, and I alternately clutch and pound on the steering wheel. Hitting and slamming and pummeling until the heel of my hand is red and raw and sore. I’m shouting, repeating a chorus of “no, no, no,” but I don’t even realize it until my voice fades, raw and raspy.

Finally my tears are spent, but my body doesn’t seem to realize it. I convulse, hiccuping painfully as I try to breathe in and out and gather some control.

It takes a while, but I finally quit shaking. My hand is unsteady as I try to insert the key into the ignition. I can’t manage.
Metal scrapes against metal. I drop the key ring. Fumbling, I bend down to pick it up again, only to whack my forehead on the wheel. I clutch the keys tight and curse, and pound my fist against the wheel one more time.

The tears are welling again, and I breathe deep. It’s too much, too fast. The move, the job, Damien.

I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to escape. I want—

I grab a handful of my skirt and thrust it up so that the material is gathered at my hips, exposing a triangle of panties and my bare thighs above the stockings.

Don’t
.

Just a little. Just this once
.

Don’t
.

But I do. I spread my legs and press the key into the soft flesh of my inner thigh. Once upon a time, I kept a knife on my key ring. I wish I still had it.
No. No, I don’t
.

The key’s teeth bite into my skin, but it’s nothing. Mosquito bites. I need more if I’m going to keep the storm at bay—and it’s that realization of my need that hits me like a slap in the face.

Oh, God, oh, God, oh, God, what the fuck am I doing?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I shove open the door and toss the keys out into the dim parking garage. I hear them skitter across the asphalt. I don’t see where they land.

I sit there breathing deeply, telling myself that’s not who I am. I haven’t cut for over three years. I fought, and I won.

I’m not that girl anymore.

Except of course, I am. I’ll always be that girl. I can wish all I want, and I can run across the country, but those scars don’t go away, and they won’t stay hidden forever.

I guess I learned that the hard way. That’s why I ran from Damien, isn’t it? And that’s why I’ll keep on running.

A wave of loneliness crashes over me, and I think about what
Ollie said. About how nothing would change. About how I could call him anytime I needed him.

I need him now.