His hand cups my sex, and I release a moan so soft it is little more than a breath.

“So tell me, Ms. Fairchild. If you’re not in pain or suffering or humiliated, how do you feel?”

“Turned on,” I admit, and my cheeks heat even more.

Even in the candlelight, I can see the way his face darkens with my words. I’m not the only one turned on right now.

I start to speak, but he shakes his head. “Hush, now, and close your eyes. I’m going to kiss you.”

I comply, my lips parted in expectation of his touch. But it’s not my lips upon which he presses his kiss. I feel the rough stubble of his beard on my thigh, then his tongue in the soft crease between my leg and vulva. My breath is coming in little gasps now, and whatever playfulness had been in the air mere moments ago has evaporated, replaced by want and need and quiet desperation.

His mouth closes over me, his tongue laving me in a rhythm designed to drive me completely crazy.

His thumbs tease me, never going so far as to enter, but combined with the erotic power of his tongue against my clit, it is a wonder that my body isn’t ripped apart by the force of the sensations rocketing through me.

My back is arched, my hips grinding. Instinctively, I try to close my legs, trying to forestall this tidal wave of pleasure that is so potent it borders on pain. But I can’t. I am bound open, and I have no choice but to yield to these amazing sensations.

Damien’s hands move to hold my hips, keeping me even more immobile. I feel drunk on lust, intoxicated by desire, and I close my eyes and let my head fall back in complete surrender as Damien’s mouth and tongue work some kind of erotic magic on me, taking me higher and higher until that magic culminates in an explosion of sparks and colors and shooting stars that leaves me spent and breathless.

Slowly, reality returns to me, and I gasp, spread-eagled on the bed. My chest rises and falls, my body so sensitive that I can feel every thread of the sheet below me. I feel spoiled and pampered and adored and used. I am certain that all that is left is for Damien to untie me and then gather me into his arms as we drift off into the bliss of sleep. Because what else could be left for this night? He has utterly, sweetly destroyed me.

I should know better than to assume anything about Damien Stark.

His teeth graze my nipple, and I arch up, thoughts of sleep vanishing. I am battered, ripped asunder by his sensual assault, and yet I do not want it to end. The torment is delicious, and I would happily stay like this forever, forgoing food and friends and the world outside if I could simply escape into Damien’s arms.

I open my eyes as he arches up, and his self-satisfied smile suggests that he understands just what I’m thinking. Then he glances sideways, and the smile fades, replaced by a blank, unreadable expression.

Worry cuts through me. “Damien?” Instinctively, I turn my head, my gaze following his line of sight. There is a clock mounted to the wall amid a collection of framed photographs, the few personal items that Damien has already moved into this shell of a house. Oh.

Automatically, I try to sit up, but I am still trapped, bound spread-eagled to this bed, naked and vulnerable. Somehow, though, in that moment it seems as though Damien is more vulnerable than I.

“Less than a minute,” he says, turning his head so that he is looking straight at me again. “Do you turn into a pumpkin or do I?” The words are light, but something in his tone worries me and I am unnerved.

“I don’t think I’d like you as a pumpkin,” I say, forcing out the teasing words. “And I look terrible in orange.”

He laughs, and my worries fizzle away as he straddles me, his weight on his knees and his erection rubbing provocatively on my belly. He traces my lips with the tip of his finger, and I gasp as I suddenly realize that I’ve forgotten to breathe.

He slides down my body and grazes his finger over the platinum and emerald ankle bracelet he gave me when our game began. He looks at me, his eyes burning with passion. “You’re still mine,” he whispers. And then, before I can answer, he shifts position and enters me so swiftly that I cry out in surprise and passion. We move together, making love slowly and gently, and when I feel his body shudder above mine, I close my eyes in the feminine satisfaction of knowing that he has found pleasure in my body.

He rolls off me, then curls himself beside me. “Nikki.” It is not a demand or a question. It is simply my name on his lips, and I soak it up like warm sunshine.

We lie like that, our bodies touching, until I can no longer stand my immobility. “Untie me,” I say.

He lifts his head to look at me. I still see the heat in his eyes, but there is a playfulness, too. He does not rush to release me.

“Hello?” I say, then tap my fingernails on the iron bedframe. “Did you get lost between the middle of the bed and the headboard?”

“I’m considering my options,” he says. “Why should I?”

“Because my arms will cramp up soon.”

“I’ll be happy to massage you.”

I aim a scowl at him. “And because you have a cocktail party here on Saturday, and your guests will ask questions.”

“Perhaps, but won’t it be nice to know that the guests will have plenty to talk about?”

“As much as I hate the thought of depriving your guests of interesting conversation, I would still like my hands to be free.”

“Would you?” He trails a lazy finger down my side, and I bite my lower lip to keep from writhing. The sensation is delicious, a cross between a caress and a tickle, and my skin tingles in his wake. “And what is it that you wish to do with your hands, Ms. Fairchild?”

“Touch you,” I say boldly. “I’m allowed. After all, we’re on equal footing now that midnight has passed. Aren’t we, sir?”

There is a pause before his head tilts down in a quick, formal nod. “Yes, madam,” he says as he leans past me to loosen the knots that hold my wrists in place. “We are.”

Once my hands are free, I sit up while he unbinds my ankles. I pull my legs close, enjoying the sensation of moving again. Then I kneel on the bed in front of Damien, who is sitting at the foot of the bed, watching me. It’s hard not to look at him. He’s even more magnificent by the glow of candlelight. I reach out, wanting to feel him beneath my fingertips. Wanting his warmth against my skin. Slowly, I lay my palm over his heart, then close my eyes as I feel it beat, strong and steady like the man himself.

I lay him gently back onto the bed and straddle him, my knees pressed against either side of his waist. I trail my fingers over his chest and watch the way one small muscle jumps in his jaw, evidence of how hard he is fighting for control. I smile, relishing the power he’s relinquished to me. “You make me feel amazing,” I say. “I want you to feel the same.”