Claim Me: A Novel

wild current through me. To light me up and make me shine.
    “Do you have any idea what I want to do to you right now?”
    “Tell me,” I beg.
    “I want to strip you bare and press you up against the glass. I want to trail my fingers over you lightly, just enough to make you awaken to my touch. I want to watch the lights of the Pier flash behind you, and I want to watch my own reflection in your eyes as you come.”
    My mouth is dry, so the little “oh” that I say doesn’t actually come out as sound.
    “But I can’t,” he says. “I believe I told you that I wasn’t going to touch you.”
    “I won’t hold you to it,” I say.
    “But that would be breaking the rules.”
    I have to force myself not to whimper. “You’re playing games with me, Mr. Stark.”
    “Yes,” he says plainly. “I am.”
    “I suppose that’s fair,
sir
,” I say. “I’m yours, after all. At least for the night. But tomorrow, I’ll be a rich woman and the game’s going to have a new set of rules.”
    For a moment, he is perfectly still. Then he nods slowly. “You raise a good point, Ms. Fairchild,” he says. “I need to make sure I get my money’s worth.”
    “Your money’s worth?”
    “Did you read the article in
Forbes
I sent you?” he asks. “The reporter did a good job of describing my philosophy in business.”
    “I read it.” In fact, I’d read it several times, savoring every tidbit I learned about Damien the Businessman.
    “Yes,
sir
,” he corrects.
    “Yes, sir,” I repeat. “I read the article.”
    “Then you know that I attribute much of my success to myability to extract as much value as possible from every monetary transaction.”
    I lick my lips. “And I’m a monetary transaction?”
    “You are indeed.”
    “I see. And how do you intend to extract value?”
    “I already told you,” he says. “If you’re not going to pay attention …”
    “You said you were going to make me come.”
    His mouth curves into a lazy smile and the corners of his eyes crinkle. “So I did. Good girl. You get an A in class, after all.” Then, with a devious gleam in his eye, Damien takes hold of the cord at the small of my back and begins a slow tugging motion.
    Oh. My. God
.
    It’s as if he’s creating electricity out of friction, and I close my eyes as my breath comes shallower and faster. “Damien,” I whisper.
    “Do you like that?”
    “Yes—oh, God, yes.”
    “Good,” he says. And then releases the cord.
    The friction stops and my eyes fly open.
    He’s looking down at me, his smile a little too smug. “Frustrated, Ms. Fairchild?”
    “No,” I lie, but even I can hear the petulant whine in my voice.
    He laughs, then kisses my nose. “Patience, sweetheart. Right now, I have a treat for you.” He presses a button on the table and a light above the panel door shifts from red to green.
    I glance at Damien curiously. “The panels lock to allow guests their privacy. When the food arrives, the server presses a button on the outside and the button turns red.”
    “And green unlocks it,” I say. It’s an interesting system—and also makes me realize that we would have had complete privacyif Damien had actually stripped me bare and fucked me against the window, just as he’d described.
    I imagine the feel of the cool glass against my back. Of Damien’s hands on my breasts. Of his mouth on my neck. And of his cock filling me as he thrusts deeper and deeper inside me until I explode in a cacophony of colors that rival the shining lights of the Pier in the distance.
    “Nikki—”
    My head jerks up and I realize that the waiter is setting a fondue pot on the table and Damien is gesturing for me to sit down. Although the waiter seems oblivious, I am quite certain that Damien knows exactly where my thoughts had wandered.
    Naughty
, he mouths.
    I flash him my most innocent smile, then bat my eyes for effect.
    There is a pattern in the middle of the tabletop that turns out not to be a pattern at all. It’s a heating element, and onto it the waiter puts a heavy stone pot—
le caquelon
—filled with partially melted chocolate. Another waiter has a basket of all sorts of dippables, ranging from juicy strawberries to tiny squares of cheesecake. I grin at Damien like a kid in heaven. “Chocolate fondue?”
    “I had considered cheese,” he says, after the waiters have slipped out and shut the panel door again. “But this way will ensure that I’m not punished by the withholding of sex.”
    I