Damien helps me off the stool and aims a friendly nod at the insurance dude. “Maybe next time,” he says, as the guy looks at Damien as if he’s pulled off some kind of magic act. At least we’re leaving him impressed and not pissed.

I am giddy as I follow Damien. I want to laugh. I want to take his hand and twirl in the lobby. I want to slam him hard against the lobby wall and claim his mouth with my own. I want his hands on me. I want him inside me.

I want him to fuck me, just like he said. And I want it now.

Apparently, so does Damien. As soon as the doors close on the elevator, Damien backs me against the wall. His mouth is hard against mine, his hand under my skirt, two fingers inside me. I grind my hips against him, wanting him, craving more of him than I can get in an elevator.

“God, Louise,” he says, and we both laugh.

“I thought someone might recognize us. It’s my middle name.”

“I know,” he says. “And I think they were all too tipsy to care. And too out of town.”

“Could have been some paparazzi around.”

“Fuck the paparazzi,” Damien says, his words as harsh as sandpaper.

I ease my body against his. “I’d rather fuck you.”

He kisses me again. Hard.

“That man was very disappointed,” I say, when he breaks the kiss.

“Just claiming what’s mine. And adding in the public service of giving that man a fantasy to keep him occupied this evening.” He easily thrusts a third finger inside me, and I bite down on my lower lip to stifle a scream of pleasure. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it.”

“I liked it,” I say as the elevator doors begin to slide open. “I liked it very much.”

He withdraws his fingers, then directs me out of the elevator, punctuating the movement with a light pat to my ass. Our room is at the end of the hall, and I am in awe when we step inside. The suite has a living area and a dining area and a separate bedroom.

The door closes with a thump behind us.

“For a woman who likes to be mine, you were certainly doing an excellent job of flirting with that man.”

I am still gawking at the room, but at these words, I turn, ready to defend myself, because I absolutely, positively did not flirt with Mr. Pushy.

My words die on my lips, however, when I see the humor in Damien’s eyes. But there’s something else, too, and I know where this is going.

I give a careless little toss of my head. “What was I supposed to do? You were ignoring me. I was just making conversation.”

“He wanted more than conversation.” He takes my hand and pulls me into the dining area so that we are standing by the large, round table. He turns me around so that he is behind me, then slides his hand up my leg under my skirt.

“You need to understand how completely you belong to me. Mine to pleasure,” he says as his featherlight touch on my clit sparks a flurry of shudders within me. “Or mine to torment.” He lands a hard spank on my rear, and I cry out, the sound wrenched from my throat on a wave of pleasure. “You like that?” he murmurs.

Dear God, yes. I lift my rear, giving him better access.

“Spread your legs.”

I comply eagerly, anticipating the feel of Damien inside me. I hear the metallic sound of his zipper, then the soft brush of material against skin as he takes off his slacks. He keeps his shirt on, and the starched cotton hem brushes against my skin when he leans over again in a way that is probably unintentional, but comes close to driving me crazy.

His hand returns between my legs, the other one going to cup my breast. I start to rise, but hear his sharp censure telling me to stay as I am, bent over and ready for him. “You want to be fucked, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I moan. It’s good that my hands are on the table. I don’t think my legs alone could hold me up. I am little more than sensation. I am need and longing and sexual energy, and if he doesn’t let me come soon, I fear that I will collapse from the pleasure of it all.

He slides two fingers in me, and I groan as my body tightens around him. I’m close—so very close—and I bite my lower lip in expectation of a soul-rocking explosion.

It doesn’t come.

For that matter, neither do I, and I whimper in protest as he withdraws his fingers, his hands going to a relatively chaste position on my hips.

“Turn around, baby,” he says. “I want to see your face.”

I turn, and his eyes say more than words ever could. I melt under the desire I see there. The need and the hunger. It rips through me until the only thing that I know in the world is Damien. “Kiss me,” I whisper.

He does, and it is a violent, hungry kiss that bruises my lips until I taste blood. He pushes me back onto the sturdy table, then grabs the dress at the bodice and rips it down, baring my breasts. I cry out, arching up to meet him, my hands going to his head to pull him down as his mouth closes over my nipple, his teeth biting just enough that I suck in air, cresting on a wave of intense pleasure that borders on pain.

“Now,” he says, and what remains of the dress is up around my waist. The table is hard against my back, but I don’t care, and I spread my legs wide for him then cry out as he thrusts deep inside me. I arch up, meeting his thrusts, feeling frenzied and wild and wicked and his.

Damien’s.

He explodes inside me, my name on his lips. And then, spent and soft, he slides his hand down to where I am slick with his semen. I gasp as he strokes me in small circles, faster and faster until I again cry out and my body bucks from the orgasm that rips through it, then finally calms as exhaustion and bliss take over.

“Wow,” I say, and curl up next to him.

“Indeed,” he says.

We stay like that for a moment, still in each other’s arms.

“This table is really uncomfortable,” I finally say.

Beside me, Damien laughs.

“I think we need to clean it up, too. I’m not sure the maids will understand.”

“I’m sure they’ve seen it all before,” he says.

I turn and meet his eyes, my brows raised.

“Right,” he says. “We’ll take care of it. But now, I’m taking you to bed.”

He holds out his hand, and I follow him into the spacious bedroom, with a bed that looks much more comfortable than the table. “A mattress,” I say. “How novel.”

“Come here.” He tugs me to the bed and we abandon what remains of our clothes before sliding under the covers. I curl up beside him and we lie like that for what feels like hours, talking and flipping channels and watching snippets of old movies.

This is yet another thing I love about Damien—that shift from frenzied passion to these soft moments when I feel safe and warm and cherished beside him. It’s as smooth and satisfying as a glass of port after a truly decadent meal.

“I’m not tired,” I say, when I notice that the clock reads four A.M. “I’d say that I’m going to regret this in the morning, but it already is morning.”

“Will you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not a minute of it,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For indulging my fantasies.”

I laugh. “Why, Mr. Stark. Haven’t you heard? I’m yours to command.”