Then it’s trailing between my legs. My muscles spasm in anticipation and then there it is—snap, a light spank on my vulva. I gasp. Never would I have thought I’d feel such exquisite pleasure from getting smacked in such an intimate place, but maybe it makes sense. I imagine Damien pounding into me, fucking me hard. Yeah, maybe it makes a lot of sense.

I wait, my body raw and open. Wanting and needing. But there is no second strike.

“Again,” I beg. “Damien, please.”

His moan of pleasure tells me everything—he’d been waiting to see if I liked this new play. And I do. So help me, I really do.

Once again the strips of leather land lightly against my sensitive skin. I arch up, my clit feels huge and swollen, and as he smacks me once more, I fear that if one of those straps lands directly on it I’ll explode from the combination of pleasure and pain.

“Damien,” I say, and that’s all it takes. The sensation changes, and it’s not the leather on my sex, but his mouth. His hands are on my thighs, and his tongue is inside me, and I can hear his low, hard moans. I’m close, so close, my hips twisting and bucking shamelessly against his face, the scrape of his beard stubble tickling my sensitive skin.

I’m there—right on the edge, when he eases away from me. I cry out in protest, but my cry changes to a gasp as Damien thrusts inside me. I open my eyes and see him above me. He’s looking right at me, his expression one of such intensity that I can’t resist drawing my arm around his neck and bringing his mouth to mine.

We kiss, as deep and as hard as he’s fucking me, and I’m already so close that I come in just seconds, in what has got to be the most massive orgasm of my life. He’s not far behind me, and when he’s spent, he eases next to me on the mattress, our bodies still connected. I see the whip where he laid it on the pillow. I look at it and smile. “I think I’m going to like being a bad girl.”

He chuckles. “I know you are.” After a few minutes, he sits up, then gently takes the rings off my nipples. Immediately, I feel the warm rush of blood. Dear God, I could fuck him again right now.

He kisses the tip of my nose. “A lovely thought, but I need to make a run to the office.”

“How do you do that? How do you read my mind?”

A smile is his only answer, but it doesn’t matter. I already know how, and it doesn’t scare me: Damien Stark can see beneath my mask.

“You really need to go? It’s so late.”

“I can’t stay much longer. I have a conference call scheduled with Tokyo. Unfortunately, I have files in my office that I need.”

“I’ll see you in the morning, then.”

He shakes his head. “Blaine’s still in La Jolla. He wants to switch your sitting to tomorrow evening. Why don’t you come by around five. I’ll take off early and we can have a drink before he arrives.”

“What if I’m not thirsty?” I say teasingly.

“I’m sure we can find something to satisfy both our appetites.” He holds out his hand. “Come on. Let’s get cleaned up.”

We take a mostly chaste shower, during which he gently soaps me down and rinses me off, touching me as softly as if I was fragile and precious. When we return to my room, I pull on a robe, while Damien gets back into his jeans and T-shirt. He puts the nipple rings back in the jewelry box, and then moves to my desk. “Keep them,” he says. “Someday, I may tell you to wear them under your clothes.”

I lick my lips and nod. He sets the box down, and in the process bumps my laptop. The screensaver dissolves, revealing the image I now use as wallpaper—Damien Stark looking exultant on the beach.

“Well,” he says, looking at the screen, his expression odd.

“I love that picture,” I say. “You look so happy.”

He turns away from the screen long enough to eye me. “I feel very exposed.”

I laugh. “Really? More than how I feel standing naked for a portrait?”

His brow rises. “Once again, you’ve made a good point, Ms. Fairchild.”

“Here,” I say, grabbing the camera from the drawer of my bedside table. I place it on the desk and set the timer, then I tug Damien’s hand and pull him onto the bed with me.

“What are you—”

“Hush,” I say. “Say cheese.”

“Nikki—” But he’s cut off by the intense flash and the click of the shutter.

He cocks his head, and there’s censure in his eyes.

“No,” I say, before he says a word. “I’m not deleting it, I’m not erasing it, I’m not ignoring it. I want a picture of the two of us together, and you can just deal with it.”

The way he’s looking at me, I’m seriously afraid I’m going to lose this battle. But then he nods and leans forward to kiss the tip of my nose. “All right,” he says when he pulls back. “I want a copy, too.”

*

I sleep late the next morning, and when I go into the kitchen for coffee, I find a note on the dining table from Damien beside the clothes he’s picked out for me: Wear these. D.S. Apparently he was doing more than just watching television—he’d also gone through my laundry. He’s selected a short denim skirt and a cheap concert T-shirt that really shouldn’t be worn without a bra. Not exactly what I would call a stellar wardrobe choice, but I’ll wear it. After all, I’m only going to take it off again once I get to the Malibu house.

A wry smile touches my lips. The man sure does love to control every little thing.

After I’m caffeinated, I stand in the shower and let the scalding water pound the life back into me. I am a shell of myself, but it feels so damn good. Yesterday was astounding, like an explosion of the senses. Relaxing, exciting, passionate, erotic, sensual. Most of all, it was fun.

It’s a simple thing, but I like seeing Damien happy. And I can’t deny the fact that it gives me a special thrill to know that it was me that helped him wipe away the dark remnants left over from his visit with his dad.

I squirt some shampoo into my hand and start to lather my hair, my mind still on the man and his father and their fucked-up relationship. I don’t know—because Damien hasn’t told me—but I can guess that it is at least as toxic as my relationship with my mother. Even so, it must have been hard, firing his dad as his manager, especially since he was only a kid at the time.

I turn the thought over in my head. There’s something about the situation that’s familiar. I tilt my head back and rinse my hair, working my fingers through the strands to get the soap out. I can’t think what it is, but something is bugging me, dammit, and it’s still bothering me when I get out of the shower and pad back to my room.