Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

asking. Hell, I’m begging. Damien damn well knows it, too. And yet he is denying me.
    Anger flares within me, but before it explodes, his mouth crushes against mine. The kiss is deep and raw and all-consuming, and warm desire blooms within me. It doesn’t erase my anger or my fear, but it does soothe it, and I shift closer to him, wishing I never had to leave the safety of his arms.
    His body tightens beneath mine, the bulge of his erection under his jeans teasing my rear as I shift my weight and lean closer, deepening this kiss and wishing like hell we were in our suite instead of in a very public bar.
    After a moment, I pull back, breathless. “I love you,” I say.
    “I know,” he says, and though I wait for the reciprocal words to come, he doesn’t say them back to me.
    My heart twists a little, and I force a smile. A pageant-qualityAll I Want Is World Peace kind of smile. The kind of smile I show the public, but not Damien.
    I tell myself that he’s just tired, but I don’t believe it. Damien Stark does nothing without a purpose. And though it is impossible to truly get inside that head of his, I know him well enough to guess at his motivations, and I want to jump to my feet and scream at him. I want to beg him not to push me away. I want to shout that I get it, that he’s trying to protect me because he knows that he might lose the trial. That he might be ripped from me. But goddammit, doesn’t he know that all he’s doing is hurting me?
    I believe with all my heart that Damien loves me. What I fear is that love isn’t enough. Not when he’s determined to push me away in some misguided attempt to protect me.
    So I don’t lash out. That’s not a fight I can win, but I can play the game my own way.
    With renewed resolve, I kick the wattage up on my smile and slide off his lap, my hand extended to him. “You have to be in court at ten, Mr. Stark. I think you’d better come with me.”
    He stands, his expression wary. “Are you going to tell me I have to get some sleep?”
    “No.”
    His gaze slides over me, and my body quivers in response as if he had physically touched me. “Good,” he says, and that one simple word not only conveys a world of promises but takes the edge off the chilly fear that has filled me.
    I allow the corner of my mouth to quirk up into a hint of a smile. “Not that, either. Not yet, anyway.”
    The confusion on his face brings a genuine smile to my lips, but he doesn’t have the chance to ask, as the concierge has approached. “Everything is ready, Ms. Fairchild.”
    My smile broadens. “Thank you. Your timing is perfect.”
    I take the hand of the very confused man that I love and lead him through the lobby, following the concierge to the front of thehotel. There, parked on the street beside a very giddy valet, is a cherry red Lamborghini.
    Damien turns to look at me. “What’s this?”
    “A rental. I thought you could use a little fun tonight, and the A9’s just a few miles away. Fast car. German autobahn. It seemed like a no-brainer to me.”
    “Boys and their toys?”
    I lower my voice so that the concierge can’t overhear. “Since we already have some interesting toys in the room, I thought you might enjoy a change of pace.” I lead him closer to where the valet stands by the open passenger door. “I understand she’s very responsive, and I know you’ll enjoy having all that power at your command.”
    “Is she?” He looks me up and down, and this time the inspection is tinged with fire. “As a matter of fact, that’s exactly what I like. Responsiveness. Power. Control.”
    “I know,” I say, and then slide into the passenger seat, letting more than a little thigh show as I do.
    An instant later, Damien is behind the wheel and he’s fired the powerful engine.
    “Drive fast enough, and it’s almost like sex,” I tease. And then, because I can’t resist, I add, “At the very least, it makes for exceptional foreplay.”
    “In that case, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, with a boyish grin that makes this all worthwhile, “I suggest you hold on tight.”

2
    Even at almost midnight on a Sunday, traffic seems to spill out over the narrow Munich streets. The Lamborghini’s engine revs and purrs, the power pent-up and antsy, as if it is as frustrated by its inability to break free and fly as I am by my inability to make things right for Damien.
    I am nestled in the red-leather bucket seat, my body turned slightly to the left so that I can watch him.