“Do you have any idea how much you mean to me?”

“I—” I draw in a breath and try again. “Yes,” I say. “As much as you mean to me.”

I am trapped in the heat of his gaze and his proximity. He’s not touching me, but he might as well be. There is nothing about me at that moment that isn’t a reflection of Damien, of how I feel about him and what he’s doing to me. I want to soothe him, want to stroke his cheek and run my fingers through his hair. I want to pull his head to my breast and whisper soft words, and I want to make love to him slowly and sweetly until the shadows of the night are gone and the morning light bathes us in color.

From his post at the canvas, Blaine coughs politely. Damien’s lips curve up in a grin that matches my own. We’ve done nothing more than look into each other’s eyes, and yet it feels as though Blaine has witnessed something deeply intimate.

“Yeah, right. So, I’m going to head on out. The cocktail party’s not until seven on Saturday, right? So I’ll come by that afternoon and see if she needs any last minute touch-ups. And I’ll take care of hanging her when I set up the rest of the canvases on easels.”

“Perfect,” Damien says, not looking at him.

“I gotta say,” Blaine adds, as he gathers his things, “I’m going to miss this.”

For just an instant, I think I see something melancholy in Damien’s eyes, but it passes almost immediately. “Yes,” he says. “So am I.”

I’m not sure when Blaine leaves, I only know that he’s gone, and Damien is still there, and he’s still not touching me, and that I’m going to go a little crazy if I don’t feel his hands upon me soon.

“Is it really done?” I ask. “I still haven’t seen it.”

“Come here.”

He reaches out, and I shift to give him my back, expecting him to untie me. He doesn’t, though. Instead he puts his hand on my shoulder and eases me toward the canvas. I have to move carefully because of the red silk cord wrapped around my left leg, but he doesn’t make any effort to untangle me. And he certainly doesn’t bother to pass me the robe that’s laid out on the foot of the bed.

I grimace, lifting my brows in question. Damien doesn’t even pretend to misunderstand. “Why, Ms. Fairchild, surely you don’t expect me to sabotage such an amazing opportunity.”

“Mmm.” I try to sound harsh, but I’m pretty certain he can hear the laughter in my voice.

He doesn’t respond, though, because we’ve reached the painting. I gasp—it’s me, yes. The curve of my ass, the swell of my breast. But it’s more than me. The image is alluring and submissive, strong and yet vulnerable. It’s also anonymous, as Damien had promised. In the portrait, my face is turned away, and my golden curls are piled atop my head, a few tendrils spilling down to caress my neck and shoulders. In the real world, those curls no longer exist, my long tresses having recently been traded for a shoulder-length cut.

I frown, remembering the weight of the scissors in my hands, remembering the way I’d hacked at my hair when what I’d really wanted was to take that sharp edge to my flesh. I’d been lost then, certain that the only way back was to hold fast to the pain like a lifeline.

I shiver. It’s not a memory I like.

Automatically, my gaze dips to the legs of the girl in the portrait. But her—my—thighs are close together and angled such that the worst of the scars aren’t visible. The scar on my left hip is, though. But Blaine has managed to make that raised welt part of the beauty of the painting. The edges are blurred, almost as if it’s in soft focus, and the red cord skims over the marred flesh, as if being bound too tight caused the wounds.

When you get right down to it, I suppose that’s true.

I look away, unnerved by the inescapable reality that the girl on the canvas is beautiful, even despite the scars.

“Nikki?”

I glance out of the corner of my eye and see that Damien is looking at me, not the painting, and there is concern on his face.

“He’s talented,” I say, my lips flickering into a conjured smile. “It’s a wonderful portrait.”

“It is,” he agrees. “Everything about it is exactly what I want.” There’s a familiar heat in his voice, and I understand both his spoken words and what remains unsaid.

I smile, and this time it doesn’t feel plastic.

Damien eyes me, and I see the playful light in his eyes.

“What?” I demand, amused but wary.

He shrugs, then glances again at the painting. “It will be a miracle if I get any work done in this room.” He nods toward the stone wall above the fireplace where the painting is to hang. “And I damn sure shouldn’t entertain in here.”

“Oh?” He has a cocktail party scheduled for this very room in only two days.

Damien chuckles. “I find that it’s a social faux pas to host a party with a permanent hard-on.”

“Well, then, perhaps you should have planned to hang the painting in the bedroom.”

“I don’t need the image in my bedroom. Not when I have the real thing.”

“And you do,” I say, my tone teasing. “Bought and paid for. At least until midnight when I turn into a pumpkin.”

His eyes darken, all playfulness vanishing. “Midnight,” he repeats, and I wonder at the harshness I hear in his voice. After all, it’s not as if I will truly turn into a pumpkin when our game is over. And I certainly won’t be going away—to be honest, I don’t ever want to go away. All that will change is that there will be no more rules—no more “sir,” no more orders, no more safe-words. There will be panties and bras and jeans if I want them. And, yes, there will be a million dollars.

But above all else, there will still be Damien.

“Follow me,” he says.

Again, I glance at my leg, then give my bound hands a little shake. “Untie me.”

He stands for a moment, his eyes on mine, and I can see that we are still playing games. My pulse pounds in my throat, and my nipples are erect. My hands, tied behind me, pull my shoulders back and lift my breasts. They feel full, needful, and I graze my teeth over my lower lip as I silently wait for Damien’s touch.

A game, yes. But I like it. In this game, there are no losers.

Slowly, he lets his gaze drift down over my body. My breath is shallow, and small beads of sweat form at the nape of my neck. I can feel the moisture between my thighs, the quivering need, and it takes all of my effort to stand silent and still and not beg for him to please, please fuck me. The bed is just a few yards away, the prop Damien brought in for the portrait. There, I want to scream. Just take me there.