Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

I’m trying to escape this riot of sensation or if I’m trying to make it go on and on. All I know is that Damien has not stopped thrusting and the muscles of my sex are still spasming around him and I am clawing at the cover on this bed and arching up and trying to breathe and—
    “Oh, God,” I cry as one final, violent jolt of electricity cuts through me just seconds before Damien finds his own release. I collapse, limp, onto the bed and though my eyes are heavy, I cannot pass up the joy of watching pure sensual satisfaction play across his face. Then he smiles at me, his expression so tender that I can think of nothing more than curling up next to him.
    As if in answer to my thought, he lowers himself beside me, and the hand that just a few minutes ago held so fast to my wrist now traces lazy strokes down my arm.
    “Welcome to the Mile High Club,” he says, and I burst out laughing.
    I roll closer and nestle against him, sated and satisfied and happy. “You are what I need, Damien. You’re all that I need.”
    I have surrendered to this man completely, and now, once again, it feels wholly right. Between Damien and me, sex is as necessary as conversation. It is our method of discovery. Our sharing of trust. And our ultimate surrender.
    It is, I think, his “I love you” spoken with his body, if not with his words.
    I’m drifting, neither awake nor asleep, when Damien’s words bring me fully back to myself. “No matter what the German court decides, there’s a good chance those pictures are going public.”
    There is no emotion in his voice, and that chills me more than anything. I don’t move. We are spooned together, my back againsthis chest, his arm draped over my waist. I keep my eyes closed, as if that somehow makes the words less real. “Why would you say that?”
    “I think your earlier thought was right,” he says. “I think my father might be the one behind this.”
    “Damien, no.” I roll over now—I have to see him. “Do you really think so?”
    “It makes sense. If I go to jail, his asset stream dries up.” Despite the fact that Damien’s father makes my mother look as sweet and cuddly as the Easter Bunny, Damien has continued to support the man.
    “Even if you’re right, that only explains how the court got the photos. Why on earth would you think that he’d make them go public?”
    He rubs his fingers together, symbolizing money.
    I shake my head, not following.
    “Tabloids. Internet sites. So-called news programs. They’ll all pay a lot for information if they think it will sell ad space or papers.”
    “Shit,” I say, because he is right, and that pretty much sums it up. “Maybe it’s not him.”
    “Maybe not.” But I can tell that he doesn’t believe it.
    “What will you do?”
    “I’m still thinking about that,” he says, and there is a dangerous edge to his voice.
    “Will you tell me when you decide?”
    He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Yes,” he says. “I promise.”
    I breathe in deep, wishing I could somehow make everything better for him, but knowing that’s just not possible. “How much longer before we get home?” Part of me wants the plane to land right now. Part of me wishes we could stay in flight forever.
    “A few more hours,” he says, idly stroking my bare arm, thetouch feather-soft and sweetly enticing. “But we’re not going home. Not right away.”
    “We’re not? Where are we going?”
    “One of my favorite places,” he says, brushing a kiss across my hair. “I think you’ll like it.”

11
    The narrow mountain road twists and turns so much that I am beginning to feel a bit nauseated. It’s late, but the full moon casts a glow over the towering pines that grow so thick along the side of the road that it seems as though we are traveling through a tunnel. We are in a Jeep Grand Cherokee that someone from Damien’s staff left for him at the Ontario airport just outside of San Bernadino. It’s the least sporty car I have ever seen Damien drive, but he looks perfectly at home. In fact, I can’t remember a time when Damien has ever looked out of place. It’s that cool confidence that lets him slide into any situation, and I amuse myself by thinking of him going from a high-powered board meeting to a survivalist weekend retreat.
    “You’re grinning,” he says.
    “I’m picturing you in a loincloth holding an atlatl,” I admit. “Damien Stark, the leader of the tribe.”
    “Please tell me this isn’t a retreat