Claim Me: A Novel

roll over. He brings the box back onto the bed, and this time, he pulls out a red taper candle.
    “Damien?” I say warily. “What are you doing?”
    “Something new.”
    He straddles me at the waist so that I cannot move my legs, and as my arms are still bound, I am essentially immobile.
    “Do you trust me?”
    “Yes,” I say, but as he strikes a match and lights the candle, I can’t help but bite my lower lip.
    “Liar,” he says. “Close your eyes.”
    I do, and I’m certain I must look ridiculous. My eyes squeezed tight and my teeth grazing my lip.
    “Relax,” he says.
    “Easy for you to say.”
    “Tell me what this is.”
    I feel a gentle stroke along the swell of my breast. “Your finger?”
    “And this?”
    Soft and slightly wet, this time at my cleavage. “Your tongue.”
    “This?”
    It is rough and soft at the same time. “I don’t know.”
    “A feather,” he says, though he doesn’t say where he got it.
    “And this?”
    At first I feel nothing. Then there is a sharp, hot
ping
on my nipple that quickly shifts to something cool and tight. It’s not painful, and it is more than pleasure. It is, in fact, exquisite. “I—the candle?”
    “Very good. Now hold still.” I feel it again, only this time the
ping
lasts longer and is not confined to one place. I arch up to meet the sensation as what feels like long fingers tighten on the skin of my breast. Then the feeling repeats and repeats and now I am biting my lower lip not from nerves, but because of the glorious rapture that has sparked inside me, spreading out like electric shocks from my breasts to my sex. And then shooting sparks out through my fingers and toes.
    “Open your eyes,” he says.
    I do, and I see long strands of red crisscrossing my breasts. The skin beneath the wax is puckered and tight, and with my breasts and nipples already so sensitive, the sensation is beyond incredible.
    Damien still straddles my waist, but now he slides down and gently spreads my legs. Slowly, he enters me, then he leans forward and, as he thrusts in and out, he tightens his hands over my breasts in time with his movements.
    The wax cracks as my orgasm builds, and when I finally docome, my body clenching around him to draw him farther in, Damien tightens his grip and the last of the wax cracks.
    I cry out, lost in the exotic sensations that shoot through me, arching up as if I could keep the feeling from ending.
    And then, when my body quits quivering, I close my eyes and succumb to the lure of sleep as it tugs me under.

19
    I wake to the smell of bacon and discover that not only are my arms free, but I am snuggled under the covers. I smile and stretch, feeling well fucked and well taken care of.
    I slide out of bed, find a shirt in the closet, and follow the scent to the huge black-and-steel kitchen. An electric skillet sizzles on the granite island, while Damien stands at the stove holding an omelette pan. Diced avocado, cubed cream cheese, and something else I don’t recognize neatly cover a small cutting board off to one side.
    Two flutes of champagne are half-filled, and beside them sits a carafe of orange juice.
    “Are we celebrating?” I ask, coming up behind him and peering into the omelette pan.
    “We are,” he says. “After the day we had yesterday, I thought we should celebrate the important things.”
    “The day?” I repeat. My body is still deliciously sore and aching. I stretch and smile slowly. “What about the night?”
    “That was a celebration in and of itself,” he says. His eyes skim over me. I am wearing one of his button-down shirts, andit hangs to mid-thigh. The sleeves are rolled up, and the unfastened buttons reveal more than a little cleavage. The desire in his eyes is as unmistakable as his slow, sexy Damien smile. I’m pretty sure I melt a little.
    He traces his finger down the open neck of the shirt. “I like you in my clothes.”
    “Me, too,” I say.
    “I like you out of them as well.”
    I laugh, and dance back out of reach of his fingers. “Don’t even get ideas,” I say. “I’m starving.”
    He laughs.
    “So what exactly are we celebrating?”
    He brushes a quick kiss over my lips. “Us.”
    That single word sends a thrill running through me. “I’ll drink to that,” I say.
    “Good. You can pour the OJ into our glasses. Then go sit.”
    He points to one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “If you stay back here you’ll only distract me, and while that might lead to very