Claim Me: A Novel

special.”
    I gape. “Seriously?”
    “Totally. He’s not as fuckalicious as Damien-king-of-the-world-Stark, but I wouldn’t run screaming from a repeat performance. Or even a triple play, for that matter.”
    This is as close as I’ve ever heard Jamie get to discussing a relationship. To say I’m bowled over would be an understatement. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that on me when I’m running late. So come on. We can talk while I get dressed.”
    She follows me into my bedroom and perches at my desk in front of my laptop. It’s open, and the screensaver is a slideshow of pictures of Damien that I took in Santa Barbara. Damien with so much light and humor in his eyes that I can’t ever look at those photos without smiling. Between that screensaver and theexquisite, original Monet painting Damien gave me that now hangs between my desk and my dresser, I cannot enter this room without feeling cherished. It’s a nice feeling, and one that I am not used to. In college, my apartment was simply a place to live. With my mother, my room was the place I wanted to escape. But here, there is Jamie and my newfound freedom. There is excitement. There is potential.
    Most of all, there is Damien.
    This room is proof that I really have moved on, and that where I am going is where I want to be.
    At my desk, Jamie is typing away. “Raine,” she finally says.
    I’m standing by my closet, debating between a blue skirt and a gray one, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s not talking about precipitation.
    “
Bryan
Raine,” she says, when I turn to face her, as if that will make me understand. Since my face apparently continues to register complete cluelessness, she shakes her head in mock exasperation, and taps the laptop screen. “My guy is Bryan Raine.”
    Despite my rush, I’m curious enough to forgo my wardrobe analysis to see what she’s doing, and when I reach my desk, I see that she’s pulled up a series of images. They’re all of the same man. Gorgeous, mostly shirtless, with a well-fucked quality and the kind of eyes and facial structure and that dirty blond hair a camera loves. Most of the images, in fact, are from advertisements. Cars, men’s cologne. Jeans. I have to confess that the man could definitely sell a pair of jeans.
    “That’s him,” Jamie says proudly.
    “That’s the guy you were out with last night?”
    “Yup.” She grins mischievously. “Though we stayed in most of the time. Pretty hot, huh?”
    “He’s incredible,” I say as I move to my dresser and rummage for panties and a bra. For a moment, I hesitate. In the game I’ve been playing with Damien, I’ve had to follow his rules. And forthe last two weeks, I’ve worn neither bra nor panties. It was odd at first, but undeniably sexy, especially when I was with him, knowing that at any moment he could slip a hand under my skirt. That he could touch me, tease me, even fingerfuck me.
    There’s something desperately erotic about being naked beneath your clothes, and even when Damien wasn’t around, my body was keyed up, and I was aware of every brush of material over my rear and every whisper of a breeze that stroked my sex.
    But this isn’t a game, it’s the first day of a new job and the Elizabeth Fairchild Rules for Living are too ingrained in my life. I might have spent my entire life trying to escape from my mother, but she has still soaked in through the cracks. And in my mother’s world, the thrill of sexual freedom doesn’t override the necessity of panties at work.
    I slip on my underwear, sigh, and return to the closet to continue debating my outfit.
    I glance at Jamie to see if she has an opinion, but she’s still gazing dreamily at the screen. “Don’t get drool on my keyboard,” I chide. “So how did you meet him?”
    “He’s my co-star,” she says, referring to the commercial she’s about to start shooting. “He mostly models, but he’s also done a few television guest appearances and he was even one of the bad guys in the last James Bond movie.”
    “He was?” I’d actually seen that movie, and I don’t remember him.
    “Well, he stood around with a gun and looked hot,” she amends. “But he was on the bad guy team.”
    “But you guys haven’t started to shoot yet,” I say, because I’m still confused. “So why did you go out with him? Which one?” I add, holding up the two skirts I’m considering.
    “The blue. And he called me. He said that since the commercial’s