“I will always come back,” he says, and in those simple words I hear both understanding and apology.
I nod, then clutch his hand. “I didn’t see the photos,” I say. “But no matter what is in them, I would never have left you. I just thought you needed sleep.” I look away, not meeting his eyes. Because the words that I am biting back are just too damn selfish. I didn’t think you needed me.
“I wanted you, Nikki,” he says, as if in answer to my thoughts. “I wanted to pull you close and strip you naked. I wanted to tie you up and run my fingers over every inch of you. I wanted to bury my face between your legs and bring you to the brink over and over again, never quite letting you come.”
I swallow. I am suddenly very, very warm.
“I wanted every sensation you experienced—every spark of pleasure, every hint of pain—to come from me. I wanted to fuck you until you begged me to stop and then I wanted to fuck you some more. Everything you felt, everything you wanted, everything you desired—I wanted it to be wrapped up in my touch, in my bed. I wanted to fuck you until there was nothing left but you and me. Until the whole goddamn world was erased.”
“Why didn’t you?” My mouth is dry and I have to force the words out.
He doesn’t answer.
I take a step closer, pushing through the thick, charged air that fills the space between us. “Whatever you need from me, all you have to do is take it. You know that.”
“I couldn’t,” he says, and his voice is harsh. “I couldn’t bear to have you in my arms when those images were in my head.”
“I—oh.” I am not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing. Just settle my cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat and the steady rhythm of his breath.
After a moment, he continues, his voice eerily steady. “Those images are like scenes from a horror movie. They show what Richter did, and how he did it. They show degradation and they show pain, and I will never, ever put those images in your hands. I won’t let you look at even one of them. Imagine what you want, but I don’t want the reality of my past haunting your present the way they haunt mine.”
“All right,” I say, because I don’t want to see them any more than he wants to show them. I stand a bit straighter. “But, Damien, if it will help you, then show them to me. I can handle it.”
“No,” he says with a slow shake of his head. “I don’t want you to have to handle it. That’s the horror of my past. But you . . . you’re the reality of my present. You’re the proof that I survived. The prize in the cereal box,” he adds with an impudent grin, but it quickly fades. “Hopefully you won’t see them anyway.”
“Why would I?”
“Whoever sent that evidence to the court must still have copies.” It is the bland, unemotional quality of his voice that tells me how much he hates that simple truism.
“But surely that person will protect them, right? I mean, those pictures have existed for almost two decades. They only surfaced when you were in trouble.”
“In my experience,” Damien says, “unearthed things have a tendency to remain unearthed.”
I have no counter to that. “Do you have any ideas who it was?”
“No.” The answer comes a little too quick.
“There can’t be that many people who know about—” I cut off my words. Though we are talking all around his abuse, I don’t want to voice it. “Your father, maybe? He was desperate to keep you from being tried.” Jeremiah Stark wasn’t concerned about Damien’s neck, but his own well-being. The end result, however, was the same.
“It’s possible,” Damien says. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about this.
“I just want it to be over for you,” I say, more than happy to drop this topic for the time being. “You deserve happiness, Damien.”
“So do you,” he says, looking at me with such intensity that it almost seems like he is imagining each of my scars in turn.
“Then it’s lucky we found each other,” I say, because I don’t want to think about the past that I have worked so long to leave behind. I’m only interested in the future with Damien.
His hands slide over my back, then up under the flimsy outfit to caress my bare skin. Slow, heated caresses that go on and on until I just want to rip the damn nightgown off and feel his hands over every inch of me.
“Do you know what I want right now?” he murmurs.
“Probably the same thing I do,” I say, then skip back out of the circle of his arms. “But we’re still in a dressing room.”
He steps closer, his eyes darkening. “I believe I explained how much privacy a thousand euros can buy.”
“You explained very well,” I concede. “But we have a lot of celebrating to do. And you deserve more than a fast fuck in a dressing room.”
“As it happens, it’s not a fast fuck that I want.”
“Oh?” I ask innocently hooking my arms around his neck. I press my hips against him and move in a lazy grinding motion. “What exactly do you want?”
His hands slide slowly down over my ass, stilling me, but also pressing me up hard against him. I feel his erection straining against his jeans, hot and demanding. “You,” he says simply. “I want you naked, Nikki. Naked and hot and wet for me. I want to hear you moan. Hell, I want to hear you beg. And I promise you, baby, there will be nothing fast about it.”
Chapter Six
“There,” he says, as soon as we are back in our suite. He is pointing to the area in front of the window, and I go without hesitation. The drapes are open, and the window of our fifth floor suite overlooks the Maximilianstrasse. “That’s it,” he says. “I want to watch as the sky darkens and the city lights rise behind you. I want to see the sunset reflected on your skin and the glitter of the nightlife shining in your hair.”
He strides toward me, all strength and power and a confidence that borders on arrogance. This is not the man who spent weeks at the mercy of the German court system only to have his freedom lobbed at him by a stranger. No, this is the man who built an empire. A man with strength enough to beat back the demons I saw this afternoon.
I look at him and feel no chill lingering from the nightmarish shadows that obscured him from me. There is only Damien now. The man that I know—the man that I crave.
This is the Damien who takes charge—who simply takes.