Part 9 (1/2)
I realize that I'm gasping, and my cries dissolve into little whimpers of pleasure mixed with loss. It's over, and I'm alone in the back of a limo and the man who made me come is on the other end of a phone line somewhere.
A loose strand of hair sticks to my face and I push it off. I'm covered in a sheen of sweat. I'm spent. Taken.
I feel good.
I feel reckless.
”We're here,” Damien says, and I turn to glance through the dark tinted windows. Sure enough, the limo is pulling to a stop outside my condo. I realize that when he'd said that we were close, he didn't mean my o.r.g.a.s.m. He meant my home.
I frown, realizing I never told the driver my address. Had Damien? He must have, but how did he know where I live?
I push myself up and fix my skirt and bodice in some sort of bizarrely placed attempt at modesty. I start to ask him about my address, but he speaks first.
”I'll see you tomorrow, Ms. Fairchild,” he says formally, but I think I can hear a smile in his voice.
”I look forward to it, Mr. Stark,” I say, equally formal, though my pulse is pounding in my ears.
There is silence, but I know he's still there. After a moment, I hear him laugh. ”Hang up, Ms. Fairchild,” he orders.
”Yes, sir,” I say, then press the b.u.t.ton to disconnect the call.
Tomorrow.
Reality slams against me with the force of a tidal wave. What the h.e.l.l was I thinking having phone s.e.x with a guy I'm going to be seeing up close and personal in just a matter of hours? And not just seeing, but actually pitching to. Putting on a business presentation.
Am I entirely insane?
Yes, I think, I am.
Insane. Foolish. Idiotic.
Reckless.
I s.h.i.+ver.
Yes, but reckless felt so d.a.m.n good.
The limo has come to a complete stop, and I see the driver approaching to open my door. I reach for my panties, intending to shove them into my purse, but then I have a better idea.
If I'm going to be reckless anyway ...
I slip the panties under the armrest, letting the white satin and lace peek out just a little. Then I quickly zip up my dress, check that it's covering all the appropriate places, and slide to the door just as the driver pulls it open.
I step out of the limo and look up at the sky. I imagine a billion stars twinkling down at me. I grin back at them. By morning, I'll probably be wallowing in mortification, but right now, I'm going to bask. It has, after all, been an exceptionally good night.
9.
I turn the key in the lock as quietly as possible, then slowly twist the k.n.o.b and push the door open. I just want to get to my room and go to sleep, but Jamie is the world's lightest sleeper, so I'm not confident that I'll make it.
The condo is silent and mostly dark, the only light coming from the small nightlight I insist we keep plugged in by the bathroom. It provides minimal illumination, just enough to provide some guidance and keep the apartment from falling into pitch-black.
I consider the quiet darkness a good sign. Maybe Jamie walked down to the divey little bar on the corner next to the Stop 'n' Shop. Both the bar and the shop smell faintly of sewage and sweat, but that doesn't stop Jamie when she's in a mood for either alcohol or chocolate. I've lived here less than a week, and we've already visited the store twice (for supplies of Diet c.o.ke and Chips Ahoy) and the bar once (for bourbon, straight up, because it's not the kind of place you trust to make a martini).
I close the door carefully and set the dead bolt, but I leave the chain dangling in the hope that my guess as to Jamie's whereabouts is right. Then I start to tiptoe to my room, just in case my guess is wrong.
Even dimly lit, the condo is easily navigable. A traditional apartment before the owners decided to go condo, it's small at only about eight hundred square feet. The main room serves a triple purpose as entrance hall, living room, and dining area. There's also a kitchen, a bathroom, and two bedrooms. The living area is on the left, and is furnished comfortably with a chair and a sofa. One long wall boasts a never-used fireplace and a mounted flat-screen television.
Just in front of the door-past the four feet or so that can be considered the foyer-is the dining area, which has a truly ugly orange Formica table and four mismatched wooden chairs. Jamie may have bought the condo when prices were down, but that didn't mean she'd been rolling in extra cash. She'd furnished it with an eye to cost, not appeal. I don't mind, but I've already told Jamie that when I can afford it, I want to paint the interior and try to make the place a little more Ikea. Home and Garden is completely out of the question.
The kitchen is to the left of the dining area, and is separated from the living area by a solid wall that one day I'd love to knock down and turn into a pa.s.s-through. Until then, whoever's cooking not only can't see the television, but is trapped in the claustrophobic galley-style kitchen. Between the dining area and kitchen are two stairs that seem to serve no purpose. They lead to the bedrooms-one on either side-and the bathroom, which takes up the s.p.a.ce between.
I've gone about three feet and am transitioning from entrance to dining area when a light snaps on to my left. I turn and see Jamie in the far side of the room, curled up in the battered armchair that Lady Meow-Meow uses as a scratching post.
”You okay?” I ask, because Jamie brooding in the dark is never a good thing.
She stretches her arms and yawns, disrupting Lady Meow-Meow who is a big blob of white fur in her lap. ”I'm good. Must've fallen asleep.” She s.h.i.+fts in the chair, then rolls her head, getting the kinks out. I eye her for signs that she's bulls.h.i.+tting me, but she seems genuinely fine. I'm relieved. Call me selfish, but I'm not in the mood to micromanage anyone's drama but my own.
”So?” she demands as the cat leaps down and pads to the kitchen for kibble.
I shrug, still standing there in my little dress with my shoes dangling from my fingertips and my naked tush catching a breeze under the flouncy skirt. ”Tired,” I say, because I need to collect my thoughts. Jamie always sees more than I want her to, and I don't want to dive into the conversation unprepared. ”Wanna grab breakfast at Du-par's in the morning? I'll give you the full scoop then. But it'll have to be early.” I hook my thumb toward my bedroom. ”I need to go crash.”
”You're really not going to tell me s.h.i.+t? Why the h.e.l.l did I wait up?”
”You didn't wait up. You were asleep.”
She waves a hand, sweeping my logic away as irrelevant.
”In the morning,” I say, and before she can argue I turn and head to my room. I wait a second in case she decides to burst in after me, and when she doesn't, I peel off the dress. I stand naked for a moment, feeling the cool breeze from the air conditioner caress my still-hot skin. My favorite pajama bottoms are folded on my pillow, and I slip them on. I don't bother with underwear, and the sensation of the threadbare material against my still-sensitive s.e.x is fantastic. I think of Damien and rub my palms lightly over my bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s. My nipples peak, and I'm tempted to pull out my phone and call him back.
Jesus, Nikki. Get a grip.
I don't know what Damien Stark wants from me, but the truth is that I don't care. Because it's not going anywhere. I'm not getting naked with Damien Stark. That's simply a given. But that doesn't mean I can't appreciate the fantasy he's given me, all wrapped up in silver paper with a bright, s.h.i.+ny o.r.g.a.s.m.
I slide onto the bed and slip one hand down into the pajama bottoms. I'm no longer drunk, just nicely buzzed, and I can't think of a better way to drift off to sleep.
The sharp chime of the doorbell nips that plan in the bud, and I leap to my feet, yanking my hand out of my pants as I move like a guilty teenager caught by her parents.
”Is that Douglas?” I shout to Jamie.
”h.e.l.l no,” she says. ”I train them better than that.”
”Then who-”
”Oh, f.u.c.k,” she says, not in anger or fear, but in amazement. ”Nik, honey, get your a.s.s out here.”
I yank on a tank top and hurry into the living room, not even willing to venture a guess as to who could be out there at this time of night.