“A man is never more himself than when he is alone,” Damien says, in answer to my unspoken question. “That is when the mask comes off. Shut the door, and the persona drops away. Alone, you reveal your soul. You and I know that better than most people.”
I nod, but say nothing.
He brushes his lips over mine in a kiss so soft it makes me want to cry from the sweetness of it. “You, Nikki, are the only person I can be with and still be alone. You see me—the core of me. And not only do you see me, but you love me.”
“Yes,” I say, and only when I taste my tears do I realize that I am crying, after all. Throughout my entire life I have played a part. Social Nikki. Beauty Queen Nikki. Dutiful Daughter Nikki. But with Damien, I am only Nikki.
“I am alone with you,” he says. “And at the same time, neither of us will ever be alone again.”
I blink away the tears. “It’s perfect,” I say. “You could have searched forever and still not found a better place for us. It—it fills me up.” The words are inadequate, but when he squeezes my hand and says, “I know,” I think that perhaps he understands.
When we arrive at the bungalow, my thoughts are still on Damien’s words and this place. I meant what I said about the location being perfect. Ever since his murder trial, things have been just a little crazy. And he’s right, this is a well-deserved respite for both of us. Time to be alone together. A chance to stop the movement of the earth for just a little bit. I grin at the thought.
“What’s that for?” he asks, brushing the corner of my mouth with his fingertip.
I lift a shoulder casually as he opens the bungalow door for me. “I was just thinking about how easily you control the universe. Stopping the earth’s rotation is no mean feat.”
He chuckles. “Is that what I do?”
“Mmm-hmm.” I take his hands and pull him inside. “But right now, I don’t want the earth to stop. Just the opposite. Make the earth move for me, Damien,” I say, pressing my body against his. I draw in a deep, self-satisfied breath as he shifts against me, his erection hard against my abdomen. “I want you to make me fall apart,” I whisper. “Please, Damien. I want you to make me scream.”
“As you wish,” he says, in the kind of low voice that makes me tingle in anticipation. “After all, Mrs. Stark, this is your wedding day.”
Chapter 2
As it turns out, I don’t scream. Instead, I squeal as he scoops me up and holds me tight against his chest, my arms hooked equally tight around his neck. I laugh and kick as he carries me toward the bedroom.
“I’m not going to make you scream, Mrs. Stark,” he whispers with mischief in his voice. “I’m going to make you beg.”
“Because you like it when I beg.” My voice is breathy as I repeat what he said to me on the beach.
His mouth curves into a grin, but he doesn’t answer in words. Instead, I see the truth in his eyes. Oh yes, I think. This is going to be fun.
I expect him to deposit me on the bed, and I’m prepared to cling to his shirt and pull him down on top of me if he even thinks about stepping away, even if only to undress. Instead, he surprises me, moving through the bedroom to a sliding wooden door. He shifts his grip on me just long enough to open it, revealing the most spectacular bathroom I’ve ever seen.
I’d seen enough of it last night to know that it is amazing, but it had been dark when we arrived, and I’d been more interested in the man I was eloping with than in architecture and plumbing, no matter how incredible.
This morning, I’d had no occasion to come through these doors. Damien had roused me before sunrise and handed me over to two local women who had hurried me into the living area, which had been converted into a makeshift dressing room. They’d washed my hair in a portable beauty shop–style chair, then did my makeup in the smaller, but still luxurious, bathroom off the kitchen.
I was primped and polished, then decked out in my wedding dress and hustled to the beach for a sunrise ceremony so quickly and efficiently that my memory of this morning before the vows began is a blur.
Then, as now, I’d wanted only Damien.
Now, however, my desire for the man is both underscored and enhanced by the scene in front of me. “Damien.” The word comes out as an awed whisper. The room is romantic. Magical.
As perfect as the man himself.
I tilt my head up to find him smiling down at me, and in that moment my heart is so full that I have to cling to him more tightly for fear that it will burst.
This is like no room I’ve ever seen before, and I am a bit in awe. Last night, in the dark, I hadn’t really thought about the floor, and if I had I would have assumed it was solid. Instead, it is slate leading up to a rectangular wading pool that fills most of the bathroom, but extends beneath a sliding glass wall to dominate the back patio as well. Beyond its infinity-style end is the ocean, and from the perspective of someone standing inside the house, the rocky shore that slopes down from the bungalow is completely invisible.
In some ways, this space reminds me of Damien’s house in Malibu. Our house, I think, mentally correcting myself. It’s similar in appointment and elegance, and yet it’s different, too. Exotic. It is the perfect place for a honeymoon, and I whisper as much to Damien even as I continue to gaze around in delighted awe.
A small stone bridge stretches across the pool to the giant, modern tub that sits in the middle like an island.
But it is not these architectural enhancements that have stolen my breath and teased my heart. Instead, it is what Damien has made of the room. Because it is awash in rose petals. They cover the floor and they peek out from the bubbles that fill the tub. Incredibly, they also float on the water of the infinity pool. Beside the tub, a tripod champagne bucket rises from the water. A bamboo tray rests across the tub. On it sit two champagne flutes.
The tub has no shower, but I can see that there is one outside. Right now, the room is open, with the glass wall pushed aside so that the breeze flutters in, cooling my heated skin.
Unlike the room, which is more stone flooring than pool, the patio is mostly pool with only a few stone islands. One supports a chaise lounge that is little more than an outdoor bed, and which has, for that reason, drawn my attention. The other stone island is near a freestanding wooden wall from which a showerhead protrudes, as well as some hooks on which hang loofahs, bottles of shampoo, and other spa-style bath items.
Because the patio is completely open, there is no privacy here other than that offered by the stretch of empty beach and the wide open sea. It is wild. It is free. It is civilization stripped bare, and everything about this room—from its appearance to its rose-petal scent to its promise of decadent pleasures—has captured me utterly.