I’m slipping on the skirt when it hits me. Control. Not the fact that he needs it, but the reason driving the need.
I remember so many things that now seem like clues: the way his face looked when he told me that he’d wanted to quit tennis and his father wouldn’t let him. His nonanswer when he told me about the new bastard of a coach and I asked if it was the bump up in competitiveness that stole the fun from him. His foundation to help children. Evelyn’s reference to secrets swept under the carpet.
And always back to control. In his business. In his relationships. In bed.
I could be wrong, of course, but I don’t think so.
Damien was abused as a child.
I poke around some more on the Internet, but I don’t find anything to bolster my theory. Even so, it feels right. I don’t know if his abuser was his coach or his father or both, but I suspect it was the coach, and that it was guilt from the abuse that drove the bastard to suicide.
The image currently up on my web browser is of a fourteen-year-old Damien after he’s won some local tournament. He’s smiling and holding up the trophy. But his eyes are haunted and dark. Yes, they are inscrutable.
I need to know the truth, but I can’t ask Evelyn. This is the kind of thing that I want Damien to tell me.
I run my fingers through my hair, wondering if I should just confront him. But no. He has to be the one who comes to me. Because this isn’t just about what Damien needs. It’s about me, too. I need to know that this man I’ve spilled my heart to trusts me with his secrets.
But until he does, I’ll have to be satisfied with my certainty that I understand a little bit more about the man still hidden behind the mask.
*
When I arrive at his house at a quarter to five, Damien is outside on the terrace, his back to me, his face to the ocean. He’s damp from a recent shower and completely naked. I pass the heap of his clothes on the floor then pause at the threshold. I want to stand there and simply take in this glorious sight. The whole sky looms above him and the vast ocean spreads before him, and yet it is the beautiful, strong body of Damien Stark that dominates the view. There’s power in the tension of his shoulders. Confidence in the way he stands. Strength in that back that carries so much.
This is a man who knows what he wants and goes after it.
He wants me, I think. And I feel a sharp stab of something that can only be pride.
“You’re early.” He doesn’t turn to speak to me. I don’t ask how he knows I’m there. I’ve felt the hum of energy between us, too. I don’t need to see him to know when Damien Stark is nearby.
“How could I resist an extra minute with you?”
He turns to face me. “I’m glad you’re here.”
He smiles, but I can see now that the tension in his shoulders is across his whole body.
“Damien? What’s wrong?”
“Lawyers and assholes,” he says, then shakes his head. “Sorry. It’s been one of those days.”
“Should I go?”
“Never.” He holds out a hand and I go to him. He pulls me against him and I feel his cock harden against my thigh. “Nikki.” He sighs, his lips in my hair.
I start to tilt my head up, longing for his kiss, but the sharp ring of his phone interrupts and he gently pushes me away.
“I’ve been expecting that,” he says by way of apology as he grabs the phone off a table. “Is it done?” he demands. “Good. Yes, I understand that, but I also understand that I pay you for advice. The ultimate decisions are mine. Yes, I do. Twelve-point-six? Fuck it, I would have paid more, and you goddamn well know it. I’m damn sure it was the right call; she’s not getting dragged into this mess. No—no, it’s done. I’m not interested in reevaluating the decision. I made my play, we’re running with it.”
There is a long pause, then, “Shit, Charles, that isn’t what I want to hear. Well, then why the fuck do I pay you?”
So he’s talking to Charles Maynard. I realize I’m being nosy, but I pay more attention, trying to discern meaning from a one-sided conversation. It isn’t easy.
“Right, right. Did your PI locate the man I’m interested in? Oh, really? Well, that’s a bit of good news. I’ll deal with it first thing tomorrow.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about. I shift the conversation to the back of my mind and only half listen. Especially since the call seems to go on forever.
“What about London? She’s settled again? No, it can’t be helped. I’ll fly over next week. What? Well, she’s not leaving me much choice.”
He sighs and paces. “And the San Diego problem? I want someone on that. What? Are you fucking kidding me? Shit, how did they dig that up?”
I pick up Damien’s discarded clothes, intending to hang them up for him. But I’m overcome with a devilish little urge, and I give in to it, then tug the slacks over my hips and slip my arms into Damien’s sleeves. There’s something wonderfully sensual about being clad in Damien’s clothes, even if I am technically breaking the rules with the pants.
I’m so preoccupied with the shirt’s buttons that I don’t even realize the call has ended. More than that, I don’t notice Damien’s raw temper until I hear the sharp smash of plastic and glass colliding with the stonework above the fireplace.
He’s thrown his cell phone.
“Damien?” I hurry to him. “Are you okay?”
He looks me up and down, but I’m not sure he’s seeing the clothes. Not sure he’s hearing anything but the conversation that he must be replaying over and over again in his mind.
“Damien?”
“No,” he snaps. “I’m not okay. Are you—oh, God, Nikki.”
“Me? I’m fine. I’m—” He shuts me off with a kiss, hard and brutal. Our teeth clack together, and he twists his fingers in my hair to hold my head in place while he assaults my mouth with such force I’m certain my lips will bruise.
He moves us backward, then throws me down on the bed, his hands going to the waistband of the pants. They are loose on me, and he tugs them down, but not off, so they remain on my calves and ankles, like strange ropes binding my legs in place.
He scoots me back and roughly spreads my knees, and I’m wet, so damn wet as he moves to straddle me. Before I know it, he thrusts his cock deep inside me. He pumps, hard and fast and brutal. I watch his face. The face of a man fighting a battle. The face of a man who will keep fighting until he wins.