Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

retraction. Are we clear?”
    I nod helplessly. Liquid desire pools between my legs, making me hot and needy. My nipples tighten and my skin seems to vibrate simply from the pressure of the air against it.
    “But first, I need you naked.” He slides his hand out from between my legs, and I mourn the loss of contact. Then he takes the hem of my T-shirt in his hands and skims it off me. He runs his finger over my bra, and I sigh from the delicious sensation of his fingertip gliding under the edge where my breast is bursting against the cup. “I like this,” he says, his voice soft. “I think we’ll keep this on. Now turn over,” he adds, making a circle with his fingers. “On your hands and knees.”
    I lift an eyebrow, and he swats my ass.
    “Over,” he repeats.
    I’m tempted to defy him again, just for the pleasure of another swat, but I’m afraid that he might see through that ruse and shift the nature of the punishment to something less physical. Like not touching me. And that isn’t something I think I can stand. So I comply, and then he unzips my skirt and skims it over my hips, taking the wisp of a thong with him.
    “Beautiful,” he says, rubbing his palm over my rear. “Now put your head on the mattress, but keep your ass up.” He brushes my thighs, urging my legs apart as my arms rest against my inner thighs. “Oh, yes, baby.” I hear the heat of desire in his voice and it makes me even more wet.
    “I want your ass in the air and your cunt open to me. I’m going to fuck you, Nikki. I’m going to fuck you until we lose ourselves in each other. Until the universe swallows us whole. I’m going to make you come harder and longer than you ever have before, baby, and I’m going to feel every shudder, every ripple ofthat orgasm as it rips through you because I am going to be right here holding tight to you, buried deep inside you. And, Nikki, I’m not ever letting go.”
    His jeans brush my bare ass, and I can feel his erection straining against the denim. He leans over me, his hands stroking my back, then his lips brush the curve of my ear. “You can either be quiet, or you can say ‘Yes, sir.’ There aren’t any other choices.”
    My body is on fire, my cunt throbbing, muscles clenching in anticipation of being filled. I know he needs this. Needs to feel me beneath him, warm and solid and safe. And, yes, submitting. Giving myself to him. Completely. Willingly. Hell, even desperately.
    “Yes, sir,” I say. It is all that I can manage.
    I can’t see his face, but I hear the smugness in his voice when he says simply. “Good.”
    I expect his touch, but he leaves me on the bed with an order not to move, then slides off and kneels down by my suitcase. My face is turned in that direction, but from this angle, I cannot see what he is doing. I consider moving, but once again I don’t want to risk punishment. Or, rather, I don’t want to risk the wrong kind of punishment.
    He stands soon enough, and when he does I see that he has pulled out two of the new thigh-high stockings that we bought from Marilyn’s Lounge.
    “What are you doing with those?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer, just slides one under my leg and arm, then binds my forearm to my calf. He circles the bed and repeats the process on the other side of me as I protest that he’s ruining a perfectly good pair of stockings.
    He chuckles. “For a good cause,” he says. “Trust me. This view is amazing.”
    I can only imagine what he sees. I am on the bed with my shoulders and cheek pressed to the soft bedding. My arms are splayed back and bound to my calves. My rear end is high in theair and my legs are spread, undoubtedly giving Damien quite the view of my very wet, very needy sex.
    “I want to see you,” I beg. “Please, Damien. I want you naked, too.”
    “Do you?” He moves to stand in my field of vision, then tortures me a little by removing his clothing so painfully slowly. His chest is well-muscled and dusted by a sexy smattering of chest hair that I like to tease with my fingers. My fingers twitch now, thinking about the feel of him against my hand, the hot skin and hard muscle of his abdomen. He may not have played tennis professionally in years, but there is nothing soft about Damien, and whether he’s in a thousand-dollar suit or a fifty-dollar pair of jeans, he is sex and power and sensuality personified.
    As if he realizes that he’s driving me crazy, he hooks his thumb into the band of his jeans. I can