His fingers brush my neck and my eyes fly open. I tilt my head to look up at him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He is focused on his task.

He is focused on tying the cord around my neck.

I swallow, my emotions a storm inside me. There’s excitement, yes, but it’s mingled with fear. Of what, I’m not sure. I’m not afraid of Damien. I could never be afraid of Damien. But dear God, why is he leashing me? And how tight will he make that cord?

“Damien,” I say, surprised that my words sound normal. “What are you doing?”

“What I want,” he replies, and though the words do not answer my question, a swell of relief washes over me, followed by delicious anticipation.

This is how it began for us, with those three simple words. And so help me, I don’t ever want it to end.

2

Damien ties off the end of the cord so that it essentially forms a choker with a very long tail. That tail extends down between my breasts, over my sex, and then back up to where my hands are still bound behind me by the other end of that very same cord. I shift a little. I am antsy and turned on and, yes, a little bit uncomfortable.

Slowly, he looks me up and down. “I’m tempted to commission another painting, Ms. Fairchild. I think I’d like to have you like this all the time.”

I smirk. “Are we negotiating, Mr. Stark? I don’t come cheap, but for someone of your discriminating taste, I’m quite certain that we could come to terms.”

He laughs, and I have to bite my lip not to join in. “There is very little that I’d like more than to negotiate with you. But I’m afraid we’re running out of time.”

“Time?”

“Places to go,” he says. “People to see.”

Oh. Suddenly his comment that I will be fighting to keep control makes a lot more sense.

I glance down at my very bare, very bound body. “I don’t think I’m dressed for company.”

“It’s just as well that the traditional morals of our society don’t allow me to take you out like this. I’m a very selfish man, and I have no interest in sharing you with the world.”

“Believe me,” I say, with a wry twist to my mouth, “I have no interest in being shared.” My mind turns to the portrait, in which I am bound so similarly to how I am now. A larger-than-life painting that will hang in a room meant for entertaining. In that way, I suppose Damien has already shared me, and I have agreed to be shared. But I am anonymous in the painting. That had been a key term of our deal.

“I’m exceptionally glad to hear that, Ms. Fairchild. Especially since, as you reminded me, you are my exclusive property until midnight. Completely mine to do with as I wish. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes.”

“To touch, to tease, to tempt.”

My body tightens at his words, but I manage to nod.

“To punish and to praise.”

“Damien—” My voice is raw, and he silences me with a gentle finger to my lips. Then slowly circles me.

“To clothe, to feed. Mine, Nikki,” he says, his breath stroking the back of my neck as intimately as a hand upon my sex. “Mine to protect, mine to cherish.” He has finished the circle and is facing me now. “Mine to rule. Tell me, Nikki. Tell me what I want to hear.”

“I’m yours,” I whisper. I am craving his touch, my body so hyperaware that I feel drugged, done in by the sweet narcotic that is Damien.

“Good girl.” His words are low, barely audible. Slowly, he moves behind me again. I turn my head, trying to see him, but I don’t know what he’s doing until I feel him loosening the knots that bind my wrists.

“I’m surprised,” I say. “After what you said, I didn’t think you’d free me.”

“Who says I am?” His voice is low and sensual. It surrounds and strokes me. “I’m taking care of you, Nikki. Wholly and completely.”

I close my eyes in sweet anticipation. Behind me, he finishes unraveling the knots. I sigh and rub my wrists, which have gone a little numb from being in one position for so long. I try to guess what Damien has planned, but it’s no use. I am clueless, and I watch helplessly as he moves across the room to the section of the closet that boasts a wider selection of designer tops than the Neiman Marcus back home in Dallas. He chooses a sleeveless black sweater with a cowl neck. Then he returns to my side.

“I’m going to dress you now,” he says. “Arms up.”

I obey. The knit is soft yet snug, and I can’t deny that it fits perfectly. I lift my hand to my neck, enjoying the freedom of movement, and am happy to realize that the high, loose neck covers the cord that still hangs between my breasts under the shirt.

He holds out a tiny leather miniskirt next, and I dutifully step into it, careful not to trip over the cord that still hangs in front of me, and that Damien makes sure remains hidden inside the garment.

“Damien,” I say, and though I try to sound harsh, there is no hiding the excitement that laces those three simple syllables.

“Hush,” he replies. He moves behind me, presumably to zip up the skirt. Instead, he reaches between my legs for the dangling cord and tugs it toward him. Once again, I tingle from the enticing feel of the silk against my oh-so-sensitive flesh. He pulls it up, threading it under the skirt so that a tiny bit peeks out from the waistband. Then he zips me up tight.

“I don’t think that adds much to the outfit,” I say, looking over my shoulder at the flash of red that resembles an exotic zipper pull.

“I beg to differ,” he retorts, and underscores his words with a slow, yet firm tug on the cord. I cry out in pleasure and surprise, the simultaneous stroking of my sex and ass almost more than I can handle.

“You still need shoes,” he says gently, this time crossing to a section of shoe cubbies. He grabs a pair of strappy black sandals with three-inch fuck-me heels. “These will do,” he says. “And as much as I like you in stockings, I think we’ll skip that tonight.”

I can only nod, then sit on the white leather bench to which he leads me. As I sit, the cord tightens, and I am quite certain that Damien intended it that way.

He crouches in front of me and lifts my foot. My knees are apart, and as he slides on the shoe and fastens the tiny buckle around my ankle, his eyes flicker up to meet mine, and then down to the shadow between my parted legs. Unless a red silk cord constitutes underwear, I am naked beneath the skirt. Naked and wet and so needful that I want to slide my hips forward in a silent demand that he touch me. That he take me.