Claim Me: A Novel (28 page)

I’m not sure what to expect, and I have to fight the urge to pull out my phone and call him. Instead, I tell myself that patience is a virtue. Not necessarily one of my virtues, but a virtue nonetheless.

“You look distracted. Anything I can help you with?”

The voice belongs to a nice-looking man who sits one seat over from me at the bar. I finally see Damien, and am about to tell the man that no, I’m fine, when Damien meets my eyes, then very deliberately takes a seat at a nearby table with three other men.

“No, thanks. I’m fine.”

The bartender puts the martini in front of me. I take a sip, confused, and wonder what happens next.

The man moves to the stool next to me, then leans even closer into my personal space. I consider sliding one stool over myself, but decide to remain put, my posture rigid, my body language very, very clear.

Apparently, though, the guy is illiterate in the body language department.

“Here for the conference?” he asks, and I can smell the liquor on his breath.

“No,” I say. “I’m looking for some time alone.”

“Lucky you,” says the man who cannot take a hint. “Insurance regulations. Hours and hours of continuing education.”

“Hmm,” I say. I have my Coldly Polite face on, but he’s apparently blind as well.

He leans in closer still, and now he’s at such an angle that he has to grip the bar itself or risk sliding to the floor. I give in to
temptation and lean in the opposite direction. “I can think of better ways to spend a late night,” he says, his voice low and his intent unmistakable. “And we are in a hotel. You do the math.”

“I was never particularly good at math,” I lie. I consider moving to a table, but Damien specifically told me to stay at the bar. And no matter what else, I am following his rules tonight.

“You look like you’d be good at a lot of things,” the man says, staring at my tits.

I turn back to the bar to find the bartender sliding a new martini in front of me. “From the gentleman,” he says, nodding toward Damien.

“How nice,” I say, then smile at Damien, which seems to irritate my companion.

Damien rises, says something to the men at his table, and strides to the bar. He stands right beside me, and as is always the case when Damien is near, I am suddenly hyperaware—of him, of my own body, of the rotation of the earth beneath us.

I smile at him. “Thank you for the drink. Sir.”

I see the muscle in his cheek tighten when I say the last word, and I have to smile. He wasn’t expecting that. “I hope you like dirty martinis.”

“The dirtier the better,” I say.

“Hey. You want to get lost? I was chatting with the lady.”

Damien turns to him. “No,” he says. “I don’t think so. I want her.”

The guy’s eyes go wide, but he recovers fast. “The lady wants to be alone.” Apparently, he’s now all about chivalry.

“Does she?” He looks at me, then speaks very slowly and very clearly. “Did you come here to be alone? Or to be fucked?”

“I—” I have no idea how I’m supposed to answer. Beside us, the guy is apparently shocked into silence. “I guess that depends on who’s doing the fucking,” I finally say.

“I like your answer,” Damien says. “What’s your name?”

“Louise,” I say, my middle name coming unbidden to my lips.

Damien grins. “Nice to meet you, Louise. I want you to come with me now.”

I gasp, embarrassed, but also incredibly, undeniably turned on. “I—”

“Now.” He holds out his hand and I hesitate only a moment before taking it.

Beside us, my companion stares with his mouth gaping open.

Damien helps me off the stool and aims a friendly nod at the insurance dude. “Maybe next time,” he says, as the guy looks at Damien as if he’s pulled off some kind of magic act. At least we’re leaving him impressed and not pissed.

I am giddy as I follow Damien. I want to laugh. I want to take his hand and twirl in the lobby. I want to slam him hard against the lobby wall and claim his mouth with my own. I want his hands on me. I want him inside me.

I want him to fuck me, just like he said. And I want it now.

Apparently, so does Damien. As soon as the doors close on the elevator, Damien backs me against the wall. His mouth is hard against mine, his hand under my skirt, two fingers inside me. I grind my hips against him, wanting him, craving more of him than I can get in an elevator.

“God, Louise,” he says, and we both laugh.

“I thought someone might recognize us. It’s my middle name.”

“I know,” he says. “And I think they were all too tipsy to care. And too out of town.”

“Could have been some paparazzi around.”

“Fuck the paparazzi,” Damien says, his words as harsh as sandpaper.

I ease my body against his. “I’d rather fuck you.”

He kisses me again. Hard.

“That man was very disappointed,” I say, when he breaks the kiss.

“Just claiming what’s mine. And adding in the public service of giving that man a fantasy to keep him occupied this evening.” He easily thrusts a third finger inside me, and I bite down on my lower lip to stifle a scream of pleasure. “Don’t tell me you didn’t like it.”

“I liked it,” I say as the elevator doors begin to slide open. “I liked it very much.”

He withdraws his fingers, then directs me out of the elevator, punctuating the movement with a light pat to my ass. Our room is at the end of the hall, and I am in awe when we step inside. The suite has a living area and a dining area and a separate bedroom.

The door closes with a thump behind us.

“For a woman who likes to be mine, you were certainly doing an excellent job of flirting with that man.”

I am still gawking at the room, but at these words, I turn, ready to defend myself, because I absolutely, positively did
not
flirt with Mr. Pushy.

My words die on my lips, however, when I see the humor in Damien’s eyes. But there’s something else, too, and I know where this is going.

I give a careless little toss of my head. “What was I supposed to do? You were ignoring me. I was just making conversation.”

“He wanted more than conversation.” He takes my hand and pulls me into the dining area so that we are standing by the large, round table. He turns me around so that he is behind me, then slides his hand up my leg under my skirt.

“You need to understand how completely you belong to me. Mine to pleasure,” he says as his featherlight touch on my clit sparks a flurry of shudders within me. “Or mine to torment.” He lands a hard spank on my rear, and I cry out, the sound wrenched
from my throat on a wave of pleasure. “You like that?” he murmurs.

Dear God, yes
. I lift my rear, giving him better access.

“Spread your legs.”

I comply eagerly, anticipating the feel of Damien inside me. I hear the metallic sound of his zipper, then the soft brush of material against skin as he takes off his slacks. He keeps his shirt on, and the starched cotton hem brushes against my skin when he leans over again in a way that is probably unintentional, but comes close to driving me crazy.

His hand returns between my legs, the other one going to cup my breast. I start to rise, but hear his sharp censure telling me to stay as I am, bent over and ready for him. “You want to be fucked, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I moan. It’s good that my hands are on the table. I don’t think my legs alone could hold me up. I am little more than sensation. I am need and longing and sexual energy, and if he doesn’t let me come soon, I fear that I will collapse from the pleasure of it all.

He slides two fingers in me, and I groan as my body tightens around him. I’m close—so very close—and I bite my lower lip in expectation of a soul-rocking explosion.

It doesn’t come.

For that matter, neither do I, and I whimper in protest as he withdraws his fingers, his hands going to a relatively chaste position on my hips.

“Turn around, baby,” he says. “I want to see your face.”

I turn, and his eyes say more than words ever could. I melt under the desire I see there. The need and the hunger. It rips through me until the only thing that I know in the world is Damien. “Kiss me,” I whisper.

He does, and it is a violent, hungry kiss that bruises my lips until I taste blood. He pushes me back onto the sturdy table,
then grabs the dress at the bodice and rips it down, baring my breasts. I cry out, arching up to meet him, my hands going to his head to pull him down as his mouth closes over my nipple, his teeth biting just enough that I suck in air, cresting on a wave of intense pleasure that borders on pain.

“Now,” he says, and what remains of the dress is up around my waist. The table is hard against my back, but I don’t care, and I spread my legs wide for him then cry out as he thrusts deep inside me. I arch up, meeting his thrusts, feeling frenzied and wild and wicked and
his
.

Damien’s
.

He explodes inside me, my name on his lips. And then, spent and soft, he slides his hand down to where I am slick with his semen. I gasp as he strokes me in small circles, faster and faster until I again cry out and my body bucks from the orgasm that rips through it, then finally calms as exhaustion and bliss take over.

“Wow,” I say, and curl up next to him.

“Indeed,” he says.

We stay like that for a moment, still in each other’s arms.

“This table is really uncomfortable,” I finally say.

Beside me, Damien laughs.

“I think we need to clean it up, too. I’m not sure the maids will understand.”

“I’m sure they’ve seen it all before,” he says.

I turn and meet his eyes, my brows raised.

“Right,” he says. “We’ll take care of it. But now, I’m taking you to bed.”

He holds out his hand, and I follow him into the spacious bedroom, with a bed that looks much more comfortable than the table. “A mattress,” I say. “How novel.”

“Come here.” He tugs me to the bed and we abandon what remains of our clothes before sliding under the covers. I curl up
beside him and we lie like that for what feels like hours, talking and flipping channels and watching snippets of old movies.

This is yet another thing I love about Damien—that shift from frenzied passion to these soft moments when I feel safe and warm and cherished beside him. It’s as smooth and satisfying as a glass of port after a truly decadent meal.

“I’m not tired,” I say, when I notice that the clock reads four
A.M
. “I’d say that I’m going to regret this in the morning, but it already is morning.”

“Will you?” he asks.

I shake my head. “Not a minute of it,” I say.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For indulging my fantasies.”

I laugh. “Why, Mr. Stark. Haven’t you heard? I’m yours to command.”

He kisses me lightly. “And I’m very, very glad.”

For a moment, we just lie there quietly. Then Damien says, “That phone call you asked about earlier. It was bad news. From a friend.”

“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry.” I remember what Charles Maynard said. “Is the friend in Germany?”

He gives me a sharp look. “Why would you say that?”

I shrug. “Charles’s voice carries.”

“So it does. No, Germany’s something different.”

“An indictment? One of your Stark International subsidiaries or something?”

The line of his mouth is hard as he answers. “Or something.”

“Are you worried?”

“No.” The word is firm. “Charles is handling it.”

I nod. Since I know nothing about the laws of international trade and finance, I can’t go far with this conversational thread. “Do you want to tell me about your friend’s bad news?”

For a second, I think that he’s going to say no. Then he speaks, his voice steady and even, as if he’s fighting for control. “It’s Sofia.”

It takes me a moment to place the name. “Your friend from childhood? The one Alaine mentioned?”

He nods. “She’s gotten herself into some trouble. It’s not the first time, but it’s frustrating. I keep hoping she’ll get her shit together, but she keeps screwing up.”

“I’m sorry. I hope it gets better for her.”

He kisses my forehead. “Me, too.”

I wait for him to tell me more, but he doesn’t. That’s okay, though, and I take his hand. “Thank you.”

He doesn’t need to ask what I mean. “I am trying,” he says.

“I know you are.” I spoon against him, feeling warm and safe. “And I appreciate it.”

I’m facing away from him, and as I close my eyes, he strokes his fingers over my bare skin. The minutes tick away, and when he speaks, I have already begun to drift off, so that his words have the quality of a dream. “I never used to sleep naked.”

“Why not?” I am only half awake, and I like that he is sending me to sleep with images of a naked Damien.

“Because when we traveled, Richter would come into my room. Somehow, I was always assigned a room of my own, even though the other boys had to share.”

My eyes are open now, but I don’t roll over. I’m afraid that if I look at him, he’ll stop talking. “What happened?”

“He would come in. And he would touch me.” His voice is strained. Hard and measured. “He would threaten me and swear that if I told anyone, that everything I had would be ripped away. And my father would have no money, and we’d starve on the street. But mostly, I would have the reputation of a little boy who told nasty, nasty lies.”

“Bastard.”

“Yes.”

I stay quiet, wondering if he will say more. But he remains silent. I don’t mind. He has told me two truths tonight, and I know that this is only one small part of something larger that is growing between us.

“I thought so,” I say after a moment. “But I guess I was wrong about your dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“I assumed he knew that your coach was abusing you. I realized in the limo that he didn’t.”

For a moment, there is only silence. When Damien speaks, his words are ice cold. “He knew.”

I roll over, shocked into motion. “What? But … but why on earth would he expect you to be at the tennis center dedication if he knows what that vile man did to you?”

“I don’t know,” Damien says. He hesitates, his face drawn into hard lines.