“I think you are,” I say, feeling emboldened. “Are you stroking yourself?” I press. “Are you pretending it’s me? Are you getting off?”

“Christ, baby, you’re damn sure tempting me. But no. I’m not coming until I’m deep inside you. And you don’t touch yourself, either, until I tell you to. Are we clear?”

And just like that he has turned it back around. Taken what little power I’d grabbed and claimed it again with both hands.

Honestly, I can’t say that I mind.

“Ms. Fairchild? Are we clear?”

“Yes.” I have to force the word out past walls of arousal. “Yes, sir.”

“Tell me you want to be fucked.”

My cunt clenches in response to his words, and I make a low, needy sound.

“Please, Mr. Stark. I want to be fucked.”

“Soon, baby. But tonight, I’m going to make you explode.”

“Yes,” I say, because right now that sounds pretty close to heaven. “Yes, please.”

“Take the shirt off,” he says. “And the bra. I want you naked.”

I do as he says, and find myself standing naked in my bedroom, my body illuminated by the lights of the Las Vegas Strip, as I wait for my husband—my lover—to tell me what to do next.

“Tell me what you packed.”

I bite my lip. “Packed?”

His low laugh rumbles through me. “I’m wondering what you tucked into your suitcase that we might find of use right now.”

“Oh.” I feel my cheeks heat and am slightly disconcerted. Which is ridiculous. Under the circumstances, the fact that I packed a vibrator is hardly going to rock Damien’s universe.

“Tell me.” And though his voice is demanding, I hear the undercurrent of amusement. “I like a woman who takes charge of her own pleasure,” he adds, the words rescuing me from my slow slide into mortification.

“A vibrator,” I mutter. “A bullet. It was a gift.” I don’t say that it was a bachelorette gift. He already knows that part very well. After all, we’ve played with this toy before.

“Interesting,” he says. “Go get it. Then get on the bed.”

I do, and I realize when I lay down that my heart is pounding so hard in anticipation that I can actually feel the bed pulse with each beat.

“Spread your legs, baby. I want you wide open. I’m right there with you, and I want to be able to kiss my way up your thighs. I want to be able to see how wet you are.”

I close my eyes, imagining just that. His lips on my skin, his breath teasing my clit.

I shiver, and realize that I am very, very close.

“Turn on the vibrator now,” he orders, and though I comply, I want to protest. Because as soon as he tells me to go anywhere near my clit with this vibrating bullet, I am going to come completely undone. And I’m not ready for that. I want this sensation to last.

But this is Damien’s show, and so I say nothing.

And when he tells me to brush the vibrator lightly over my nipple, I know that I should have trusted him to understand me. To know how to play me.

I do as he asks, and the feeling is incredible.

“Tell me,” he says.

“I don’t know how,” I admit. “I—I’ve never done this. It’s kind of amazing.” My nipples are so damn sensitive that the sensation from the vibrator is sending shock waves through me, leaving my body trembling on the edge, but not going over. “It’s like being suspended. Just waiting for the push.”

“Do you want to go over?”

“Yes. No. I don’t know.”

He laughs. “Sounds like you want everything.”

“Yes,” I murmur as my body turns to molten lava. “Yes, please.”

“Trail your fingers down, and tease your clit, baby. I want to hear you breathing. I want to feel you getting close. Tell me you’re wet,” he says when I gasp from that first stroke of my fingers over my slick flesh.

“I’m wet. I’m so very wet.”

I let the vibrator fall, and it buzzes uselessly on the mattress beside me. I no longer care. Everything in my world is between my legs at this moment. My fingers. Damien’s voice. And this wild, incredible rising passion that is threatening to consume me.

“That’s me touching you, baby. My fingers stroking you, my breath teasing you. You taste so good. Can you feel my tongue sliding over you?”

I try to say yes, but the sound comes out garbled.

“Come on,” he says. “I can hear your breath. I can hear your excitement. Tell me you want to come.”

“I do,” I say. “Oh, yes, please.”

“Just a little more. Find that one spot, baby, and tease it. You’re almost there.”

It is intoxicating, this marriage of fantasy and reality, of being with the man who knows my body so well, while hearing the words of a new lover whispered in my ear. It’s making me rise. Taking me higher. Leading me right to the edge.

And then, when Damien whispers, “Come for me now,” I burst wide open and everything inside me spills out into the night until I am hollow and exhausted, ripped to shreds, and utterly and completely satisfied.

I float, just float for a while. And then, finally, I drift back down to earth.

“Oh, god, Damien,” I say when I can find words again. Honestly, those are the only three words I can find.

“Good night, Ms. Fairchild.” His voice is soft, and although that is all that he says, what I hear is, “I love you.”

Chapter 6

Because spring has come early and it is unseasonably warm for March, I decide to spend the morning eating breakfast and reading the paper by the pool. I bypass the cabana that is reserved for the use of my suite—I’m not interested in being tucked away behind drapes—and pick one of the lounge chairs near the waterfall.

The area around the pool is beautifully landscaped with native plants and tropical flowers transplanted to make the area look lush. There are only a few of us out here this early, and I smile as I pass an elderly man in a golfing shirt reading a Harlan Coben novel and drinking a Bloody Mary.

I’m about to sit down when I see a flash of dark hair rounding the corner near one of the changing rooms. A woman. And though I do not recognize her, I am once again struck by the feeling of having seen someone familiar.

I consider getting up and following her, but I didn’t see enough to be sure and, truly, if it’s someone I know then I’ll leave it to them to come say hi.

Once I’m settled, I peel off my T-shirt to reveal the bikini top I’d worn in the hope that the weather would feel just this nice.

I keep my skirt on, though. Not only is it not quite warm enough to strip all the way down to a bathing suit, but I don’t do bikini bottoms in public. With Damien, I am no longer self-conscious about the scars that mar my hips and inner thighs. But that doesn’t mean I want to invite the entire world to take a peek.

I pull today’s Los Angeles Times out of my tote bag and set it on the table next to me. Then I wave my hand to signal a nearby waiter, who hurries over.

He looks to be a few years younger than me, and I guess that he’s working his way through college. I order a bagel with cream cheese, coffee, and orange juice, then put my sunglasses on and tilt my head back, enjoying the feel of the still-rising sun against my skin.

I don’t intend to doze, but I didn’t get much sleep last night, and my eyelids are heavy, especially under the weight of the sun. I let myself drift, and suddenly it’s not just the sun that is heating my skin. It’s the memory of Damien’s words in my ear last night.

For a brief moment, I regret not simply dining on the balcony that opens off my bedroom, because the temptation to slide my hands between my legs is very, very strong. I don’t, however, want to give my nearby golfer a hard-on. Or, god forbid, a heart attack.

I hear the waiter’s return and ask if he could bring me a glass of ice water.