Claim Me: A Novel

stock-still anymore. Even the thrill of flipping the imaginary bird to my mother’s overbearing sense of propriety pales in comparison to the way my legs cramp at the end of these sessions. But I will miss the rest of it, especially the feel of Damien’s eyes on me. His slow, heated inspections that make me damp between my thighs and force meto concentrate so hard on remaining still that it becomes sweetly painful.
    And, yes, I will miss our game. But I want more than a game with Damien, and I can’t help the eagerness with which I face tomorrow and the knowledge that it will simply be Damien and Nikki with nothing between us. And as for any lingering secrets … well, with time, those will be brushed away, too.
    Hard now to believe that I’d originally been shocked by Damien’s offer: one million dollars in exchange for my body. For my image, permanently on display on a larger-than-life canvas; and for the rest of me at his command, whenever and however he wanted.
    My shock had been replaced by blatant pragmatism laced with equal parts of ardor and outrage. I’d wanted Damien as much as he’d wanted me, but at the same time I’d wanted to punish him. Because I was certain that he saw only the beauty queen, and that when he got a peek at the damaged woman beneath the polished veneer he’d reel from the affront to his expectations as much as from the lightening of his wallet.
    I’ve never been so happy to be wrong.
    Our deal had been for a week, but that week turned into two as Blaine buzzed around his canvas, the wooden tip of his brush tapping against his chin as he squinted and frowned and mumbled to himself about wanting just a little more time. About wanting to get everything—that word again—perfect.
    Damien had agreed easily—after all, he’d hired Blaine because of his growing reputation as a local artist, and his skill in handling erotically charged nudes was undeniable. If Blaine wanted more time, Damien was happy to accommodate him.
    I didn’t complain for less pragmatic reasons. I simply wanted these days and nights with Damien to last. Like my image on the painting, I was coming alive.
    I’d moved to Los Angeles only a few weeks ago, intent on conqueringthe business world at the ripe old age of twenty-four. The thought that a man like Damien Stark would want me, much less my portrait, was the furthest thing from my mind. But there’d been no denying the heat that had burned between us from the moment I saw him at one of Blaine’s art shows. He’d pursued me relentlessly, and I’d tried my damnedest to resist, because I knew that what he wanted was something that I wasn’t willing to give.
    I wasn’t a virgin, but neither was I widely experienced. Sex is not something that someone with my history—with my scars—rushes into. I’d been burned by a boy I’d trusted, and my emotions were still as ragged as the scars that marred my flesh.
    Damien, however, doesn’t see those scars. Or, more accurately, he sees them for what they are—a part of me. Battle scars from what I have overcome and what I continue to fight. Where I thought my scars reflected a weakness, he sees an indication of strength. And it is that ability—to see me so fully and clearly—that has drawn me so irrevocably and completely to this man.
    “You’re smiling again,” Blaine says. “I don’t even need three guesses to know what you’re thinking about. Or who. Do I need to kick our personal Medici out of the room?”
    “You’re just going to have to live with her smile,” Damien says before I can answer, and once again, I must force myself not to turn and look at him. “Because nothing’s making me leave this room unless Nikki is beside me.”
    I revel in the velvet smoothness of his voice, and I know he means what he says. We’d spent this entire afternoon window-shopping on Rodeo Drive, celebrating the new job I will start in the morning. We’d walked lazily down the pristine streets, holding hands, sipping calorie-laden frozen mochas, and pretending no one else in the world existed. Even the paparazzi, those vultures with cameras that have become uncomfortably interested in every little thing Damien and I do, paid us little heed.
    Sylvia, Damien’s assistant, had tried to put several callsthrough, but Damien had flat-out refused to take them. “This is our time,” he’d said to me, answering my unspoken question.
    “Should I alert the financial papers?” I’d teased. “Doesn’t it