My glare changes to a gape when he unfastens the velvet rope and steps into the darkened, private hall behind it. I hesitate, then follow. He rehooks the rope, then sits on the velvet-covered bench. He looks up at me without even a hint of apology, as if he owns the world and everything in it. Then he pats the seat next to him, and because my feet hurt and my head is spinning, I sit without argument.
“Now,” he says. “Take your shoes off. No,” he adds, before I can protest, “we’re behind the rope, so we’re not officially at the party now. You’re not breaking any rules.”
He says the last with a grin, and I match it without thinking.
“Move sideways,” he instructs. “Put your feet in my lap.”
Social Nikki would protest; I slide my feet up onto his trousered legs.
“Close your eyes. Relax.”
I do, and for a moment there is nothing, and I fear that he’s punking me, after all. Then his fingertip traces along the bottom of my foot. I arch back, surprised and delighted. The touch is featherlight and almost tickles, and when he does it again, I release a shuddering breath. My whole body stiffens as I concentrate only on that one spot. I feel the sparks shoot through me, and realize that I’m aroused.
I clutch the edge of the bench and let my head tilt back farther. A few tendrils of hair brush the nape of my neck. The combination of sensations—his touch on my feet, the soft caress of hair—is overwhelming. My head truly is spinning now, and not from the champagne.
He increases the pressure, using the pads of his thumbs to work the soreness out of my feet, then gently strokes the sensitive spots where my shoes have rubbed. It’s slow. It’s intimate. It’s confusing as hell.
I’m breathing hard, and I can’t deny the small knot of panic that is beginning to unravel in my stomach. I’ve let down my guard. I’ve let things progress. I’m edging dangerously close to where I never, ever go—but damn me, I don’t know that I have the strength to turn back.
“Now,” he says.
I open my eyes, confused, and the rapturous expression on his face almost does me in.
“I’m going to kiss you,” he says, and before I even have a chance to process his words, his palm is pressed against the back of my head. Somehow, he’s shifted our positions, and it’s no longer my feet on his lap, but my thighs, so that our bodies are close and he’s bent over me, his lips pressed against mine. I’m struck by how soft his mouth is, yet firm, too. He’s completely in charge. Demanding. Taking exactly what he wants—and what I’m so willing to give.
I hear myself moan, and he takes advantage of my parted lips to dip his tongue inside.
He is an expert kisser, and I lose myself in the pleasure of it. I don’t know when, but at some point I realize that one of my hands is clutching his shirt and the other is twined in his hair. It’s thick and soft and I make a fist around a handful and use that to leverage his mouth even harder against mine. I want to lose myself in his kiss. I want to let the fire that’s spreading over my body grow. Maybe it will consume me. Maybe, like a Phoenix, I will rise again after being incinerated by Damien Stark’s touch.
His tongue strokes mine, sending erotic sparks dancing through me. My skin, already so sensitive just from his proximity, now seems like an instrument of torture, because the anticipation of his touch is simply too much to bear. A low, demanding ache builds between my thighs, and I press my legs together in both defense and in an attempt at satisfaction.
He makes a growling noise and shifts me in his arms. Suddenly, his hand is on my hip and the soft material of my skirt caresses my skin as he glides over it toward my crotch. I tense, aroused and nervous, but I don’t push him away. My body is pulsing, my clit throbbing, and I want release. I want Damien.
His entire body is hard against mine. He holds me close and deepens the kiss as his hand slopes down toward my sex, just slow enough to drive me crazy. I shift, leaving one leg on his thighs, but our position is awkward and my other leg slides off. I press the ball of my bare foot to the ground for balance even as I feel a rush of cool air find its way in underneath my skirt to tease my damp panties.
In this position I’m wide open and vulnerable, and Stark cups his hand over my sex and moans into my mouth. Even through the material of my skirt and the satin of my panties, I can feel his heat. He strokes me through my clothes, his fingers teasing my clit, making me so wet I think I will melt.
My skirt is hitched up, but it still covers my thighs. Even so, he’s close—so close to the secrets I don’t want to share, and I know that if he tries to stroke my inner thighs that I will bolt. I’m nervous. Afraid, even. But danger and fear have added an edge to my excitement. I don’t think I’ve ever been more turned on in my life.
His fingers tease me, making a wild fever burn through me. I’m right on the edge, just a little more—
But then his hand is gone. I open my eyes, and for just an instant, his expression is warm and open, and I think that I’m the only thing in all the world that he sees. Then something alters, and his face changes as the mask clicks back into place. He shifts my position, pulling me up so that I am sitting half on his lap.
“Damien, what—”
But then I hear the voice behind me, a bright, cheery feminine voice saying, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Are you ready?”
Oh my God. Did she just walk up? How long has she been there?
I look helplessly at Damien, but he doesn’t notice. He’s looking over my shoulder at whomever is speaking. “I need to see Ms. Fairchild home,” he says, and I shift on the bench so that I can see behind me—and find myself looking at Audrey Hepburn.
She nods at me, smiles at Damien, then turns and walks away.
Gently, he slides me off his legs. He stands, then holds his hand out for me. “Let’s go.”
My legs are weak—my whole body still limp from his ministrations. But I shove my feet back into my shoes and follow him without question. I’m confused and embarrassed and not entirely sure what to think.
We find Evelyn and say goodbye as we pass through the thinning crowd. She gives me a hug, and I promise to call her in a day or so. It’s a promise I mean to keep.
At the door, he slips his jacket around my shoulders. We walk down the sidewalk to where a limo waits in the circular drive. A liveried driver holds open the back door, and Damien gestures for me to get inside. I haven’t been in a limo since I was a kid, and I pause to take it all in. Black leather bench seats line the back and one side. On the other is a full bar, the crystal decanter and glasses twinkling from recessed lighting hidden in the polished wood of the bar. The floor is carpeted. The entire space screams luxury and money and elegance.