Claim Me: A Novel

as if he is looking up at an object of worship, and his silent benediction makes my knees go weak. I want to reach out a hand and steady myself on the frame of the bed beside which I’m posing, but my wrists are still bound behind my back.
    My immobility reminds me of the situation, and I fight another smile—I am not free. I am Damien’s.
    In Blaine and Damien’s original concept for the portrait, I’d simply stood in this spot, the gossamer drapes set to flutter about me, my face turned away from the artist. The image was sensual, but aloof, as if someone was yearning for that woman but would never touch her. The portrait was stunning, but something was missing. Damien suggested that we contrast the free-flowing drapes that graze lightly over my skin with the constriction of a bloodred rope, and that we bind my hands behind me.
    I didn’t hesitate to agree. I wanted the man. Wanted to be bound to him. To belong to him. To be claimed by him.
    No longer would my image be unattainable. Instead, the woman in the portrait was a prize. An ephemeral goddess tamed by a worthy man.
    Damien
.
    I search his face, looking for clues to his assessment of the portrait, but there is nothing. This is his corporate expression, the unreadable mask he wears so as to not give away his secrets. Damien is extremely good at hiding his secrets.
    “Well?” I ask, when I can stand it no longer. “What do you think?”
    For a moment, Damien remains silent. Beside him, Blaine shifts nervously. And though only seconds pass, the air is thick with the weight of eternity. I can almost taste Blaine’s frustration, and I understand the impulse when he finally blurts out, “Come
on
, man. It’s perfect, right?”
    Damien’s shoulders rise and fall as he draws in a deep breath then faces Blaine with respect. “It’s more than perfect,” he says, turning to me. “It’s her.”
    Blaine’s smug grin is like sunshine. “I gotta say, I’ve never been shy about bragging on my own work, but this is … well, it’s wow. Real. Sensual. Most of all, it’s honest.”
    Damien’s eyes never leave mine, and I draw a shaky breath. My pulse pounds so loudly it’s a surprise I can hear anything else. I’m certain that the rising and falling of my chest must be visible, and I fear that Blaine can tell that I’m trying desperately to quell the wellspring of desire that bubbles violently within me. It takes all my effort not to beg Blaine to leave the room, to cry out for Damien to kiss me. To touch me.
    A sharp
beep
shatters the heavy silence, and Damien yanks the phone out of his pocket, then spits out a curse when he reads the text. I see the shadows gather on his face as he slides the phone back, the message unanswered. I press my lips together as my skin begins to prickle with the first stirrings of worry.
    Blaine, his head tilted as he inspects the canvas, is oblivious. “Nik, don’t move. I just want to touch up the light right here, and—”
    The shrill ring of Damien’s phone interrupts Blaine’s words. Iexpect Damien to ignore the call as he had the text, but he surprises me by answering. But not before moving out of the room with such swift, firm steps that I barely even hear the curt, “What?”
    He does not meet my eyes.
    I force myself to stand still for Blaine, fighting a sudden wave of fear. This is not a business call; Damien Stark does not get upset over business. On the contrary, he thrives on the chase, on the conquest.
    No, this is something else, and I can’t help but think about the threats that have been made against him, and the secrets that I know he still keeps. Damien has seen me stripped bare in every way possible. And yet it seems as though I’ve only seen glimpses of him, and those cast in shadows.
    Get a grip, Nikki
. Wanting privacy for a phone conversation isn’t the same as keeping a secret. And every phone call isn’t some grand conspiracy to hide either his past or some new danger.
    I know all of that. Even more, I believe it. But sane rationality doesn’t soothe the little pang in my heart or the knot of fear that sits tight in my belly, and standing stock-still and naked and bound is not a straight path to well-adjusted thoughts. Rather, it’s a twisting, winding road of angst, and I’m suddenly careening down it without brakes, and hating myself for going there.
    I want to hug myself, but my bound wrists make that impossible.
    The truth is that I’ve been on pins and needles since my former