“Least of all you?” I tease.

His eyes darken, and he steps closer, the movement adding slack to the cord and making it drop away from my body. My disappointment at the loss of contact is short lived, however. Damien is right there, only inches from me, and the air between us seems to hum. Every tiny hair on my body stands up, as if I’m standing in a lightning storm with danger crackling all around me. I gasp when his thumb gently strokes the line of my jaw. My lips part. I want to feel his thumb on my lips, in my mouth. I want to taste Damien. I want to consume him as the fire from his proximity is consuming me.

“There is nothing about you that I could ever forget,” he says. “You are burned into my memory. Your hair glittering in candlelight. Your skin, dewy and soft, as you step out of the shower. The way you move beneath me when we make love. And the way you look at me, as if there is nothing you could see inside me that would make you want to turn away.”

“There’s not,” I say softly.

Damien says nothing, but keeps his eyes fixed on me. He eases closer, so that my nipples barely brush the soft cotton of his T-shirt. The shock from the contact is electric, and I swallow a gasp. I am tingling all over, and as he gently strokes his fingertips down my bare arm, all I can think is that I want to press against him. I want Damien inside me. Rough, gentle, I don’t care. I just need him, right then, right there.

“How?” I say, barely able to force the question past the lump in my throat.

“How what?”

“How can you make love to me with only the whisper of a touch?”

“I’m a very resourceful man. I thought you knew.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and I see the hint of a sparkle in his eyes. “Perhaps I should offer you a more imaginative demonstration?”

“Imaginative?” I repeat. My mouth is dry.

“I’m going to make you come, darling Nikki. Without the touch of my hands, without the caress of my body. But I’ll be watching. I’ll see the way your lips part, the way your skin flushes. I’ll watch as you try to control yourself. And I’ll tell you a secret, Nikki. I’m going to be fighting for control, too.”

I realize that I have taken a step back as he has spoken, and I’m now leaning against the bureau that divides the his and hers hemispheres of this massive closet. It’s a good thing, because without that stalwart support, I doubt my trembling legs could keep me upright.

“What are you going to do?” I don’t understand why he says that I’m going to try to control myself. I’ve learned many things during my time with this man, and one thing I know is that with Damien, I am free to go utterly wild. Why then, would I want to rein that in? Why would he expect me to?

He doesn’t answer my question, and I find myself biting my lower lip and examining him through narrowed eyes as I try to discern some clue as to his intentions. He steps away from me, and though I am sure that it is only my imagination, the air seems to chill with the increasing distance. The cord that had dropped to the ground now rises. Damien pauses about a foot away from me, but he continues to tug at the cord, taking up the slack so that it lifts between my legs. He moves slowly, but soon I can feel it again. I am so aroused that I gasp from the contact, my body trembling in what is almost, but not quite, an orgasm.

My eyes find Damien’s, and I see his victorious grin. “Don’t worry, Ms. Fairchild,” he says. “I promise there’s more where that came from.”

He steps toward me, still taking up the slack so that the cord never breaks contact with my body. Each movement makes the smooth braid of silk shift slightly, and I close my eyes, concentrating on not biting my lip and on not grinding my hips. I don’t know what kind of game Damien is playing, but I do know that I want it to last.

His fingers brush my neck and my eyes fly open. I tilt my head to look up at him, but he doesn’t meet my eyes. He is focused on his task.

He is focused on tying the cord around my neck.

I swallow, my emotions a storm inside me. There’s excitement, yes, but it’s mingled with fear. Of what, I’m not sure. I’m not afraid of Damien. I could never be afraid of Damien. But dear God, why is he leashing me? And how tight will he make that cord?

“Damien,” I say, surprised that my words sound normal. “What are you doing?”

“What I want,” he replies, and though the words do not answer my question, a swell of relief washes over me, followed by delicious anticipation.

This is how it began for us, with those three simple words. And so help me, I don’t ever want it to end.

2

Damien ties off the end of the cord so that it essentially forms a choker with a very long tail. That tail extends down between my breasts, over my sex, and then back up to where my hands are still bound behind me by the other end of that very same cord. I shift a little. I am antsy and turned on and, yes, a little bit uncomfortable.

Slowly, he looks me up and down. “I’m tempted to commission another painting, Ms. Fairchild. I think I’d like to have you like this all the time.”

I smirk. “Are we negotiating, Mr. Stark? I don’t come cheap, but for someone of your discriminating taste, I’m quite certain that we could come to terms.”

He laughs, and I have to bite my lip not to join in. “There is very little that I’d like more than to negotiate with you. But I’m afraid we’re running out of time.”

“Time?”

“Places to go,” he says. “People to see.”

Oh. Suddenly his comment that I will be fighting to keep control makes a lot more sense.

I glance down at my very bare, very bound body. “I don’t think I’m dressed for company.”

“It’s just as well that the traditional morals of our society don’t allow me to take you out like this. I’m a very selfish man, and I have no interest in sharing you with the world.”

“Believe me,” I say, with a wry twist to my mouth, “I have no interest in being shared.” My mind turns to the portrait, in which I am bound so similarly to how I am now. A larger-than-life painting that will hang in a room meant for entertaining. In that way, I suppose Damien has already shared me, and I have agreed to be shared. But I am anonymous in the painting. That had been a key term of our deal.

“I’m exceptionally glad to hear that, Ms. Fairchild. Especially since, as you reminded me, you are my exclusive property until midnight. Completely mine to do with as I wish. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes.”

“To touch, to tease, to tempt.”

My body tightens at his words, but I manage to nod.

“To punish and to praise.”

“Damien—” My voice is raw, and he silences me with a gentle finger to my lips. Then slowly circles me.

“To clothe, to feed. Mine, Nikki,” he says, his breath stroking the back of my neck as intimately as a hand upon my sex. “Mine to protect, mine to cherish.” He has finished the circle and is facing me now. “Mine to rule. Tell me, Nikki. Tell me what I want to hear.”

“I’m yours,” I whisper. I am craving his touch, my body so hyperaware that I feel drugged, done in by the sweet narcotic that is Damien.

“Good girl.” His words are low, barely audible. Slowly, he moves behind me again. I turn my head, trying to see him, but I don’t know what he’s doing until I feel him loosening the knots that bind my wrists.