Stark After Dark (25 page)

I scowl at my calendar for today and wonder how I am possibly going to be able to cram everything into one workday. I have three meetings, half a dozen phone calls to return, a lunch appointment, and plans to meet my best friend, Jamie, for drinks at seven. And somewhere in there I have to schedule time to actually get work done.

Frankly, I'm not sure if it's possible without the aid of time travel devices or, at the very least, a part-time assistant.

I'm tapping the end of my pencil against the overfull sheet—because despite owning my own web- and mobile-app development company, I print my schedule every morning—when Damien approaches.

I know that he is there even though he has yet to say a word. Perhaps I heard his bare feet on the wooden floor. Perhaps the air shifted as he passed. Or perhaps he is simply Damien Stark, and I could no more fail to notice his presence than I could miss a tidal wave.

But more likely, I think it is because he has so thoroughly claimed me that there is never a moment when I am not blissfully and totally aware of him.

I am in the library on the mezzanine of the exceptional Malibu house that was still under construction when I first started dating Damien. Now it is our home, and every space within these walls is precious to me. I'm at the desk near the section where Damien has shelved his sci-fi/fantasy collection, tattered paperbacks tucked in alongside pristine, signed first editions. A few feet away, in one of the comfy leather chairs, the newest addition to our household is curled up into a tiny ball of orange fluff.

This is Damien's favorite place to work, and that's part of why I come here almost every morning—I like to feel close to him.

Right now, I feel very close indeed.

“You're amazing, you know.” I speak without turning around, then smile when I hear his soft chuckle behind me.

“Because I can sneak up on you?” This time I do hear his footsteps as he moves even closer.

“I knew you were there. By definition, that isn't sneaking. Or, at least, it's not successful sneaking.”

“You make a good point, Mrs. Stark.” His hands press gently on my shoulders, and I close my eyes, just soaking up the feel of him. It's more potent than coffee, and if I could bottle this sensation, I'd be richer than my husband.

I haven't yet turned to look at him, but I don't need to. I long ago memorized every delicious inch of him. His lush, raven-black hair, so familiar to my fingers. His perfectly sculpted face, softened by the slightest shadow of beard stubble. His lean, well-muscled athlete's body that looks equally exceptional in jeans or a tux. And, of course, his dual-colored eyes that can look right to my core and see all my secrets.

It is not yet seven on a Friday morning and though I'm still in my typical morning uniform of a T-shirt and baggy shorts, I know that he is already dressed. I inhale, confirming that assumption. I smell the soap from his shower. The hint of musk from the cologne I bought him in Paris on our honeymoon, just a few months ago.

“So tell me, why am I amazing?”

“To properly answer that, I'd need PowerPoint, a projector, and at least two days.” I tilt my head back so that I can grin at him, and my heart skitters when I see his face, even more perfect than the picture I keep tucked away in my mind. “But in this particular instance, I was referring to your time management skills.” Damien accomplishes more in a day than most people do in a year. Frankly, I think it's highly likely that superpowers are involved.

“Busy day?”

“By human standards. For you, it's probably a cakewalk. But I'm going to have to do some juggling.”

I stand as I push the chair away from the desk, then turn and lean back so that I'm half-sitting on it, my rear pressed against the edge. Damien's attention is entirely on my face, and there is such a look of hunger in his eyes that I have to smile. “Careful, or you'll be late for work.”

“I find that's one of the perks of running my own company. There's no one to slap my hand when I break the rules.”

I hear the thread of playfulness in his voice and match it. “Do you break the rules often, Mr. Stark?”

He lifts his hand, then brushes my hair away from my neck, so that his fingertips stroke my tender skin, tracing down along my collarbone. “As often as possible,” he says.

I try very hard to continue breathing normally as his fingers drift lower, over the swell of my breast to linger on my nipple, now pebble-hard beneath the threadbare cotton of my favorite University of Texas T-shirt. He flicks it lightly, causing me to gasp. Causing a hell of a lot more than that, actually, as every nerve ending in my body suddenly seems to be connected to my breast by some sensual network that his touch has illuminated.

I say nothing, biting my lower lip against the instinct to cry out his name in demand and longing. He meets my eyes, his crinkling at the corners as his mouth curves up into a grin. He understands perfectly what I am not saying—what he is doing to me. He holds my gaze, his clever fingers traveling lower and lower until he slides his hand between my legs, cupping me intimately and making me moan. “What do you say?” he murmurs. “Want to break some rules with me?”

“Desperately,” I admit.

He makes a low noise of approval, then eases closer, taking his hand away so that I can feel the length of his erection hard between my legs. He pulls me fully upright, his hands now cupping my rear as he grinds against me, a slow sensual movement like a sexy dance in a dimly lit nightclub.

I tilt my head back and he bends to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth, that simple contact as wildly erotic as the deepest kiss, the hardest fuck. And though the brush of his lips against my skin is feather soft, I feel the hard, demanding weight of it between my legs, and I press my hips tighter against his in silent, desperate demand.

He brushes his lips over my cheek to my ear, the sensation sending shivers of pleasure through me.

“I appreciate the sentiment, Mrs. Stark,” he whispers. “But we'll have to wait to be naughty.”

It takes a moment for my sex-fogged mind to process his words, and when I do, I turn my head to look at him, and see both heat and laughter on his face. I pull back, narrowing my eyes. “Will we?”

“The helicopter will be here soon. I have a meeting in San Diego at eight.”

“You, Damien Stark, are a very cruel man.”

“I can be.” He steps back, fully breaking the contact between us and leaving me feeling soft and needy and very, very turned on. “But isn't it nice to know that your schedule is more flexible than you thought?”

I cock my head. “You're not off the hook, mister. There will be blowback.”

“I look forward to your most creative punishment. Tonight, perhaps?” he says, and the eagerness in his voice makes me laugh out loud.

I'm about to tell him that he has no idea how creative I can be when my cellphone chirps in time with his. It's the automatic signal that is sent when someone uses a code to operate the gated entry to the property. Damien pulls his phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen. “Jamie.”

“Really?” Jamie Archer is my best friend, and I have no problem with her popping by unexpectedly. I'm just not sure why she would, particularly this early. After all, she lives in Studio City, which is almost an hour away. More in morning rush hour, which in Los Angeles lasts from dawn until about lunch. Texting is more Jamie's speed, and so by the time she lets herself in the front door and is calling my name, my imagination has run wild with all sorts of horrible scenarios.

“What's wrong?” I call.

“Nothing. I've got news.”

I glance at Damien, relieved. “Then meet me in the kitchen. I'll be right there.”

The house actually has two kitchens, but I have never used the one on the first floor, which is huge and tricked out with so many amazing gadgets it would make Gordon Ramsay proud, not to mention easily serve up an intimate dinner party for two or three hundred.

I much prefer the normal-sized kitchen on the third floor. It was designed to be a space for caterers, as it is connected to the open area intended for entertaining. But it has become the kitchen that Damien and I use regularly.

From the mezzanine, I take the stairs that lead to an alcove near the kitchen. Damien and I arrive in the breakfast nook right as Jamie is helping herself to a cup of coffee.

“Okay,” she says, “this is seriously awesome.”

“The coffee?” I ask, and my best friend rolls her eyes.

“Gloria Myers. Do you remember me mentioning her?”

I scour my memory, but nothing comes to mind.

“She's the head of programming for the network affiliate in Dallas that offered me a job. You guys were on your honeymoon.”

“Right,” I say. “I remember.” Jamie and I are both from Dallas. I came to LA to reinvent myself. She came to take the acting world by storm. It hadn't worked out quite the way she planned, however, and at one point Jamie had seriously considered returning to Texas to work as an on-air reporter while she got her shit together. She'd ended up staying, though, not in small part because her new boyfriend, Ryan Hunter, is doing a damn fine job of keeping her grounded.

“What about her?” Damien prompts.

“Gloria wants me to cover a tech convention in Vegas.” Jamie bounces a little. “Just a couple of interviews, really. But it's a good break and a foot in the door. I told them months ago I wanted to be their West Coast correspondent, and I guess now they're taking me seriously.”

“That's fabulous.” I hurry over and give her a hug. “I'm so proud of you.”

“It rocks, yeah. But the best part is that it's only a few hours of work tomorrow morning. If we go soon, we'll have two nights and almost two full days.”

“We?” I repeat.

Damien is much quicker on the uptake. “So you came to whisk my wife away to Vegas? I don't know, Jamie. Sounds like a bad precedent to me.” He is speaking in his corporate boardroom voice, but I can hear the tease underneath.

“On the contrary,” I say, “I think it's an excellent plan.” I smile sweetly. “We can consider it your punishment.”

“Oh, please,” Jamie says. “Punishment? What? You two haven't heard of sexting?” She bats her eyes innocently. “That's what I intend to do with Ryan. It'll make the return home all the more delicious.”

Damien puts on a mock scowl. “Is that why our corporate text rates are so high lately?” Not only is Ryan Jamie's boyfriend, he's also the chief of security for Stark International.

Jamie waves his words away. “Well?” she demands of me. “Are we on? If we leave now we'll hit Vegas early afternoon and have plenty of time to play. You should check out the convention, Nik. Mostly gamer related, but still right up your alley. And it's at the Starfire Resort and Casino,” she adds with a meaningful look at Damien. The Starfire is a Stark International hotel. “Which means I figure you and I can snag one hell of a nice upgrade. So what do you say?” she asks me. “You can clear your schedule, right?”

I glance at Damien with a very smug grin. “Yeah,” I tell Jamie. “As it turns out, I absolutely can.”

Despite Jamie's desire to hit the road immediately, it took us a few hours to actually get under way. For one thing, I had to shower and get dressed, which I did once I'd thoroughly kissed my husband goodbye and watched the helicopter whisk him off toward San Diego.

After that, I had to pack, which didn't take too much time since we're staying only two nights. But the calls I had to make to reschedule an entire Friday's worth of appointments were another matter altogether. And while I sat at a shaded table by the pool with my phone and my laptop, trying to juggle my schedule with the schedule of everyone else involved, Jamie stripped down to bra and panties, then splayed out on a chaise lounge to work on her tan.

Honestly, it just didn't seem fair.

It was lunchtime when I finally got everything squared away, and we were able to pile into the limo. Damien had insisted that Edward drive us, and since the ride from Los Angeles to Vegas is infinitely more interesting in the back of a limo with alcohol, we hadn't been hard to convince.

Right as we got under way, we had Edward pull into Upper Crust, a charming local bakery and sandwich shop, where Jamie and I bought paninis for ourselves and Edward, then she and I settled in the back with our sandwiches, chips, and the well-stocked Stark International limo bar.

All of which goes a long way to explaining why, when we roll into Las Vegas at just shy of six in the evening, Jamie and I are just a teensy bit drunk. Not to mention very easily amused.

Which is why I burst into giggles when Jamie pulls out her phone, stares at the screen, and very plaintively asks me why there isn't even a smidgeon of sex in her inbox.

“Knowing you,” I retort, “I find that very hard to believe.”

“Okay, that's fair. If I scroll back I'm sure I can find some truly stellar sexts. But Ryan promised he'd send me something to keep him on my mind, and so far
pffft.
Nothing.”

She flops back in the seat and pouts—or at least pretends to. I'm feeling a bit pouty myself, because I was certain that once Jamie planted the sexting seed in Damien's head he would jump all over that but my inbox is likewise sexless. Of course, sexting is like sloppy seconds compared to Damien's truly incredible phone sex skills. But that's not something I want to experience with Jamie in the limo with me. We're close. But we're not that close.

Truthfully, I'm not surprised that Damien hasn't checked in. His schedule was jam-packed today, what with zipping all over the West Coast. And right about now, I know he has a meeting with his assistant Sylvia. They have a conference call with a friend of Damien's at the Pentagon about buying Santa Cortez, a military-owned island off the California coast.

Most likely he's on that call right now, immersed in details and negotiations. It's really not the time for me to be bothering him.

Of course, I do anyway.

Just arrived in Sin City. Feeling deliciously sinful. Who knows where that will lead…

I hesitate only a second and then press send.

A moment later, my phone buzzes with a reply.

I'm intrigued. Take pictures.

I text back:
???

I don't have to wait too long for his explanation.

If you're naughty without me, I want to know exactly what I'll be punishing you for later.

Oh.

I think of some of the very delicious ways that Damien might punish me and decide that a few selfies during this weekend jaunt will be well worth the trouble.

And no underwear. When I think of you, I want to think of you bare.

I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. My soon-to-be-abandoned panties, however, are damp. I tap out a quick,
Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir.

Good girl. Meeting starting. Soon, Mrs. Stark. Until then, imagine me, touching you.

I smile, then tap my final reply:
I always do.

When I look up, Jamie has her chin propped on her palm and is watching me.

“What?” I demand.

She just shakes her head. “You guys are so good together.”

“Aren't you and Ryan?”

A wide grin lights her face. I'm girl-next-door pretty, with my blond hair and curves, but Jamie is movie star gorgeous. And when she smiles, it's a wonder that Hollywood producers don't drop from the skies and sign her to projects.

The smile she flashes now with Ryan on her mind is one of the most radiant I've ever seen. “Yeah,” she says. “We are. Isn't that just the coolest thing?”

Considering Jamie's crappy track record with men, I have to agree that it is. And I am truly, genuinely happy for both of them.

“This is where we really got together,” Jamie says, nodding out the window at the Starfire Resort and Casino, which we are approaching. “I mean, we fooled around in Malibu after your wedding, but it wasn't until Vegas that things really heated up.” Her grin is wide and a little sappy. “So I really, really love this hotel.”

“I'm very glad to hear it.”

Although the Starfire is a Stark International property, I've only been a couple of times, and then on very short stays. The fact is, Damien owns so many properties in so many places that I could visit one every day for the rest of my life and still probably not hit all of them.

It's a little daunting when I think about it. Which is why I usually don't think about it.

Edward turns off the Strip and into the drive, which circles a magnificent fountain that shoots jets of colored water into the sky to the delight of a crowd of people gathered around its edge.

We roll to a stop under the portico, and it's clear that although this limo has no identifying marks, the staff knows who we are. I'm treated like a queen, Jamie like a princess, and we are whisked through the lobby and down one of the long, tiled hallways to a set of elevators that access the penthouse suites.

Jamie and I are chatting as we walk, debating whether we want to go out for dinner or just have drinks in the bar and then go back up for room service. I pause, reaching out for Jamie's elbow.

“Did you see—?”

“What?”

But I shake my head, feeling silly. “Nothing. Just thought I saw someone I knew.”

“Who?”

I shrug. “Probably no one.” I hook my arm through Jamie's. “I say we go with shopping, then drinks, then grab some sushi.” I point to a placard advertising a new Japanese restaurant that has just opened inside the hotel. “After that we can either crash in the room with a pay-per-view movie or go try our luck at the tables.”

“Or we could find a club and go dancing?”

“You have to work tomorrow.”

She makes a face. “True. Maybe tomorrow night.”

I nod, though I'm secretly planning to veto that come tomorrow. I love to dance. But I love it most when I'm dancing with Damien.

We're in the owner's suite on the thirty-fifth floor, and the first thing we see when the bellman opens the double doors is the amazing view down the Strip through the wall of floor to ceiling windows. It's early March, so the sun has already set, and the lights of the city beyond the glass fill the room.

There is a huge kitchen, four bathrooms complete with Jacuzzi and steam shower, a living room, a media room, an exercise room, and two master bedrooms, each with their own private entrance.

The entire suite is more than twice the size of Jamie's condo, and despite having experienced the power of Damien's money many times over now, I have to admit I'm at least as wowed as my best friend.

I tip the bellman, who tells us to pick up the phone if we need anything at all, and when I turn back, I find Jamie in the middle of the huge living room, her arms out wide as she turns in a slow circle. She comes to a stop, meets my eyes, and then grins. “Can I just say how fucking awesome it is to have a best friend who's married to a bazillionaire?”

I match her grin with one of my own. “Funny, I was just about to say how awesome it is to actually be married to one.”