Stark After Dark (30 page)

I knock on Jamie's bedroom door because I don't want to be alone, but there is no answer. I wonder if she's with Ryan, and the thought makes me a little jealous. Because right now I am most definitely not with Damien.

I consider calling the front desk to learn what room my husband is in, but I have a feeling that they have been instructed not to tell me. More than that, since he actually said goodbye, I can't help but believe that our fantasy bubble has firmly shattered, and that he has returned to Los Angeles and our real life.

Which is fine. Great, actually. I love my life, and I want to go home.

I'd just been looking forward to tonight.

With a sigh, I decide to pack up my things. I'll text Jamie and tell her to enjoy the limo on her own. Then I'll take a taxi to the airport and grab the next flight back to LA. At least I'll be able to spend the night with Damien in our bed.

I take a quick shower, then slip on the fluffy hotel robe to wear as I pack.

I check one more time to make sure Jamie didn't come back while I was in the shower, but her room is still abandoned, the bed still made from housekeeping's last visit.

I'm actually typing out the text to Jamie when another one comes in.

It's time to finish what we started—D

I smile, a slow burn of pleasure spreading over my skin.

Yes. It is.

Within sixty seconds, there is a knock at the door to the suite.

Within thirty more, I'm right there answering it.

I start to tease him about not just letting himself in—after all, he owns the hotel—but he destroys my plans by grabbing the sash of my robe and pulling me toward him, then pushing me back against the wall even as he kicks the door closed behind him.

“Well,” I say. “Hello.”

“No,” he says. “No more talking.” He unties the sash, then spreads my robe open, exposing me. He steps back, then simply looks at me, and my breath shudders as I wait for his eyes to return to my face. “Beautiful,” he says, then presses hard against me, the material from his suit rough against my skin, but his mouth even rougher against my lips.

The kiss is wild. Hard. And with such a dangerous edge that I taste blood and it makes me just a little crazy. I'm so wet, so hot, and the damn robe is too constricting. I need to feel the air against my skin before I burn up, and so I start to shrug it off.

Damien helps, pushing it off, his palms stroking my shoulders as he does and sending ripples of heat coursing through me. He catches the tie, pulling it free of the loops as the robe slides off me to pool on the floor.

He steps back, still saying nothing. Then he slowly raises my arms above my head and uses the sash to tie my wrists together. My breath catches, and I feel the tightening in my cunt, a hot, needy feeling, and I want to beg, but I am not allowed to talk. Yet I want him too badly, and since I cannot use my hands I hook my leg around his hips and urge him closer, then tilt my hips to rub against his.

He's hard, and I arch back, feeling the length of him beneath the smooth material of his slacks. He is still dressed for dinner in a suit and jacket, all perfectly pressed and perfectly presentable. And the fact that I am naked in his arms is making me just a little crazy.

Please.

It's a silent plea, but one he seems to understand, and I am weak with relief when I hear the sound of his zipper. He holds my bound wrists above my head with one hand while he teases my cunt with his other. I keep my leg tight against his hip as he thrusts his fingers hard inside me before finally entering me, hard and fast, his cock filling me. He pounds hard into me, still dressed, still silent, and it is wild and crazy and wonderfully exciting. And when he explodes inside me—when his body shudders and he trembles against me—I feel soft and feminine and deliciously used.

He is breathing hard—so am I. And I curl against him, my bound wrists around his neck, when he scoops me up and takes me into the bedroom. He lays me gently on the spread, then he strips, and I watch as the corporate uniform falls away, revealing a man who was surely sculpted by the gods.

This time, he makes love to me slowly. His mouth teasing me, his cock filling me, his hands stroking me until every bit of me is on fire. I am electrically charged, and when I explode, it is as if I am lightning, shooting across the night sky to crackle and burn, bright and wild and hot.

When the tremors of the orgasm fade, I go limp in his arms, then stretch once he unties me, enjoying every sore muscle, every bruise, every ache. And when I curl back up against him and he hooks his arm around my waist, I not only feel well-fucked, I also feel well-loved.

“What are you thinking?” I ask, when I realize that neither one of us has drifted off. I'm breaking the rules, maybe, but I don't care. I want to hear his voice.

“That it's a shame this is a weekend fling,” he says. “That if you were mine I would hold you close every day. I would tell you that you are my breath, my life. That you are the thing that gives my life meaning. That makes me whole.”

He brushes a kiss over the curve of my ear. “I'd tell you that I love you, and that I feel you in every beat of my heart and in every breath I take. I bless every sunrise because it marks a new day by your side. And that,” he says, “is what I would say if you were mine.”

My heart skitters with his words, and I roll over to face him. “I don't know how you do it,” I say, “but I love you more each day.”

His smile is slow and very sexy, and I sigh when he kisses me softly. Then he looks at the clock. “It's midnight.”

“Do you turn into a pumpkin?”

“Best not to find out,” he says. “Sleep tight, Ms. Fairchild. You are truly a fantasy made real.”

Damien slides out of bed. He pulls on his slacks and shirt, then walks back over and kisses my cheek. “Thank you for a lovely weekend.”

And then, before I can even process this new twist, he strides to the door, tugs it open, and disappears.

I roll over to his side of the bed, wanting the warmth from his body and the scent of his skin.

Alone
.

Except I'm not. And tomorrow I'll be going home.

Tomorrow, everything I've had in play will be mine for real again.

With a sigh, I pull the sheet up higher and snuggle against Damien's lingering warmth. And as I drift off, I can't help but think that I am a very lucky woman.

The next morning, Jamie is back in her bedroom in the suite. Ryan left on an early morning flight to LA, a fact that Jamie shares with me over a huge room service breakfast of omelets and bacon, waffles and hash browns.

As soon as we've devoured enough food to fuel an entire NFL team, we retreat to our bedrooms to pack, a task we both manage in record time. We each have reason to want to get back home as soon as possible. Jamie back to Ryan. And me back to the man who is both my husband and my friend. My fantasy and my reality.

We don't bother calling a bellman since neither Jamie nor I brought more than a rolling bag. But we do have to call the front desk to let them know that we are ready to leave so that someone can bring a limo around.

Edward is no longer in Vegas, having made the drive back to Los Angeles after dropping us off. But there is no shortage of Starfire limos, and one will soon be whisking us home.

“Unless you'd rather go by helicopter,” I say to Jamie, who looks at me like I've lost my mind.

“Um, no. Flying freakish death trap. And loud. Besides. We must drink. And recap.” She frowns. “Or just recap. I'm not sure my head can stand more alcohol.”

I laugh. “A limo it is.”

Ten minutes later, we're wheeling our bags through the lobby and then to the valet stand under the portico. I raise my hand to catch the attention of the valet, but he has already seen me and is signaling our limo to pull up. As soon as it does, he opens the back passenger door for Jamie, who climbs in.

I am about to follow suit when I glance over and see Damien approaching. I smile broadly in greeting.

“Checking out, Ms. Fairchild?”

“I am. Time to go back to the real world.”

“I hope your weekend was memorable.”

My lips twitch. “Oh, it was. Very much so.”

“I wanted to give you this before you left.” He hands me a business card.
Damien Stark
. That's all it says. And beneath it is the number from which he has been calling me.

I look up, curious, and see the playfulness behind his eyes.

“If you ever feel the need to call. For any reason, any time of the day or night, Ms. Fairchild. Don't hesitate.”

“I won't,” I promise. “It's been a very interesting weekend, Mr. Stark,” I add with a smile. “I'm very glad you bought me that drink.”

He takes my hand, then kisses my palm. “Safe journey,” he says, then helps me into the limo.

I slide inside and get settled. And as soon as he closes the door, I sigh.

“Okay,” Jamie says. “That was seriously fun.”

“It really was,” I agree.

“We should totally do it again sometime.”

I run my finger along the edge of the card I'm still holding and silently agree. But then I slide the card into my purse and pull out my phone. And as the limo turns onto the Las Vegas Strip, I hit the button to speed dial Damien's usual cellphone.

“Mrs. Stark,” he says, without missing a beat. “I think it's time for you to come home.”

I smile. “So do I,” I say. “I'm on my way.”

And then I lean back in my seat and shut my eyes, feeling happy, content, and loved.

PHOTO: KATHY WHITTAKER PHOTOGRAPHY

J
.
K
ENNER
(aka Julie Kenner) is the
New York Times,
USA Today,
Publishers Weekly, Wall Street Journal,
and #1 internationally bestselling author of over seventy novels, novellas, and short stories in a variety of genres.

Though known primarily for her award-winning and internationally bestselling erotic romances (including the Stark and Most Wanted series) that have reached as high as #2 on the
New York Times
bestseller list, Kenner has been writing full-time for over a decade in a variety of genres including paranormal and contemporary romance, “chicklit” suspense, urban fantasy, and paranormal mommy lit.

Kenner has been praised by
Publishers Weekly
as an author with a “flair for dialogue and eccentric characterizations” and by
RT Book Reviews
for having “cornered the market on sinfully attractive, dominant antiheroes and the women who swoon for him.” A four-time finalist for Romance Writers of America's prestigious RITA award, Kenner took home the first RITA trophy awarded in the category of erotic romance in 2014 for her novel
Claim Me
(book 2 of her Stark Trilogy).

Her books have sold well over a million copies and are published in over twenty countries.

jkenner.com

Facebook.com/​jkennerbooks

@juliekenner