Release Me

“You’re not going to fuck me,” I say softly. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t fuck you.”
    As I ease my hips up, I see the look of heated surprise on his face.
    “Oh, no,” he warns.
    “Oh, yes,” I say, positioning his cock beneath me, then lowering myself onto him, fast and hard. I clutch his shoulders, arch my head back, and ride him.
    “Jesus, Nikki.” His voice is a desperate groan and he grabs my hips, taking over the work of pistoning us together. I’m learning his body, and I can see how fast he’s building. I move harder, faster, pushing him along. “Oh, Christ, I’m going to come.”
    He explodes inside me, then pulls me close as he breathes hard, his entire body going limp. “That was … unexpected,” he says. “And pretty damned amazing,” he adds, making me feel hot and sexy and powerful.
    He strokes my cheek. “You didn’t use a condom.”
    I look away, weirdly shy. “I assumed you were clean. You are, right?”
    “I am,” he says. “But that’s not the only issue.”
    “I’m on the pill,” I admit. I don’t tell him that it’s more for cramps than for birth control.
    “Good,” he says. “In fact, that’s excellent.”
    I ease off him, and curl up beside him in the rapidly cooling water. He holds me close, then shifts our position and stands, reaching to pull me up. I let him help me out and dry me off with the kind of thick towel I’ve only seen in spas. Then he holds the robe for me and ties the sash around my waist. He dries himself off next and pulls on a simple cotton robe. “Come,” he says, then leads me to the bed.
    He opens a trunk and pulls out two pillows and a light comforter, which he spreads over the sheets. He holds the sheet open in an obvious invitation, so I start to slide in. “Take the robeoff,” he says, and I do, untying the sash and then letting the soft material fall off my shoulders to pool at my feet.
    “Don’t fall asleep on me,” he says, after he’s tucked me in. “I’ll be right back.”
    I roll over and look out at the ocean. The windows are still open, and the cool night air is blowing in, but it’s warm under the comforter. The sky is black, and the ambient light is minimal enough that I can actually see the stars twinkling above.
    After a moment, I feel the mattress shift as Damien sits beside me. He has a tray with wine, cheese, and grapes. I grin and ease myself up to a sitting position, the pillow propped against the cool metal of the bedframe.
    “Open your mouth,” he says, then feeds me a grape when I comply. “You’re beautiful, Nikki,” he says. “Do you believe me?”
    “When you say it, I do.”
    My legs are under the covers, but he rests his hand on them. “How long?”
    I don’t pretend to misunderstand. “I was sixteen when I started,” I say. “My sister got married and moved out. And Mother kicked the pageant stuff into overdrive. It sounds petty, I know, but Ashley was the only person who kept me centered. Without her around, I got so frustrated I’d take the crowns out of the trophy case and bend them. Not so much that Mother noticed. Just enough so that they weren’t perfect anymore.” I shrug. “I guess I graduated from crowns to my own skin.”
    “Why cutting?”
    “I don’t really know. It’s a compulsion; it just felt like that was what I needed. Either cut or float off into some black hell. I felt so disconnected, like my life didn’t belong to me. The pain gave me an anchor. Now, I think it was something my mother couldn’t touch. Then, I just knew it helped. It’s hard to explain.” I shrug. I want him to understand, but I don’t really understand myself, and I don’t like talking about it.
    “I get it,” he says.
    I look at him, wondering if he’s just being polite, but I see genuine comprehension in his face.
    “Sixteen,” he says thoughtfully. “But when I saw you compete at eighteen, there were no scars.”
    “My hips,” I say. “I kept all the cuts on my hips at first. Easy enough to hide, even in a pageant dressing room.”
    “What changed?” He’s holding my hand, gently stroking my fingers.
    “Ashley,” I admit. “When I was eighteen, she committed suicide. Her husband had left her—my mother had been appalled. Said Ashley must have done something to drive him away. I guess Ashley thought so, too, because her suicide note said she was a failure.” I swallow, appreciating the way he’s squeezing my hand in support. “That was the first time I