Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

the pucker of my ass with his well-lubed thumb. He stretches me even as he keeps up the erotic rhythm of the vibrator inside my sex. I feel the head of his cock pressing against me, then the pressure and bite of exquisite pain as he thrusts inside. He waits, letting my body acclimate to his thickness, to the way he’s filling me so deliciously and completely. I am completely exposed to him, completely used by him—and so desperately excited by him.
    Slowly, he begins to thrust, matching the strokes of his cock with the motion of the vibe. Deeper and deeper, each stroke filling me, teasing me. His hand brushes my clit as he moves, his other anchoring me with a firm hand on my hip. “You’re so hot,” he says. “So wet, so goddamned tight around me.”
    “Harder,” I say, wanting him to take me even further—all the way to the edge. “More.”
    I can tell by his low, animal groan that my words have excited him even more.
    And then the power of reason leaves me. He is pounding into me, and my shoulders shift almost painfully on the bedclothes. I can’t hold on—can’t anchor myself, can’t adjust to accommodate my own pleasure. I am Damien’s, to use as he wants, and it is that single thought that fills my head when Damien’s hand closes tight upon my hip and he slams hard against me, coming so powerfully inside me.
    The shudders of his body crash through me and that spins me over the edge. Pleasure and pain and need and hunger slam together at my core, sending me shooting off into space, with Damien’s name upon my lips.
    When the tremors stop, he gently unties me, then strokes my body, easing tight muscles and setting my skin afire again. Somehow, I end up on my back with Damien hovering over me, his fingers playing upon my skin, his expression one of exquisite tenderness.
    I can almost taste his strength and control, and I feel safe and warm and loved, as if there is nothing in the world that can touch us. Nothing that can harm us.
    But even as that thought seems to hang in the air, the shrill crash of glass shatters the night—followed by the irate howl of one very pissed-off cat.

15
    The rock that smashed through the curtained window near the front door is painted black with the exception of four white letters that have been stenciled in block letters on the smooth surface:
    SLUT
    I stand about two feet from the thing, my feet in flip-flops, my entire body trembling.
This
is not just a piece of paper. This is more. This has crossed a line and as I dig my fingernails into my palms, I am suddenly, acutely aware of just how fragile my grip on control has been.
    The rock on the floor seems to goad me, but I am not touching it. Not because I know that the police will want to check it for fingerprints, but because of the vaguely superstitious feeling that if I do, something horrible will be transferred from it to me. As if it is some sort of contaminant that has managed to enter my world, and the best thing I can do is run from it.
    That’s not what I need to do, of course. What I need to do is fight.
    But how the hell do you fight what you can’t see?
    As if in answer, Damien eases my clenched fist open and twines his fingers with mine. I hold tight, letting his touch calm me. Sticks, stones, gossip—I will weather it all if he is at my side.
    Right now, he is on the phone with the head of his security team. The police have already been called, but there’s no way that Damien will leave this to them. He finishes the call, hangs up, and turns that laser-like focus on me.
    He lifts our joined hands. “Are you okay?”
    “Yes,” I say, then repeat the word for emphasis. “Yes, I’m fine. Now, I’m fine.”
    His eyes search mine, as if he’s looking for the message under my words. For a moment, I don’t understand what it is that’s bothering him. Then I realize I am standing in a spread of shattered glass. I close my eyes. I’d been too focused on the rock earlier. And then Damien had taken my hand. But if he hadn’t, I know I would have felt that familiar compulsion, and those shards would have been nothing more than glittering temptation.
    “I’m fine,” I repeat firmly, and squeeze his fingers. “I have you.”
    “You do,” he says, and though his eyes are soft, his tone is businesslike. “I’ll give you the choice of Malibu or downtown, but until we catch whoever is doing this, you
are
staying with me. And that is not a subject that is open to debate any longer.”
    Since I’m