Claim Me: A Novel

these amazing sensations.
    Damien’s hands move to hold my hips, keeping me even more immobile. I feel drunk on lust, intoxicated by desire, and I close my eyes and let my head fall back in complete surrender as Damien’s mouth and tongue work some kind of erotic magic on me, taking me higher and higher until that magic culminates in an explosion of sparks and colors and shooting stars that leaves me spent and breathless.
    Slowly, reality returns to me, and I gasp, spread-eagled on the bed. My chest rises and falls, my body so sensitive that I can feel every thread of the sheet below me. I feel spoiled and pampered and adored and used. I am certain that all that is left is for Damien to untie me and then gather me into his arms as we drift off into the bliss of sleep. Because what else could be left for this night? He has utterly, sweetly destroyed me.
    I should know better than to assume anything about Damien Stark.
    His teeth graze my nipple, and I arch up, thoughts of sleep vanishing. I am battered, ripped asunder by his sensual assault, and yet I do not want it to end. The torment is delicious, and I would happily stay like this forever, forgoing food and friends and the world outside if I could simply escape into Damien’s arms.
    I open my eyes as he arches up, and his self-satisfied smile suggests that he understands just what I’m thinking. Then he glances sideways, and the smile fades, replaced by a blank, unreadable expression.
    Worry cuts through me. “Damien?” Instinctively, I turn my head, my gaze following his line of sight. There is a clock mounted to the wall amid a collection of framed photographs,the few personal items that Damien has already moved into this shell of a house.
Oh
.
    Automatically, I try to sit up, but I am still trapped, bound spread-eagled to this bed, naked and vulnerable. Somehow, though, in that moment it seems as though Damien is more vulnerable than I.
    “Less than a minute,” he says, turning his head so that he is looking straight at me again. “Do you turn into a pumpkin or do I?” The words are light, but something in his tone worries me and I am unnerved.
    “I don’t think I’d like you as a pumpkin,” I say, forcing out the teasing words. “And I look terrible in orange.”
    He laughs, and my worries fizzle away as he straddles me, his weight on his knees and his erection rubbing provocatively on my belly. He traces my lips with the tip of his finger, and I gasp as I suddenly realize that I’ve forgotten to breathe.
    He slides down my body and grazes his finger over the platinum and emerald ankle bracelet he gave me when our game began. He looks at me, his eyes burning with passion. “You’re still mine,” he whispers. And then, before I can answer, he shifts position and enters me so swiftly that I cry out in surprise and passion. We move together, making love slowly and gently, and when I feel his body shudder above mine, I close my eyes in the feminine satisfaction of knowing that he has found pleasure in my body.
    He rolls off me, then curls himself beside me. “Nikki.” It is not a demand or a question. It is simply my name on his lips, and I soak it up like warm sunshine.
    We lie like that, our bodies touching, until I can no longer stand my immobility. “Untie me,” I say.
    He lifts his head to look at me. I still see the heat in his eyes, but there is a playfulness, too. He does not rush to release me.
    “Hello?” I say, then tap my fingernails on the iron bedframe. “Did you get lost between the middle of the bed and the headboard?”
    “I’m considering my options,” he says. “Why should I?”
    “Because my arms will cramp up soon.”
    “I’ll be happy to massage you.”
    I aim a scowl at him. “And because you have a cocktail party here on Saturday, and your guests will ask questions.”
    “Perhaps, but won’t it be nice to know that the guests will have plenty to talk about?”
    “As much as I hate the thought of depriving your guests of interesting conversation, I would still like my hands to be free.”
    “Would you?” He trails a lazy finger down my side, and I bite my lower lip to keep from writhing. The sensation is delicious, a cross between a caress and a tickle, and my skin tingles in his wake. “And what is it that you wish to do with your hands, Ms. Fairchild?”
    “Touch you,” I say boldly. “I’m allowed. After all, we’re on equal footing now that midnight has passed. Aren’t we,
sir
?”
    There is a