Release Me

between my fingers, breathing just a little bit harder than before as tiny beads of sweat gather between my breasts and my body warms all over.
    I close my eyes, and I picture the words Damien wrote:
    Wear this tonight. I’ll pick you up at
7.
    Cocktail attire
.
    You’ll want to touch yourself
.
Don’t
.
    That’s my privilege
.
    D.S
.

23
    I will never doubt Damien again.
    I’m dressed by six-thirty. By seven, I’m so desperately turned on that I wonder how these panties can be legal. They’re most definitely not practical. I grab a sparkling water and sit on the couch trying to read, but mostly I just press the water to the back of my neck because every time I move, the pearls make me hot, and if I’m not careful I’m going to melt before Damien picks me up.
    Or I’ll break a rule.
    Except, dammit, simply breathing is making me crazy. I imagine Damien’s voice in my ear, telling me how hot I’m getting, how tormented he knows I am, how wet I’m going to be for him, and how I absolutely, positively cannot do anything to release this pressure growing inside of me.
    Oh, to hell with it
.
    I’m wearing a black garter and black stockings, and as I lean my head back against the couch, I trail my fingers up my thighs. It’s only cheating a little if I pretend it’s Damien’s hand, right? And after all, it’s not like he needs to know.…
    My fingers slide over the pearls, but I don’t touch myself. Ionly touch the strand. It moves, just like it does when I walk, and the sensation is amazing, like tiny rockets shooting through my body, raising me up. I’m so wet I can hardly stand it, and I imagine Damien’s hands on my thighs, his mouth leaving a trail of kisses up my leg, his tongue flicking gently over me.
    I moan softly—then jump guiltily from the sharp knock at the front door.
    “Coming!” I call, and the irony
really
isn’t lost on me.
    I straighten my skirt, take a deep breath to hopefully smooth my face and hide my secret, then hurry to the door.
    I open it to find Damien standing there, looking so sexy in a tux that I think I might just come without the benefit of pearls or fingers or anything except the sight of this man in front of me.
    “You look amazing,” he says, then moves his finger in a twirling motion. I comply, spinning with enough force so that the skirt of my deep purple cocktail dress flares out. It’s a vintage dress that I’ve loved for years, with a fitted waist and a plunging neckline. Sexy, and yet at the same time it has a Grace Kelly kind of class. It makes me feel stunning, so it’s easy to smile and accept the compliment.
    “You’re not so bad yourself,” I say as he bends down to brush a soft kiss over my lips—a kiss he punctuates with a not-so-soft squeeze to my ass.
    “Careful,” I say. “Much more of that and we won’t be leaving this apartment.”
    “Oh really? Why is that?” he asks innocently.
    I smile sweetly, then grab my purse. I press a hand to his shoulder and lift myself up on my tiptoes so that my lips are right by his ear. “Because your little present is making me so hot that all I can think about is you inside me fucking me hard.”
    I ease back, keeping the breezy smile pasted on. His expression no longer looks so innocent. With smug satisfaction I glide past him out the door. “Coming?” I ask from the threshold.
    “Apparently not yet,” he growls, then follows me.
    He’s brought the limo, and I swallow when I see the familiar backseat. My attempts to be cool may be harder than I imagined.
    I nod to Edward, who is holding the door open for us, then slide in, the pearls moving with me. I can’t control the little gasp of pleasure that escapes me, but I settle into my seat and try to look nonchalant.
    Damien eases in next to me and rests his hand on my knee. “Did you say something, Ms. Fairchild?”
    “No. Nothing.” I clear my throat. It feels very, very warm in here. “So, where are we going?”
    “It’s a charity function,” he says.
    “Mmm.” I am
so
not interested. I’m also
so, so
aroused. Playing coy might be fun, but the fun is starting to turn into self-torture. “What charity?” I ask. “Any chance you could just write them a very big check and we can go to the house? Or your apartment? Or right here? Here is good, actually.”
    What started as a grin on Damien’s perfect lips has turned into a full-blown chuckle. He reaches for the console and pushes the button to raise the privacy screen. “As a