Part 13 (1/2)

His other hand snakes around my waist, and he pulls me tighter against him. I gasp, both in surprise from the quick motion and from the pressure of his denim-clad c.o.c.k against the swell of my a.s.s.

”Damien,” I whisper, my voice a plea. But whether I'm begging him to stop or continue, even I don't know.

His mouth is at my ear, his voice so carnal, so full of l.u.s.t, it makes my c.l.i.t throb. ”I'm going to f.u.c.k you, Nikki. Pleasure? We're going to blow the roof off pleasure. I'm going to make you beg for it. I'm going to claim you. I'm going to tease you. I'm going to torment you. And you're going to come for me like you've never come in your life.”

I can barely breathe I'm so turned on by the power of his words. And as he's talked, his hand has been snaking down under the waistband of my skirt, over my panties to cup my swollen, dripping c.u.n.t.

”You're so wet,” he whispers. ”Oh, baby, you're soaking.”

I make some sort of rough noise in my throat. Maybe a response, I'm not sure. I'm s.h.i.+fting my weight shamelessly, wanting to feel his fingers against my swollen c.l.i.t. What was it he'd said about making me beg? I was on the verge right then.

He roughly yanks my panties to the side, and in what feels like one movement, he slides two fingers into me. ”Tell me you like that.” His voice is rough, demanding.

”Yes. G.o.d, yes.” My v.a.g.i.n.a spasms around him as his fingers move in and out, finger-f.u.c.king me, teasing my c.l.i.t, and sending me higher and higher until I'm close, so close, so close.

I cry out as he pinches my nipple, and the delicious pain triggers my release. I come in violent, shuddering waves, his fingers still inside me, my body trying to draw him in, to keep him there, to hold on to the moment.

”Nikki,” he whispers, gently pulling out of me. He turns me around-I am a limp rag-and his mouth closes over the tender nipple. He suckles it, pinching and pulling at the other one, the sensation of near-pain keeping my sensitive s.e.x throbbing. Slowly, he kisses his way down my cleavage, my belly. I'm still in my skirt, and as his tongue dips into and out of my belly b.u.t.ton, I hear the rough sc.r.a.pe of his palms over the raw silk of my skirt.

I am jelly. I am lost in a haze. I am floating.

But even here in my new heaven, that low rumble of fear is growing. I know what's coming, and even though I want it-want him-I don't think I'm strong enough yet to stand it. But maybe ... maybe ...

He wants you. Your snark. Your att.i.tude.

I cling to Jamie's words, hoping, even as Damien whispers that I'm beautiful, beautiful, so very, very beautiful. ”I have to taste you,” he says. ”I want to lick all of that sweetness up and then kiss you. I want you to know how f.u.c.king amazing you taste.”

His hands have reached the hem of my skirt, and now his fingers graze along my stockings as he pushes the skirt up, up until he's reached the band of my thigh-high stocking, and I'm no longer breathing and holding so tight to his shoulders that I fear I may break a bone.

And then his hands are on my flesh, rising above the tops of the stockings, and he's stroking the soft inner thigh, and I know the hard, swollen ugliness he'll feel as his hands climb higher and higher. I tense, fighting shame and fear and pain and memories. They beat their way in, through the haze of l.u.s.t and desire. Through the sweet moment of being in Damien's arms.

I try to battle it back, the voice in my head that tells me to run. I don't want to run. I want to try. I want to stay and I want to feel and I want to get lost in Damien's touch. I'm so hot and I almost believe what Jamie has said about him wanting me, me, me.

But then he whispers the one word that destroys everything. The one word that makes the fantasy disappear.

”Perfect,” he says. ”Dear G.o.d, Nikki, you're perfect.”

12.

I jerk away, twisting sideways and banging my thigh against the side of the bar as I shove free from Damien's embrace.

”I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” I say. I don't look at him. ”I have to go. I'm sorry.” I yank my skirt down and reach back to zip it. My fingers shake as I b.u.t.ton my blouse. I don't bother with my bra, but hold my jacket closed with one hand as I hurry toward his foyer.

”Nikki-”

There's pain and confusion in his voice, and I feel like s.h.i.+t because I'm the reason it's there and he doesn't deserve this. I should have cut this off sooner. h.e.l.l, I should have cut it off last night.

”I'm sorry,” I say again, even though it's lame. I'm at the elevator, and the doors open the instant I press the b.u.t.ton. I'm relieved; I was afraid I'd have to wait for it. But then I realize that Damien is on the premises, so of course his elevator is going to be parked wherever he is.

I step inside and stand erect until the doors shut tight. Then I melt against the gla.s.s panel and let the tears flow. I have fifty-seven floors to get them out of my system. No, sixty, because my car's on the third parking level.

When the car eases to a stop, I hastily wipe my face and stand up straight, sliding my mask back into place as I fluff my hair and flash a quick smile at the mirror. Perfect.

But my act isn't necessary. There's no one waiting when the doors open. Still, I keep the mask on and the act up as I make the long walk across the Stark Tower side of the parking structure to the area beneath the bank building wherein C-Squared is housed. My car is on the far side, and I'm walking fast now, because I can feel the cracks all over me. I'm going to shatter soon, I know it, and I need to be in my car when I do.

It's right there, parked opposite the stairwell. The whole corner is dark and despite being open, it makes me twitchy. I reported it to the property manager my first day, but so far they've yet to put in a new bulb. Once again, I remind myself to ask Carl for another a.s.signed s.p.a.ce, because this corner is too d.a.m.ned creepy.

I hurry to the car and shove the key in the lock-because my Honda's almost fifteen years old, and I don't have a keychain remote. I yank the door open, then slide inside, letting the familiar sounds and smells surround me. I tug on the heavy door and the instant it slams shut, I lose it. Tears stream down my face, and I alternately clutch and pound on the steering wheel. Hitting and slamming and pummeling until the heel of my hand is red and raw and sore. I'm shouting, repeating a chorus of ”no, no, no,” but I don't even realize it until my voice fades, raw and raspy.

Finally my tears are spent, but my body doesn't seem to realize it. I convulse, hiccuping painfully as I try to breathe in and out and gather some control.

It takes a while, but I finally quit shaking. My hand is unsteady as I try to insert the key into the ignition. I can't manage. Metal sc.r.a.pes against metal. I drop the key ring. Fumbling, I bend down to pick it up again, only to whack my forehead on the wheel. I clutch the keys tight and curse, and pound my fist against the wheel one more time.

The tears are welling again, and I breathe deep. It's too much, too fast. The move, the job, Damien.

I want to crawl out of my own skin. I want to escape. I want- I grab a handful of my skirt and thrust it up so that the material is gathered at my hips, exposing a triangle of panties and my bare thighs above the stockings.

Don't.

Just a little. Just this once.

Don't.

But I do. I spread my legs and press the key into the soft flesh of my inner thigh. Once upon a time, I kept a knife on my key ring. I wish I still had it. No. No, I don't.

The key's teeth bite into my skin, but it's nothing. Mosquito bites. I need more if I'm going to keep the storm at bay-and it's that realization of my need that hits me like a slap in the face.

Oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d, oh, G.o.d, what the f.u.c.k am I doing?

Before I can talk myself out of it, I shove open the door and toss the keys out into the dim parking garage. I hear them skitter across the asphalt. I don't see where they land.

I sit there breathing deeply, telling myself that's not who I am. I haven't cut for over three years. I fought, and I won.

I'm not that girl anymore.

Except of course, I am. I'll always be that girl. I can wish all I want, and I can run across the country, but those scars don't go away, and they won't stay hidden forever.

I guess I learned that the hard way. That's why I ran from Damien, isn't it? And that's why I'll keep on running.

A wave of loneliness crashes over me, and I think about what Ollie said. About how nothing would change. About how I could call him anytime I needed him.

I need him now.