Release Me

improvement.”
    “I think so, too. But my mother about had a heart attackwhen I told her I wasn’t going to count carbs or calories anymore.” I grin at him. “I can’t believe you really remember all of that.”
    “You were the only contestant who seemed alive to me, and that was despite the fact that everything you were doing was a lie. Or maybe because of it.”
    “A lie?” I prop myself up on my elbow, fascinated. “What do you mean?”
    “Exactly what I told you at the time. You didn’t want to be there. You felt like a kindred spirit.”
    “You were right. That was my last pageant. After that one, I finally managed to get free.” I frown. “Kindred spirit? You said that because you wanted out of tennis, didn’t you?”
    His expression darkens. “Hell yes.”
    I hope he can’t see my sadness. I remember the emcee introducing him at the pageant, announcing that Damien Stark had just won the US Open. He had so much talent, and the joy had been ripped away from him. I’m certain there’s more to it than the story he told me, and I wonder if he’ll ever tell me the full truth.
    He strokes my cheek, and I smile. “We both got out,” I say, forcing myself away from melancholy. “And now we’re both free to explore other options.”
    His expression turns devious as his hand creeps down. “Let me show you what I want to explore.”
    I gasp as he slides his fingers inside me.
    “Too sore?”
    I am, but I don’t want to admit it. “No,” I whisper.
    “I’m very glad to hear it.” He lays me back, then eases his body on top of mine. His weight feels delicious, the pressure safe. Like he’s holding me close and protecting me. His mouth brushes mine in a flurry of soft kisses that start at my lips and then trail down my neck before he eases back up to press a kissto my ear. “I thought we’d try something new,” he says. “Or, rather, something old.”
    “Old?”
    “Plain, old-fashioned missionary position. Spread your legs, baby,” he says, then groans in satisfaction when I do. The wide head of his cock presses against me, but he doesn’t enter. Instead he moves just slightly, teasing us both.
    My breath comes in fluttering gasps, and just as I’m about to break down and beg, he thrusts inside me. I gasp, arching back, grimacing from both pain and pleasure.
    “I think someone broke the rules,” he murmurs as he finds his rhythm and eases in and out of me. “I think you lied when you said you weren’t sore.”
    I grin up at him, mischievous. “Maybe I did. Maybe it was worth it.”
    “I’ll go nice and easy,” he says, and he does, moving so slow and deep that it’s almost like torture as the crescendo builds, higher and higher until I finally explode in his arms, limp and open to him. His orgasm follows quickly, and he clutches me, slamming hard into me, then collapsing against me.
    “There’s something to be said for traditional,” I murmur, and beside me, Damien laughs.
    For a few minutes, we just lay in the dark listening to the ocean. Then Damien takes my hand. “Let’s get cleaned up and eat.”
    I’m not about to argue with either of those, so I slide back into the robe and follow the stunning view of a naked Damien past the fireplace to the rest of the third floor. It’s also been finished out, and there’s a tricked-out, restaurant-sized kitchen—“just a small one for parties”—a still unfurnished bedroom, and the most amazing bathroom I’ve ever seen. It’s at least twice the size of Jamie’s condo. The ceiling is over thirteen feet high, and it’s made entirely of glass. Right now, it’s a dark void, but ifDamien were to turn off the lights, I imagine that the stars would twinkle above us.
    One wall is lined with a granite countertop that has two huge sinks. On either side of each is a vanity area. An electric razor is at the far sink. Along with a toothbrush and a bottle of aftershave. On the closer sink, there is another toothbrush, still in plastic. There’s also a small box. Curious, I open it, and find foundation, powder, and a variety of eye shadows and liners, all in my favorite colors.
    “How did you know to get all of this?”
    “I’m a man of many resources,” he says.
    I frown. Why didn’t he just ask me what brand and colors I wore? I’m feeling a bit under a microscope, with nothing quite my own. It’s the way my mother always made me feel, but Damien is not Elizabeth Fairchild, and I’m afraid that I’m