The whip snaps lightly between my legs, and I tremble from the fast shock of it against my clit. I discovered recently with Damien how much I enjoy this particular sensation, and that feeling hasn’t lessened in the slightest. Again, then again, and I am crying out from the spectacular intensity of the pleasure.

I am on fire. I am burning up. I am a blaze burning free, and only Damien can quench this heat.

“Please,” I beg. “Please, Damien, now.”

He doesn’t hesitate. His hands take my hips and I feel the head of his cock at my vagina, and then he is inside me, deeper and deeper until I almost feel as though I cannot take it anymore. He holds me by one hip, the other hand beneath me, his finger stroking me in time with the thrusts so that I am lost in an overload of sensations.

“Come for me,” he demands, and my body tightens around him.

“Come for me,” he repeats. “Dammit, Nikki, I want to feel you come.”

And then, as if my body really is abiding by his will, a deep, quaking orgasm rolls through me. My body quivers. My muscles clench, bringing him even tighter into me. And my arms go limp. I collapse down onto the bed, breathing hard as waves and waves of violent pleasure continue to crash over me before finally settling down into the soft glow of immense satisfaction.

Damien shifts, pulling out of me and then lying beside me, his fingers stroking lazily up and down my back. “Turn over,” he says after a moment. “I want to show you something.”

Curious, I roll over. He brings the box back onto the bed, and this time, he pulls out a red taper candle.

“Damien?” I say warily. “What are you doing?”

“Something new.”

He straddles me at the waist so that I cannot move my legs, and as my arms are still bound, I am essentially immobile.

“Do you trust me?”

“Yes,” I say, but as he strikes a match and lights the candle, I can’t help but bite my lower lip.

“Liar,” he says. “Close your eyes.”

I do, and I’m certain I must look ridiculous. My eyes squeezed tight and my teeth grazing my lip.

“Relax,” he says.

“Easy for you to say.”

“Tell me what this is.”

I feel a gentle stroke along the swell of my breast. “Your finger?”

“And this?”

Soft and slightly wet, this time at my cleavage. “Your tongue.”

“This?”

It is rough and soft at the same time. “I don’t know.”

“A feather,” he says, though he doesn’t say where he got it.

“And this?”

At first I feel nothing. Then there is a sharp, hot ping on my nipple that quickly shifts to something cool and tight. It’s not painful, and it is more than pleasure. It is, in fact, exquisite. “I—the candle?”

“Very good. Now hold still.” I feel it again, only this time the ping lasts longer and is not confined to one place. I arch up to meet the sensation as what feels like long fingers tighten on the skin of my breast. Then the feeling repeats and repeats and now I am biting my lower lip not from nerves, but because of the glorious rapture that has sparked inside me, spreading out like electric shocks from my breasts to my sex. And then shooting sparks out through my fingers and toes.

“Open your eyes,” he says.

I do, and I see long strands of red crisscrossing my breasts. The skin beneath the wax is puckered and tight, and with my breasts and nipples already so sensitive, the sensation is beyond incredible.

Damien still straddles my waist, but now he slides down and gently spreads my legs. Slowly, he enters me, then he leans forward and, as he thrusts in and out, he tightens his hands over my breasts in time with his movements.

The wax cracks as my orgasm builds, and when I finally do come, my body clenching around him to draw him farther in, Damien tightens his grip and the last of the wax cracks.

I cry out, lost in the exotic sensations that shoot through me, arching up as if I could keep the feeling from ending.

And then, when my body quits quivering, I close my eyes and succumb to the lure of sleep as it tugs me under.

19

I wake to the smell of bacon and discover that not only are my arms free, but I am snuggled under the covers. I smile and stretch, feeling well fucked and well taken care of.

I slide out of bed, find a shirt in the closet, and follow the scent to the huge black-and-steel kitchen. An electric skillet sizzles on the granite island, while Damien stands at the stove holding an omelette pan. Diced avocado, cubed cream cheese, and something else I don’t recognize neatly cover a small cutting board off to one side.

Two flutes of champagne are half-filled, and beside them sits a carafe of orange juice.

“Are we celebrating?” I ask, coming up behind him and peering into the omelette pan.

“We are,” he says. “After the day we had yesterday, I thought we should celebrate the important things.”

“The day?” I repeat. My body is still deliciously sore and aching. I stretch and smile slowly. “What about the night?”

“That was a celebration in and of itself,” he says. His eyes skim over me. I am wearing one of his button-down shirts, and it hangs to mid-thigh. The sleeves are rolled up, and the unfastened buttons reveal more than a little cleavage. The desire in his eyes is as unmistakable as his slow, sexy Damien smile. I’m pretty sure I melt a little.

He traces his finger down the open neck of the shirt. “I like you in my clothes.”

“Me, too,” I say.

“I like you out of them as well.”

I laugh, and dance back out of reach of his fingers. “Don’t even get ideas,” I say. “I’m starving.”

He laughs.

“So what exactly are we celebrating?”

He brushes a quick kiss over my lips. “Us.”

That single word sends a thrill running through me. “I’ll drink to that,” I say.

“Good. You can pour the OJ into our glasses. Then go sit.”

He points to one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “If you stay back here you’ll only distract me, and while that might lead to very interesting kitchen sex, it would also undoubtedly burn the omelettes.”

“I am hungry,” I concede as I pour the OJ and hand him a glass. I take my own with me and go sit at the bar that is attached to the island. It gives me a nice view of Damien looking deliciously domestic. “I didn’t know you could cook.”

“I’m a man of many mysteries,” he says.

“I’m a terrible cook,” I admit. “There’s not much point in learning when your mother is convinced that all you really need to eat are carrots and iceberg lettuce.”

“After my mother died, my father would drag us out to restaurants for every meal,” Damien says. “I couldn’t stand being that close to the man for that long, so I told him that if he expected me to be more competitive, I needed to eat better. I cooked, then took my plate to my room and he took his to the television. Worked out great.”

“And you learned a valuable skill.” I’m smiling, but my heart is breaking. My childhood had been seriously less than stellar, but at least I’d had Ashley during the years when my mother doled out calories as stingily as free time. Damien had no one except a vile father and an abusive coach. “Did you have friends?” I ask. “When you were competing, I mean. Did you make friends with the other players?”