Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

believe it and didn’t mean it.”
    “I do,” he says. “But I’ll tell you a little secret. It’s the best excuse I have for bending you over and feeling the sting on my palm.”
    I lick my lips. The room turns suddenly warm, and I feel beads of moisture at the back of my neck and between my thighs. I reach back, holding on to the pillar to steady myself. “Is that something you want?” I keep my voice low and even; it’s damn sure something
I
want.
    “Right now,” Damien says, “I want it more than anything.”
    He uses the pad of his thumb to trace lightly along my jawline. I close my eyes and draw in a breath, suddenly unable to concentrate.
    “Why?”
    “You know me better than anyone, Nikki. You know why.”
    I do know. He needs me like I used to need a blade—like I now need him. In a day when he’s been blindsided by horrific pictures of his past and bitchy ex-girlfriends, he needs to know that I will surrender utterly to him. That it is Damien who controls my pleasure even by controlling my pain. He needs to know that he can take me to that limit. And he needs to know that I want him to.
    And I do.
    Everything has spun out of control. Not just Carmela’s appearance in our room, but the whole day. Ollie’s appearance in Germany. The horrible photos. Damien’s reaction to the dismissal of the murder charge against him.
    Too much noise, and it all bubbled up inside of me, so much so that when it knocked Damien flat, I’d craved the feel of a blade in my hand. I’d fought it, though. I’d fought and I’d won. I didn’t need to cut, but I still needed Damien.
Do
need Damien. I need to feel his hands upon me and the rise of pleasure accompanied by the sharp sting of pain. I need the release to keep me anchored. A safety valve preventing me from exploding.
    I need it—and so does Damien.
    “Take off your skirt.” His voice is tight.
    “I—”
    He cuts me off with a quick shake of his head. I get it; we’re through talking. We’re moving on. We’re leaving the trial and Carmela and the photographs behind. We’re saying fuck you to the real world and sliding back into our bubble, which is just where I want to be.
    “Your skirt,” he repeats, his tone broaching no argument.
    “Yes, sir,” I say, and his slow, approving smile slides over me as intimately as his hand upon my sex.
    Slowly, I reach behind my back and unzip my skirt. I wriggle my hips and use my hands to ease it down until it falls in a circle at my feet.
    “Step out of it,” Damien says.
    I do.
    “Now the top. Pull it off. Toss it over there.”
    Once again, I comply. I feel the rush of air against my newly exposed skin, the sensation even more enticing considering how sensitive my nipples are from the clamps and how heavy my breasts feel simply from the minimal weight of the silver chain. I shiver, not from the chill of the air, but from the anticipation of what is to come. I do not know exactly what Damien has in mind. I only know that I want it, and that it will be spectacular.
    I move my hands to the front clasp of my bra, but he shakes his head. “No. I’ll do that.” He steps closer, and I find it suddenlyhard to breathe, as if the air has become as thick as liquid. I should be used to this by now—to the way he makes my body hum, the way molecules seem to shimmer when he is near me. I should be able to draw a breath without trembling, and stand beside him without feeling as though I will swoon. But I cannot, and so help me I hope that day never comes. I am in thrall to this man, and I do not want anything about that to change.
    His hands brush the swell of my breasts as he detaches the rings. I gasp, surprised by the rush of sensation back to my nipples that is at least as enticing as the initial shock of contact when he put them on. He sets the chain and rings on the bar, then removes my bra, sending shocks of anticipation shooting through me. I close my eyes, expecting to feel his mouth close over me, his teeth grazing my nipple. But that sweet sensation doesn’t come. Instead, his palms stroke down my arms and his fingers close around my wrists. Gently, he raises my hands above my head. “Keep your eyes closed,” he whispers.
    Satin twines gently around my wrist before tightening, the pressure pulling my hand flush with the pillar. “What are you—”
    “Hush,” he says. A moment later, I feel that same constriction around my other wrist. I try to move my arms, but they are bound in place, and I