Release Me

didn’t I just go with that?
    Because I thought I saw more than was actually there?
    Because I wear a mask, too, and thought I’d found some sort of kindred spirit?
    Because he’s hot and so clearly wanted me?
    Because part of me actually craves that danger?
    I close my eyes and swallow. If this were a multiple choice test, I’d have to pick
all of the above
.
    I tell myself it’s just as well. At the most, Damien Stark wants to conquer me as he’s conquered industry. And while I might crave the feel of his body against mine, I am now even more certainthat I can never let that happen. I won’t expose myself like that to a man who wants nothing more than a fast fuck—hell, I don’t want to expose myself like that to anyone. I don’t want to hear the questions; I don’t want to make the explanations. My secrets are bound up tight inside me.
    I kick my shoes off, then lean my head back and keep my eyes closed. I’m thankful the limo ride is smooth, because my head is already spinning enough as it is.
    The champagne that seemed like such a good idea at the time now seems rather foolish.
    I’m starting to doze off when my phone jars me awake. I jerk upright and dig into my itty-bitty purse to retrieve it. I don’t recognize the number, but since I’ve only given my new California number to Jamie and Carl, it doesn’t take a degree in statistics to figure out it’s one of them calling from an unfamiliar number or a telemarketer.
    I answer, expecting Jamie, since I’m sure Carl wouldn’t interrupt me, not if he thinks that alone time with me is what Stark wants.
    “I am so wasted,” I say, because if it’s a telemarketer, it just serves them right.
    “I’m not surprised,” replies a familiar voice that does
not
belong to my roommate. “I believe I suggested you slow down.”
    “Mr. Stark? How did you get this number?” I push myself back upright too quickly.
    “I wanted to hear your voice.” His voice is low and sensual and despite everything I’ve been telling myself, it curls through me like liquid heat.
    “Oh.”
    “And I’d like to see you again.”
    I force myself to breathe. “You will,” I say primly, because I have to nip this in the bud. “I’ll be at the meeting tomorrow.”
    “I’m very much looking forward to it. Perhaps it would have been more prudent for me to wait and talk to you then. But thethought of you relaxed and tipsy, leaning back against the leather of my limo … well, that was an image I simply couldn’t pass up.”
    My mind is in a whirl. What happened to the man who so coolly deposited me in the back of this car?
    “I want to see you again,” he repeats, this time more forcefully. I don’t even pretend to misunderstand. He is not talking business.
    “Do you always get what you want?”
    “I do,” he says simply. “Especially when the desire is mutual.”
    “It’s not,” I lie.
    “Really?” I hear the interest in his voice. This is a game to him.
I
am a game to him. The thought pisses me off, and I’m grateful. Angry Nikki has a lot more control than Wasted Nikki.
    “Really.”
    “How did you feel when I put you in the limo?”
    I shift uncomfortably. I’m not completely certain where this is going, but I’m pretty confident that I won’t like getting there.
    “Nichole?”
    “Don’t call me that,” I snap.
    I hear silence on the other end of the line and I realize that I’m afraid he’s hung up.
    “All right, Nikki,” he says, as if he knows that he’s soothing a very deep wound. “How did you feel when I put you in the limo?”
    “I was pissed. And you damn well knew it.”
    “Because I was sending you home alone in a limo? Or because I was sending you home alone in a limo so that I could keep a date with a beautiful woman?”
    “In case it escaped your notice, we barely know each other. You are perfectly entitled to go out with whomever you want, whenever you want.”
    “And you’re within your rights to be jealous.”
    “I’m not jealous, and no, I wouldn’t be within my rights. Let me repeat the salient point: I hardly know you.”
    “I see. So the fact that we crave each other doesn’t play into it? Nor the fact that I made you wet? That I held your cunt in my hand and made you moan?”
    He’s about to make me moan again, but I manage to remain valiantly silent.
    “Tell me then, at what level of intimacy can jealousy rear its head?”
    “I—I’ve drunk my weight in champagne tonight. I am not even going to