He lifts his hand, a lacy thong dangling from his finger like an enticement. “Interesting,” he says, then repeats the process, pulling out the expensive scraps of silk and satin that constitute underwear and bras in all shapes and sizes. Some barely there. Some that create more cleavage than the law should allow. Some that would have my breasts spilling out over the tops. Some that, if the gleam in Damien’s eye is any indication, are very intriguing indeed.

He stands, a red thong and matching red push-up bra hanging from two extended fingers. “I think perhaps it’s time to amend our deal, Ms. Fairchild. As much as I appreciate the possibilities associated with complete access, there is something to be said for the pleasure of the journey.” He extends his empty hand to me. “Come here,” he says, and I comply obediently.

“I’ll go with you anywhere,” I whisper. “I’ll do anything for you. You know that, right?”

With a violence I’m not expecting, he tugs me to him, capturing me within the circle of his arms. We are tight together, my breasts against his chest, my nipples hard. I feel the press of his erection hot and hard against my very scantily clad body, and that rush of tactile pleasure is accompanied by an even greater one. The pleasure of knowing that I am his and that he is mine.

He tilts his head so that his forehead presses gently against mine, then sighs deeply. “I thought you’d gone.”

I blink, confused, and ease backward, then wait a single heartbeat for him to lift his head and meet my eyes.

“I woke up and you weren’t there,” he says in explanation. “I talked to Charles and he told me you’d come by. That he’d told you about the photos and videos.” He shakes his head and laughs without humor. “I thought you were so disgusted by them that you’d left me.”

I look at him hard. “I wasn’t the one who went away,” I say, my voice level and firm. “You’re the one who left. I stayed.” I swallow and blink back tears. “I stayed because I knew you would come back to me.”

“I will always come back,” he says, and in those simple words I hear both understanding and apology.

I nod, then clutch his hand. “I didn’t see the photos,” I say. “But no matter what is in them, I would never have left you. I just thought you needed sleep.” I look away, not meeting his eyes. Because the words that I am biting back are just too damn selfish. I didn’t think you needed me.

“I wanted you, Nikki,” he says, as if in answer to my thoughts. “I wanted to pull you close and strip you naked. I wanted to tie you up and run my fingers over every inch of you. I wanted to bury my face between your legs and bring you to the brink over and over again, never quite letting you come.”

I swallow. I am suddenly very, very warm.

“I wanted every sensation you experienced—every spark of pleasure, every hint of pain—to come from me. I wanted to fuck you until you begged me to stop and then I wanted to fuck you some more. Everything you felt, everything you wanted, everything you desired—I wanted it to be wrapped up in my touch, in my bed. I wanted to fuck you until there was nothing left but you and me. Until the whole goddamn world was erased.”

“Why didn’t you?” My mouth is dry and I have to force the words out.

He doesn’t answer.

I take a step closer, pushing through the thick, charged air that fills the space between us. “Whatever you need from me, all you have to do is take it. You know that.”

“I couldn’t,” he says, and his voice is harsh. “I couldn’t bear to have you in my arms when those images were in my head.”

“I—oh.” I am not sure what to say to that, so I say nothing. Just settle my cheek against his chest and listen to his heartbeat and the steady rhythm of his breath.

After a moment, he continues, his voice eerily steady. “Those images are like scenes from a horror movie. They show what Richter did, and how he did it. They show degradation and they show pain, and I will never, ever put those images in your hands. I won’t let you look at even one of them. Imagine what you want, but I don’t want the reality of my past haunting your present the way they haunt mine.”

“All right,” I say, because I don’t want to see them any more than he wants to show them. I stand a bit straighter. “But, Damien, if it will help you, then show them to me. I can handle it.”

“No,” he says with a slow shake of his head. “I don’t want you to have to handle it. That’s the horror of my past. But you . . . you’re the reality of my present. You’re the proof that I survived. The prize in the cereal box,” he adds with an impudent grin, but it quickly fades. “Hopefully you won’t see them anyway.”

“Why would I?”

“Whoever sent that evidence to the court must still have copies.” It is the bland, unemotional quality of his voice that tells me how much he hates that simple truism.

“But surely that person will protect them, right? I mean, those pictures have existed for almost two decades. They only surfaced when you were in trouble.”

“In my experience,” Damien says, “unearthed things have a tendency to remain unearthed.”

I have no counter to that. “Do you have any ideas who it was?”

“No.” The answer comes a little too quick.

“There can’t be that many people who know about—” I cut off my words. Though we are talking all around his abuse, I don’t want to voice it. “Your father, maybe? He was desperate to keep you from being tried.” Jeremiah Stark wasn’t concerned about Damien’s neck, but his own well-being. The end result, however, was the same.

“It’s possible,” Damien says. It’s clear he doesn’t want to talk about this.

“I just want it to be over for you,” I say, more than happy to drop this topic for the time being. “You deserve happiness, Damien.”

“So do you,” he says, looking at me with such intensity that it almost seems like he is imagining each of my scars in turn.

“Then it’s lucky we found each other,” I say, because I don’t want to think about the past that I have worked so long to leave behind. I’m only interested in the future with Damien.

His hands slide over my back, then up under the flimsy outfit to caress my bare skin. Slow, heated caresses that go on and on until I just want to rip the damn nightgown off and feel his hands over every inch of me.

“Do you know what I want right now?” he murmurs.

“Probably the same thing I do,” I say, then skip back out of the circle of his arms. “But we’re still in a dressing room.”

He steps closer, his eyes darkening. “I believe I explained how much privacy a thousand euros can buy.”

“You explained very well,” I concede. “But we have a lot of celebrating to do. And you deserve more than a fast fuck in a dressing room.”

“As it happens, it’s not a fast fuck that I want.”

“Oh?” I ask innocently hooking my arms around his neck. I press my hips against him and move in a lazy grinding motion. “What exactly do you want?”

His hands slide slowly down over my ass, stilling me, but also pressing me up hard against him. I feel his erection straining against his jeans, hot and demanding. “You,” he says simply. “I want you naked, Nikki. Naked and hot and wet for me. I want to hear you moan. Hell, I want to hear you beg. And I promise you, baby, there will be nothing fast about it.”