Complete Me (The Stark Trilogy)

this before, remember? Our first night. You in the back of my limo, and I was miles away on my phone and so hard I thought I’d explode.”
    I nod. It’s one of my most vivid memories. I was drunk and heady with lust, but I was alone and I could fool myself into believing that the extent of my arousal was my own secret.
    Now, there is no hiding how turned on I am. And even though this is Damien, who has seen me at my most wanton, my most needy, it has always been for him that I have opened myself. Now, it is my own touch that I am craving. My touch, and his words. I feel naughty. Reckless. And, so help me, I want him to take me all the way. I want to finger myself until I come in front of him—and when I do, I want to open my eyes and see my own passion reflected right there on his face.
    “I didn’t have the pleasure of watching then. I intend to enjoy it now.”
    “Yes. Yes.” It’s the only word I can manage. It’s the only word that fills my head.
    “Slide your right hand down. Take your time, baby. You have such soft skin, I want you to feel it. To touch it.”
    Once again, I comply. I keep my left hand on my breast, almost like an anchor, then spread my right so that my palm grazes my belly, my pelvis, and then my fingers dip under the band of my thong. I bite my lower lip as my hand slides over, then moan as my fingertip brushes my clit before easing farther down to soft, slippery flesh.
    “Open your eyes,” Damien orders. “Look at me and touch yourself.”
    “I—” But my words die on my lips when I open my eyes andsee his face—the bold heat in his eyes, the flush of his skin. His hands are on the armrests of the chair, and he is gripping it so tightly I can see the whites of his knuckles. And his cock is so hard beneath his tailored trousers that I am afraid it will split a seam.
    “Fuck me,” I whisper. “We both know you want to.”
    “More than anything,” he says as our eyes meet and lock. Sparks burst through me merely from the connection of our gazes, and the heat grows in anticipation of his touch. “But no,” he says, making me want to weep. “This is about you. I want you to feel it, too.”
    “Feel what?”
    “The pleasure I take from your body,” he says simply. “I want to watch. I want to lose myself in the vision of you.” As if in illustration of his words, his eyes drag slowly over me. “Don’t stop, baby. Slide your fingers inside. Tease your clit. Let me see it. Let me watch the way your skin moves when you’re about to come. Each tiny gasp, each shudder. The way you drag your teeth over your lower lip. The flush that colors your skin before orgasm, and the just-fucked look in your eyes after you come.”
    I am so hot, so wet, and I do as he says, fingerfucking myself hard and then lightly teasing my clit. I am dizzy with lust, and I reach out with my other hand, taking it off my breast so that I can clutch the side of my desk to steady myself.
    “Oh, God, Nikki. Do you know how much watching you turns me on? How hot you make me? I have only begun to memorize the bits and pieces that make up you. You are my obsession.”
    “Yes,” I whisper. “Oh, yes.”
    The sharp shrill of my phone fills the room, and I jump. “Don’t stop,” he orders. “Just ignore it.”
    I do, too lost in this sensual haze to care about something as foolish as a phone. I grind my hips in time with the rings, thenkeep going even after it stops. I hear the
ping
that indicates a voice mail, followed by the buzz of a text message.
    I manage to stifle the urge to throw my phone out the window.
    “Don’t even think about it, baby. Just this. Just us. You’re so close, Nikki. God, I can see it on your face, in the way your lips are parted. Imagine it’s my mouth on your cunt, my tongue stroking you, tasting you. Baby, you taste so good.”
    I whimper, so close, but not quite there, and my hips grind against my own hand. Soon, soon, so very soo—
    “Ms. Fairchild?”
    The receptionist’s voice bursts through the speaker, and I jump, feeling guilty and exposed, even as Damien bites out a curse.
    “Ignore it,” he growls, but the voice continues, unable to hear our side of the conversation.
    “Mr. Stark’s assistant is on the phone,” she says, as cold fingers of dread trail up my spine. “Apparently a Ms. Archer has been trying to reach you. I’m afraid there’s been an accident.”

17
    I release Damien’s hand and burst through the door to Jamie’s tiny room on the