J. Kenner - Take Me

It is that touch in combination with the sensation of being filled by Damien that sends me spiraling off the cliff, then grabbing on to the edge of the desk as Damien thrusts into me, faster and faster until he explodes as well, then collapses onto the carpet, clutching me around the waist and pulling me down with him.

I land on top of him, and he grins. “Again, Ms. Fairchild?”

“I could be convinced,” I say, though I am still breathless.

He lifts himself just high enough to kiss me. “Marry me,” he says, then grins.

“Yeah,” I say happily. “I think I will.”

“All I am saying is that there is a reason that tradition exists,” my mother says as we enter Phillipe Favreau’s Rodeo Drive boutique.

I am regretting not only having her come along today, but also that I answered her questions about my flower choices for the wedding. She has been harping on it ever since I explained that the cupcake tower would be decorated with wildflowers because that was the overall floral theme.

Wildflowers, in the world of Elizabeth Fairchild, are an epic fail where weddings are concerned.

“Orchids, lilies, gardenias. Darling, those are all lovely and elegant and classic.”

“I like what I’ve picked out, Mother.” I glance around the studio. There are only three gowns on mannequins and one very thin woman working behind a tall glass table that doubles as a desk. “Now, would you drop it?” I glance at the woman. “I’m Nikki Fairchild. I have an appointment with Alyssa for an alteration on a gown that arrived this morning.”

“Nikki Fairchild?” she repeats, looking a bit more flummoxed than is usual for store clerks on Rodeo Drive. “The Damien Stark gown?”

I frown. “Um, well, I’m going to be the one wearing it, but Damien ordered it, yes. Why? Is there a problem?”

She smiles an overly perky smile, and little knots of dread form in my stomach. “I’ll just get Alyssa. One moment.”

“Even magnolias,” Mother says.

“Would you stop it?” I am practically snarling, and Mother’s eyes go wide.

“Nichole! You need to learn to control yourself.”

I suck in both a breath and my temper, and refrain from telling her that she needs to learn to shut up. “I’m a little nervous,” I say. “I think there may be something wrong with the dress.”

“Nonsense. I’m sure it’s lovely. Do you have a picture?”

I glance sideways at her, thrown off kilter by the fact that she’s actually being soothing. “Um, sure.” I pull out my phone and call up the photographs we’d taken in Paris, both of Phillipe’s sketch and of the basted-together version that I wore for the initial fitting. Just seeing it makes me smile. It has a fitted bodice with a low neckline that reveals a hint of cleavage. The sleeves are slim and hug my arms. The skirt is not a traditional princess style, but is instead sleek in the front and over my hips, showing off my curves. The back has a modified bustle that supports a train.

The neckline and the hem and the lower line of the bodice are embroidered with tiny flowers accented with pearls, giving the pure white dress a touch of the whimsical. I think it’s an exceptional dress, and I cannot wait for Damien to see me in it.

I glance over at my mother, expecting to see approval in her eyes. I should have known better.

“Well,” she says with a sniff, “I suppose this is to be expected, considering your choice of flowers and cake.”

“I—” I snap my mouth shut. I have no idea what to say. No idea what insult to hurl that will cut her as deeply as she is cutting me, each word like a new wound.

All I want is one tiny crumb from my mother. Approval, compassion, respect. But there is nothing there, and there never has been.

And yet I have been foolish enough to let that flame of hope keep burning. God, I’m an idiot.

I turn away so as to not let her see that my eyes are bright with tears.

“A longer train,” she says. “And a fuller skirt. This is one of the few times you can completely hide those hips, Nichole. You should take advantage of it.”

I cringe, wanting to scream at her that just because I’m no longer a size four does not mean that I have to start wearing caftans. I’m young, I’m healthy, I’m pretty, and if she’s too goddamn stupid to see that—

My wild thoughts are interrupted by the door to the back room bursting open and a tall red-haired woman hurrying in.

“Nikki,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m Alyssa.”

I start to hold my hand out as well, only to discover that I’ve clenched it so tight that I’ve left indentations from my nails in my palms. I flex it, then extend it to her. “Is there a problem?”

“I’m afraid so,” she says. “This is terribly embarrassing, but your dress is missing.”

“Missing,” I repeat stupidly.

“We hope it’s just a clerical error in customs, and we’re doing everything we can.” I halfway tune her out, still stuck on that one word: missing. My dress is missing, and my wedding is Saturday. Tomorrow.

“. . . have been other shops with items missing . . .”

What the hell am I going to do? This is my dress. My wedding dress. I mean, I can’t just run to Target.

“. . . customs or the shipper, but we’re looking into it, and . . .”

And it’s not even just a wedding dress. It’s the dress I bought during my trip to Europe with Damien. It’s the dress we bought during our days and nights in Paris. The dress made by the designer who assured Damien that he would go faint with awe when he saw me in the gown. This is not a dress I can lose, nor is it a dress I can replace, and I can feel the panic, the anger, the futility rising inside me.

One goddamn thing after another, and I can’t even lash out. Because it’s not this poor girl’s fault—hell, she’s mortified, too. But everything is just piling on: the photographer and the music and the flowers. Those goddamned flowers that my mother has been talking about for the last hour.

“Ms. Fairchild?” Alyssa says, her voice ripe with concern. Her fingers brush over my arm, and I use the touch as an anchor to draw me out of my thoughts and back to reality. “Ms. Fairchild, are you okay?”

“She’s fine,” my mother says firmly. “This can only be considered a good thing. It gives her a chance to find a dress that might actually flatter her figure.”

Alyssa’s eyes are wide, and she’s staring at my mother like she’s never met such a creature before. Hell, she probably hasn’t.

“Come on, Nichole. This is Beverly Hills. I’m sure we can find you a gown.”

“Get the hell out of here.” I did not plan the words, but I know the moment that they are out that I mean them with all my heart.

“Excuse me?”

“Texas,” I say. “Go back to Texas, Mother. Go now.”

“Texas! But, Nichole, how—”

“It’s Nikki,” I snap. “How many times do I have to tell you? You don’t listen.”

Beside us, I see Alyssa lick her lips and then fade into the background. At the glass desk, the thin girl seems overly interested in the single piece of paper on the surface.

I really don’t give a shit. Right then, decorum is the last thing on my mind.

“I can’t possibly go to Texas now. I’d miss the wedding.”

“That’s the idea,” I say. “I’ll have Grayson fly you. You’ll need to leave today so that he can be back in plenty of time. He is invited,” I add, my voice syrupy sweet.

“Darling, I’m your mother. You can’t ask me not to be at your wedding.”

I hesitate for just a moment, just long enough to hear Damien’s voice in my head talking about choices and paths and where they lead. And this choice leads to my wedding day. To a day of celebration. Or to a day with my mother harping in my ear. The woman who has, in so many ways, gone out of her way to steal the joy out of so many moments in my life.

“Nichole, don’t do this. I need—” She cuts herself off, her lips clamping tightly shut.

I take a deep breath, suddenly realizing that I’ve been more of an idiot than I thought. My mother didn’t come here because my impending wedding spurred her to repair our relationship. And she didn’t come because she wanted to apologize for the horrible things she said to Damien.

She came because she spent every dime our family had a long time ago, and she sees a new cash cow in me. I don’t know what it is she needs—a new house, a new car, investment capital. I don’t know, and I don’t care. She’s not getting a dime of my money, and she’s sure as hell not getting Damien’s.

“Goodbye, Mother.”

“Nichole, no. You can’t do this.”

“You know what, Mother? I can.” I head for the door, my heart feeling lighter and my step springier. I glance back at her and smile. “And for that matter, why don’t you go ahead and find your own way home?”

“You’re amazing,” Damien says that night when I tell him what I did. “You once told me that you didn’t have the balls to stand up to your mother.” We’re in the swimming-pool-size bathtub, facing each other, our legs touching.

“I still don’t have balls,” I say with a laugh.

“Sure you do.” He reaches for my hand and tugs me toward him, then very deliberately cups my hand over his package. “These are all yours.”

“Damn straight,” I say, then capture his mouth in a kiss.

His arms go around me and he pulls me close, until I have no choice but to straddle him if I want to sit in any sort of comfortable position.

Not that straddling Damien is a hardship, especially when his erection is rubbing against my folds in a way that is very effectively taking my mind off the day’s drama.

“I’m proud of you,” he says, trapping me in the circle of his arms.

“I’m proud of me, too,” I say. “I took control of the situation. I decided what I wanted for this wedding, and I did what had to be done.” I kiss him. “I think I’m going to make a habit of going after the things I want.”

“Haven’t you always?”

I press a finger over his lips. “That’s not the point.”

“What is?” he asks.

“This,” I say, reaching between us to cup my hand around his erection. Slowly, I stroke the length of him. “Taking control can be very rewarding,” I say.

“Oh, yes.” His voice sounds raw.

“Something wrong, Mr. Stark?” I ask innocently. “You seem distracted.”

“On the contrary,” he says. “I’m very focused. Very aware.”

“Are you?” I increase the pressure on his cock, then tease the tip with my thumb.

He sucks in air, and I see the shudder cut through him and the heat in his eyes.

He looks at me, and I smile, slow and easy and with all sorts of promise.

“Kiss me,” he says. “Ride me.”

Now it’s my turn to shudder in anticipation. I rise up, capturing his mouth in a kiss that is hot and deep and demanding. His tongue wars with mine, thrusting and teasing. I lower myself onto his cock and ride him, lifting myself up and down in a frantic rhythm that sends water sloshing around the tub.

Over and over, deeper and deeper, until I have no choice but to break the kiss, because I have to arch back simply from the weight of the pleasure that is shooting through me.

When I do, his mouth closes over my breast, and his teeth nip at me, the pain sending hot wires of pleasure down through my body to my cunt, to that deep place inside me that he’s touching, thrusting against with every stroke, building a delicious pressure that grows and grows until finally we explode together, sending water flying out of the tub and me collapsing back against Damien’s chest in utter satisfaction and release.

We stay that way until we fear that we will shrivel in the tub, then Damien lifts me out, dries me off, and carries me to the bed, tucking me gently under the cool sheets.

“You haven’t told me what you’re doing about your dress,” Damien says moments later as we twine together in the bed, half drifting off to sleep.

“I went back inside after Mother left,” I tell him. “It’s not perfect, but they had a dress that was my size in the back.”

“Do you like it?”

I shrug. The truth is that it’s a lovely dress that any bride would be thrilled with. But it’s not my dress, and what girl is happy with sloppy seconds?

“I’m sorry, baby,” he says, kissing my bare shoulder.

“It’s okay, really. I promise you’ll think I’m stunning.”

“I always do.”

I smile, and I’m still smiling as I start to drift off. I’m just about to slide into the sweet oblivion of sleep when I remember one other thing. “You still awake? I have a brilliant idea.”