The trial, thank god, is in the past. But there are still horrors lurking in the world. Things that could tear him from me. Things that could crash into our lives, trying to force us apart. His father, for one, who surely isn’t done trying to get a piece of Damien. Or Sofia. I can’t blame her, his childhood friend, for loving Damien, but I can damn well blame her for trying to rip us apart. She’s locked away now, her past and the world having taken their own toll, and while Damien receives regular reports from the doctors that say she is improving, I don’t think she will ever be well enough to hold tight to sanity in a world where Damien and I are together.
And yet at the same time, I know that Damien still loves her like a sister, even though what she did came close to destroying both of us. He declined her request to come to our wedding, and although he had sounded casual when he told me, I know that the necessity of keeping her away hurt him. I can only imagine how much it had angered her, and I stifle a shiver, more glad than I like to admit that she is far away, bound to her treatment by court order.
As if that weren’t enough, there is also my mother, the paparazzi, ex-bosses, ex-lovers, the press, competitors, and god only knows who else. It’s a big world, and when you cast as long a shadow as Damien, you make a lot of enemies. And Damien’s enemies are mine now, too.
I was wrong in the dream, I realize. The ocean wasn’t Damien. The ocean was the world. And the world is brutal.
When Damien’s hand closes over mine, I realize that I have been unconsciously stroking one of the long scars on my thigh. I wince, both embarrassed and disturbed. I do not cut anymore—with Damien, I don’t need to. Not even when my thoughts turn dark and fear seeps into me.
Yet here I am, groping for that pain, barely even conscious of the need to find my center, and that simple fact scares me. Because I do not understand the insecurity that has led me to touch that most horrible of souvenirs.
I wait for Damien to comment on it, but he doesn’t. Instead, he gently traces my wedding ring. After a moment, he says only, “I was wrong back in Malibu.”
I frown. “What are you talking about?”
“I told you we didn’t need the ceremony. That it was just a formality because you and I were already one. I was wrong.”
I cock my head. “We’re not one?”
He chuckles. “About that, I was right on the money. But I was wrong about not needing the ceremony.”
“You were? How?”
“How many times have we faced the world together and survived?” he asks, and I know right now that he understands my fears. “How many times has that world tried to tear us apart? Your mother, Sofia, the past?”
I don’t answer, but it doesn’t matter; he is not expecting me to.
“Our wedding is our bond. Our promise and our proof. It’s a symbol to the world around us that we’ll fight and that we’ll win. Most of all, that we are one.”
He spreads his fingers, his eyes locked on his own ring. “A simple silver band,” he says. “But it’s made of titanium, and that’s about as strong as it gets.” He meets my eyes, and I am awed by the ferocity reflected back at me. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart. Not anymore.”
I look down at my own ring, a platinum band accompanying a stunning diamond solitaire. “Maybe I should trade this in for titanium.”
“Not necessary,” he says, as he takes my hand, holding it so that our two rings touch. “I will always give you the strength you need.”
“I know.” I wish there was a way to fill the sound of my voice with everything that is inside me. I clutch tight to his hand and pull him toward me as I stretch out on the chaise. “I want you now,” I say. “I want to feel my husband inside me.”
His grin is slightly wicked and slightly amused. “Convenient,” he says. “Because at the moment I’m overcome by the urge to ravish my wife.”
I manage a fake yawn and pat my hand over my mouth. “So unoriginal. After all, you did that just a few hours ago.”
“And you have a better idea?”
“As a matter of fact, yes.” I shift on the chaise so that I am straddling him. “I was thinking that I should ravish my husband.”
“Were you?” He is on his back, and I am sitting just above his pubic bone. I feel his cock twitch, teasing my ass. I rise up, then scoot backward just a bit. He is fully erect now, and I hold his cock with one hand while I wiggle my hips to position myself. I keep my eyes on Damien as I do and watch the storm building. He knows what I’m up to—how could he not?—but that doesn’t stop his groan of surprise and pleasure when I quickly lower my body, impaling myself on his steel-hard cock.
“Yes,” I say in answer to his question. “I was.”
My voice is breathy, and I rock a bit as I speak, using my knees to rise up and down. I ride him hard and fast, my back arched, my breath coming in ragged bursts. I do not close my eyes, and in unspoken agreement, neither does he.
Damien Stark is as necessary to me as my blood. He is what makes me whole, what makes me alive. And as I move on him—as I feel him hard inside me, so vibrant and vital—I watch the passion burn like fire in his eyes and know with unerring certainty that it is the same for him.
“Now.” Without warning, he grasps me by the hips. I cry out as both pain and pleasure rock through me when he slams me harder against him, thrusting his cock even deeper so that I feel the shock of him through every cell, filling me until I’m right on the precipice.
“Come with me now,” he says, and the passion and need in his voice push me that rest of the way over. My sex clenches tight around him, and I cry out from the force of the explosion that rips through my body even as Damien’s hips thrust up and he empties himself into me.
I fall forward, my heart pounding and my body trembling as the final shocks of both my own orgasm and his rumble through me. “Damien,” I murmur.
“I know,” he replies.
Later, we spoon together, drifting in that place that is neither sleep nor wakefulness. He is behind me, his body tucked against mine, making me feel safe and warm. So much so that I make a soft noise of protest when he pushes himself up on an elbow.
He chuckles in response to my protest, and I am about to voice my objections even more loudly when he begins to trail his finger lightly over my side, along the curve of my waist and hip. I sigh and snuggle backward, ensuring maximum contact. Right then, I feel so light, warm, and sated, so satisfied I think I could simply melt into the mattress. “Please tell me that I never have to move again.”