His fingers slip ever so slightly under the band of the thong, and my breath hitches. “Damien.” His name is barely a word. It’s a sigh, a groan. Hell, it’s a demand.
His hand is inside the thong now, the other supporting me at the small of my back, because without that insistent pressure, I will surely collapse. “Does she wonder if I’m easing my hand down, if my finger is skimming lightly over your damp pubic hair? Does she know how hard your clit is, how turned on you are?”
My body shudders in silent answer.
He bends forward, his finger still teasing my clit as his lips brush my ear. “Does she know how wet and ready you are for me? Does she know how much you want to come for me?”
In time with his words, he thrusts his finger inside of me. I cry out and arch back, my body tightening around him. “Is this what she’s imagining?” he asks, his voice as erotic as his touch. “My fingers inside you, playing with you, making you just a little bit crazy?”
I can’t answer. I can barely think past the electrical storm that is building inside me, much less form words. I am lost to his touch, lost to the rising pressure of an inevitable and explosive release. I’m so close, and Damien’s hands upon me—his finger stroking me—feels so good. I want to stay like that, lost in this sensual limbo, and at the same time I want the crescendo. I want to explode in the circle of Damien’s arms.
“Come on, baby,” he demands. “Come for me.”
His mouth closes over mine as his finger slides deeper inside me, the pressure of his thumb upon my clit increasing. It’s as if he’s hit some magic combination, and I feel the hot sparks of my orgasm shooting through me, so wild and violent I wonder if I will spontaneously combust.
Slowly, he withdraws his fingers, and I can’t help but whimper. “Was that what she’s been imagining?” he whispers. “That salesgirl who knows there’s something naughty going on behind this door?”
I shake my head, forcing uncooperative words to my lips. “Not quite,” I say. “She’s imagining your hands on her, not on me.”
“Is she?” His brows lift slightly as if the possibility hadn’t even occurred to him. I can’t help but laugh. Damien knows damn well the effect he has on women. “Well, she can have whatever fantasies she wants.” He pulls me closer and holds me tight. “You’re my reality.”
“And you’re mine,” I say, feeling right then like the luckiest girl on the planet. Damien is safe and this afternoon’s funk seems like nothing more than a bad dream. Most of all, I am in his arms. There may be other shit going on, but all that can wait for later. For right now, I am content.
“Of course, there is one small matter we need to discuss,” Damien says, his voice suddenly stern. I look up, not certain if he’s serious or teasing, but his eyes reveal nothing. He hooks a finger under the elastic and lightly snaps the band of my thong. “I seem to recall a certain agreement that ensured unfettered access whenever and however I wanted.”
I force my expression to remain as bland as his. “Unless I was imagining all that just happened, I think it’s fair to say that these panties don’t fetter in the least.”
I step back, then run the tip of my forefinger lightly over the soft skin between my pubis and my thigh, tracing gently along the edge of that minute triangle of material. I aim my most sultry look at him. “Besides, what’s the point of having rules if you don’t break them on occasion?”
“You make an interesting point.” He looks me up and down, the slow inspection making my body tingle again. Then he moves to the far side of the dressing room and squats down to look at the contents of the canvas shopping basket. His back is to me, but he is at an angle, so I can see his muscular legs straining against the now-tight denim of his jeans. The material curves the cup of his rear, too, and I imagine that I have moved behind him. That I am lowering myself until my lips are pressed to the back of his neck, the short bit of hair that brushes his collar teasing my lips. I close my hands gently and let my fingertips graze my own palms as I imagine my hands cupping his rear, not just to balance myself, but because I am compelled to touch him. And because I want to turn him on.
I swallow, lost in the fantasy, but not yet ready to move to him and make it reality. I am enjoying the anticipation too much, not to mention the decadent pleasure of watching Damien’s body straining against that lucky, lucky denim.
He lifts his hand, a lacy thong dangling from his finger like an enticement. “Interesting,” he says, then repeats the process, pulling out the expensive scraps of silk and satin that constitute underwear and bras in all shapes and sizes. Some barely there. Some that create more cleavage than the law should allow. Some that would have my breasts spilling out over the tops. Some that, if the gleam in Damien’s eye is any indication, are very intriguing indeed.
He stands, a red thong and matching red push-up bra hanging from two extended fingers. “I think perhaps it’s time to amend our deal, Ms. Fairchild. As much as I appreciate the possibilities associated with complete access, there is something to be said for the pleasure of the journey.” He extends his empty hand to me. “Come here,” he says, and I comply obediently.
“I’ll go with you anywhere,” I whisper. “I’ll do anything for you. You know that, right?”
With a violence I’m not expecting, he tugs me to him, capturing me within the circle of his arms. We are tight together, my breasts against his chest, my nipples hard. I feel the press of his erection hot and hard against my very scantily clad body, and that rush of tactile pleasure is accompanied by an even greater one. The pleasure of knowing that I am his and that he is mine.
He tilts his head so that his forehead presses gently against mine, then sighs deeply. “I thought you’d gone.”
I blink, confused, and ease backward, then wait a single heartbeat for him to lift his head and meet my eyes.
“I woke up and you weren’t there,” he says in explanation. “I talked to Charles and he told me you’d come by. That he’d told you about the photos and videos.” He shakes his head and laughs without humor. “I thought you were so disgusted by them that you’d left me.”
I look at him hard. “I wasn’t the one who went away,” I say, my voice level and firm. “You’re the one who left. I stayed.” I swallow and blink back tears. “I stayed because I knew you would come back to me.”