J. Kenner - Take Me

Jamie lets out a laugh as a guy in nothing but a thong and a cowboy hat gets up close and personal in her face. I’m sitting right beside her and am listing toward the left—away from him—but Jamie is eating it up, gleefully tucking ones and fives into the elastic band of his thong. Elastic that, from the stretched out look of it, is going to snap at any moment.

Which probably wouldn’t bother Jamie at all.

But even though the guy’s not bad-looking, the only naked man I’m interested in anymore is Damien. And this guy is no Damien.

Jamie pulls out a fifty, and I roll my eyes, thinking that I’m about to witness a new level of hip-gyrating entertainment. That’s when Jamie hooks her thumb toward me, nods, and very deliberately sticks the fifty right over the guy’s package.

“Jamie!” I squeal, but I’m laughing now, because she’s laughing and so are Lisa and Evelyn and Sylvia. I try to squirm away, but Jamie holds me in place, grinning wickedly.

Beside me, Evelyn takes a shot of straight Scotch. “Honey, you know I love your boy—and I am quite fond of my own man’s attributes, too—but you need to relax and appreciate this from an artistic perspective.” As if in illustration, she leans back, takes another drink, attaches her eyes firmly on the cowboy, and sighs.

Evelyn Dodge is brassy, opinionated, and often inappropriate. She says what she thinks, takes no shit off anyone, and has conquered Hollywood and then some. A former-actress-turned-agent-turned-patron-of-the-arts, Evelyn has been friends with Damien since his early days on the tennis circuit. She’s known his secrets for longer than I have, and she loves him as much as I do. Damien lost his mom when he was just a kid, and I’ve always been grateful that Evelyn was in his life. Now I’m grateful that she’s in mine.

But this isn’t the time to be sappy, and I flash her the kind of smile that would make my mother proud. “Evelyn,” I say sweetly, “you are so full of shit.”

“It’s the years in Hollywood, Texas.” She cocks her head at Jamie. “At least this one already has the mouth for it.”

“Fuck, yeah,” Jamie says. Then she waves another bill and points at me. “Come on, John Wayne,” she says. “Don’t stop now.”

The dancer obviously knows which of us is shoving bills down his pants, because he does as she says, gyrating closer and closer, and I’m squirming out of reach and laughing so hard that I almost pee my pants.

And all the while I’m wearing a fake diamond tiara that says Virgin Bride in equally fake red gemstones.

“It’s no use,” Jamie finally announces, then waves the dancer away, but not before giving him one more fifty. “She only has eyes for Damien.”

“Can you blame her?” Sylvia says. I turn to her, eyebrows raised. Sylvia is Damien’s assistant, and we’ve spent so much time together as I’ve planned the wedding that we’ve become pretty good friends. “What?” she says, holding her hands up in a sign of innocence. “Just because I work for him doesn’t mean I’m blind to him.”

“What happens in Raven stays in Raven,” Jamie says wisely, then points a finger at me. “And don’t even pretend to be jealous of her. You’d have to be jealous of the whole world, because every straight female out there thinks he’s the most fuckalicious thing on two legs. Besides, you know Damien’s only got eyes for you.”

“I do,” I say happily. At the moment, I’m very happy. It may not even be five yet, but I’ve had a Happy Hour buzz going for the last couple of hours, and have imbibed more than my fair share of Manhattans, because Jamie says that the little cherry garnish is appropriate for a bachelorette party, even though my cherry was popped long ago.

My best friend has a way with words.

The waiter comes with another round of drinks, but before I can snag a fresh Manhattan, Lisa snatches it off the tray. “I think it’s about time we get you home to Damien,” she says. “You’re getting glassy-eyed.”

I squint at her. “No way.”

She laughs. “He will be so mad at all of us if we send you back tonight only to pass out. Especially since you’re going home with a goodie bag.”

“I am?” I’m beginning to think that Lisa’s right and I’m a little wasted, because even if she’s talking in euphemisms, I have no idea what she means by a goodie bag.

“Instead of each of us buying you a present, we went in together and got you a Bag O’ Fun from Come Again,” Jamie explains, referencing a local sex toy shop.

“You didn’t,” I say, not sure if I should be amused or mortified. “What’s in it?”

“You’re just going to have to wait and see,” Jamie says, while the rest of them grin.

“I promise it’s good,” Lisa says. “I may have to recreate a bag for Preston and me.” Lisa is a business consultant who has done some work with me, and her fiancé, Preston, is one of the top executives at Stark Applied Technology.

“You’re supposed to save it for your wedding night,” Sylvia adds.

“But we won’t think less of you if you dig in tonight,” Jamie says. She shares a mischievous grin with Evelyn. “She’s going home to Damien, after all, so how could we blame her?”

The limo parked outside of Raven is one of Damien’s insane stretch numbers that the company keeps primarily for impressing competitors and rewarding employees. Since this isn’t the greatest neighborhood in the world, a crowd of gawkers have gathered. I think some of them are drooling. A few must recognize me, because about ten feet from the car I start to hear my name called out. I see phones being thrust into the air, and a flurry of shouts and camera flashes surround me.

I walk faster, flanked by my friends.

I’m surprised that Edward isn’t on the sidewalk holding the door open for me, but it doesn’t matter, because Jamie and Evelyn have taken the lead, and they bundle me into the limo, tell me that they hope I had a great time with them and that I have an even greater one with Damien—wink, wink—and then slam the door, effectively blocking the paparazzi and tourists who are determined to get in my face.

I lean back against the soft leather and take deep breaths. Dealing with the paparazzi is part and parcel of dating and marrying a multi-bazillionaire who owns half the world, and I know that. But once the press got hold of the fact that Damien had paid me a million dollars to pose for a nude portrait—and once Damien was indicted for murder—the press went a little nuts. Now it’s a good day if we go out in public with only a small swarm.

I’ve learned to live with it, but I don’t like it. It makes me tense and uncomfortable, and if there was a way to avoid it, I would.

What I hate the most is that I know they will be out in full force for the wedding. Although all of the Stark International security force will be at the house to make sure we don’t have party crashers on the perimeter, the beach itself is public—and I’m certain that it will be crowded with paparazzi with long lenses and lots of determination.

Since I can’t do anything about that except move the wedding inside or to another location altogether, neither of which are options that appeal to me, I have come to terms with the fact that I’m going to have to simply deal with the paparazzi and all the pictures that will surface afterward.

Yay.

That realization was one of the reasons we fired the photographer that we’d hired to do our wedding day portraits. I really didn’t need one more underhanded person trying to snap a picture of someone who is having just a little bit too good a time at the champagne fountain after the wedding.

I frown, remembering that I still have to find a photographer, and it’s already Thursday and the wedding is Saturday. Shit. If it weren’t my own wedding, I could take the pictures myself. For that matter, I suppose I could take my Leica to the ceremony . . .

I shake off the ridiculous thought. Honestly, the black camera strap would totally clash with my dress.

Still, I should use this time in the limo to be productive. Maybe call some of the folks on my initial list of maybes and see if they’re booked for the day. But my head is too light from my Manhattan indulgence, and all I want to do is sit back, enjoy the ride, and think about seeing Damien again in just a few minutes.

The fact that I tossed my phone across the bedroom and broke it also puts a crimp in my plan to manage a little work.

Frustrated at being without Damien, and irritated about my own foolish temper, I glance out the window and frown, because this isn’t the way that we usually go home. I am about to hit the button for the intercom when a phone rings, which is odd because there is no permanent phone in the back of the limo, and, as I have just reminded myself, my iPhone is toast.

The ring comes again.

I lean forward, cock my head, and decide the sound is coming from the bar. I get off the leather bench and move carefully in that direction. Another ring, and I narrow the source down to the ice bucket. I pull off the lid, glance down, and find a phone in the otherwise empty container.

With a grin, I answer the call. “Hello?”

“Ms. Fairchild,” he says—his voice is low and enticing and flows over me like warm chocolate.

“Mr. Stark,” I say, unable to hide my amusement. “Funny you were able to call me, since I have no phone.”

“I told you—I will always take care of your needs.”

I smile, feeling warm and satisfied. “Where are you?”

“I’m not with you,” he says. “Other than that, does it matter?”

My mouth curves into a smile. “No, but you’re wrong. You are with me. You’re always with me.”

There is a pause before he answers. “Yes,” he finally says, and I don’t think I have ever heard that simple word spoken with so much meaning and complexity before.

I sigh with satisfaction, then close my eyes. He may not be beside me, but for the moment, I am content.

“We’ve done this before,” he says. “You, alone in the back of my limo. Me, somewhere else, thinking of you. Imagining you. Wanting you.”

I swallow, my body already tightening in anticipation of where these words are going. Because we have done this before—and the caress of his voice upon me that night is one of my most treasured memories.

“Tell me what you did,” he says.

“That night in the limo?” I ask, though I know that is not what he means.

“Tonight. At Raven.”

“I watched the dancers.”

“What did they do?” His voice has a hard edge, and I shiver a little, remembering his promise to punish me.

“They danced,” I say. And then, because I’m feeling reckless, I add, “They stripped down to thongs. They were slick with oil. They got close.”

“How close?”

I think of the way the cowboy was gyrating right in front of my face. I remember the way that Jamie laughed and Lisa and Evelyn egged him on. “Pretty close,” I whisper.

“I see.”

There is a pause, and I squirm on the seat. My legs feel prickly, my sex clenches greedily. I’m thinking of Damien’s promise to punish me, and I yearn to be home. To feel his hands upon me.

“Did it turn you on?” he asks, with that low, dangerous tone.

I almost lie, but I can’t do that. “Yes,” I whisper. “But only because it made me think of you. Your body hard and naked in front of me. Your chest close to me. That thin strip of hair that leads down to your cock, so near I could lick it. And those amazing muscles that form a V as if arrowing down to heaven.”

“Christ, Nikki.”

I smile, pleased I can bring that ragged tone to his voice.

“Mostly, though, it turned me on because I was watching other men. Because they were nearly naked, and I knew that when I got home to you—” I cut myself off, my bravado suddenly evaporating.

“What?” he asks. “What will happen when you get home?”

“You said you’d punish me,” I say, so softly I’m not sure that he can hear me.

“Did I?” There is a note of triumph in his voice, and it makes me weak. “How should I punish you?”

I lick my lips. “You should probably spank me.”

“I probably should,” he agrees. “Would you like that?”

“Yes.” My voice is nothing more than a whisper of air.

“Why?”

I close my eyes. It’s a question that I expect whenever I ask for the pain, and I know that after my dreams he will be even more careful with me. I love that he understands me so well, but it means that I have to say aloud what I want from him, and that voicing of my desires is both awkward and undeniably exciting.