Release Me

eyes wishing things were different. Wishing
I
was different.
    “Take a chance, Nikki,” he says softly. “Let me show you how far I can take you.”
    I draw in a breath, then let it out slowly. I remember our game in the limo. “Yes, sir,” I finally say.
    He sucks in air sharply. I’ve surprised him, and the thought thrills me. “Good girl,” he says. Then, “Dear God, I want you now.”
    Me, too
. “The first session, Mr. Stark,” I say, but the tremble in my voice gives me away.
    “Of course, Ms. Fairchild. I’ll send a car for you tomorrow evening. I’ll text you when it’s on the way. Stay in tonight and relax. I want you refreshed. And open your door. There’s something for you on the mat.”
    On my mat?
    “Sweet dreams, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, then clicks off before I can ask what he’s talking about.
    I hurry from my bedroom, passing Jamie who’s still napping on the couch. I open the door to find a small box wrapped in silver paper.
    I don’t even bother taking it into the apartment, just tear off the paper and lift the lid. There’s a stunning ankle bracelet inside. Diamonds and emeralds set in platinum and strung on a delicate chain. It sparkles in my palm, the weight negligible.
    Beneath the bracelet, I find a handwritten note.
For our week. Wear this. D.S
.
    Our week?
He must have just written this. Must have just been
here
, outside the apartment.
    The realization sends a shiver up my spine. I unclasp the latch, bend down, and hook it around my ankle. Then I stand up and look defiantly out toward the street.
    I see a car, red and sporty and obviously expensive. I can’t see through the tinted windows, but that doesn’t matter. I am certain that it’s Damien.
    I watch, silently daring him to come to me. Or maybe I’m begging? I honestly don’t know. But the car door doesn’t open. The car doesn’t move.
    Our time hasn’t begun.
    Finally, I have reached my limit. I turn and go back into the apartment. I close the door and sag against it, feeling warm and edgy. But I’m smiling. Because out there in the world, Damien Stark is waiting for me.

16
    I wake up when the sun coming through the blinds hits my face and I realize I forgot to set an alarm. Except for the diamond and emerald ankle bracelet, I’m naked under the covers. My hand is cupped between my legs, and I’m slick with desire.
    I’d fallen asleep thinking about Damien, and I think I must have dreamed of him, too.
    I roll over and grope for my phone—then immediately panic when I see that it’s already after seven.
    Shit
.
    Any lingering erotic fantasies dissolve. If I don’t hurry, I’m going to be late for work.
    I take a longer shower than I should, but I need it. The water is near scalding, and it pounds at my body, dissolving fantasies and desires. I need to be in work-mode now; Damien Stark has no place in my head.
    I don’t have time to blow-dry and style my hair, so I towel-dry it to dampness, then comb it out. It will air dry on the drive, and I can brush it out into its natural waves as I’m making the trek from my crappy parking place to the elevator.
    Traffic is a bitch, and by the time I finally pull into that crappy parking place, I’m a bit bitchy myself.
    I sling my bag over my shoulder, grab my brush, then furiously brush my hair as I stomp to the elevator on two-inch heels.
    The receptionist, Jennifer, looks wide-eyed at me as I pull open the glass door to the C-Squared offices. I frown and do a quick mental check of my outfit, but as far as I can tell, everything is buttoned and zipped.
    “Is he in?” I say. “I have an idea about tweaking one of the algorithms.” Jennifer probably doesn’t care, but it’s one of those ideas that hits you like a blast furnace, and I want to talk it out with Carl and then get Brian or Dave crunching the numbers.
    “He didn’t call you?” Jennifer squeaks. “I thought for sure he would call you.”
    Something’s very weird. “Why would he call?”
    “He—oh, shit. Here. He said to give this to you.” She hands me a thin envelope.
    I don’t want to take it, but I do. It seems to weigh a thousand pounds. “Jennifer,” I say very slowly. “What is this?”
    “It’s your check. And that’s your stuff.” She cocks her head to indicate something behind her. For the first time, I notice the copy paper box filled with my personal things. Jennifer bites her lower lip.
    “I see.” I square my shoulders. “You never answered my question. Is