For the rest of the afternoon, we do little more than laze about in bed, our arms touching, our legs crossed over each other. Damien reads various reports that Sylvia emails to his iPad. I flip through magazines, folding down pages with clothes that I like or that I think might look good on Jamie. Sometimes I see an interesting piece of furniture and show the picture to Damien who tells me to mark the page, then promises me we’ll go to the Pacific Design Center soon and try to find some of these pieces for the Malibu house.

“I thought decorating your house was something you did on your own,” I say.

“No. I said everything in the house is special to me. And if we pick something out together, it will be even that much more precious.”

His words are as tender as a caress, and I scoot even closer, leaning in as he hooks his left arm around me and holds his iPad with his right.

“I thought you were taking the day off,” I say.

“Do you have a better suggestion?” he counters, a delicious deviousness in his voice.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

I don’t think that Damien is expecting my suggestion that we make popcorn and more mimosas, then lounge in bed for the rest of the afternoon watching old Thin Man movies, but he takes it in good grace. And I’m surprised to learn that he actually knows the movies as well as I do.

“William Powell is brilliant,” he says, “but I think I have a crush on Myrna Loy.”

“I have a crush on her wardrobe,” I admit. “I could have lived back then. Fitted dresses and flowing evening gowns.”

“Maybe we need to take you shopping.”

“I’d love it,” I say. “But you’ve already filled up a closet for me in Malibu, and the house itself is sitting empty.” I toss him the copy of Elle Decor I’d been skimming earlier. “If we go shopping, it’s for furniture.”

“All right,” he says. “It’s a date.” But neither one of us says when. I know it’s ridiculous to hide in Damien’s apartment; if I wanted to hide, I should have taken him up on the offer to leave the country. I’ve never been to Switzerland, after all. But right now, lounging casually beside Damien, it’s not the horrors of the press that’s keeping me here, it’s the sweet pleasure of the man beside me.

We’ve just finished the first movie and started on After the Thin Man when my cell phone rings. I don’t recognize the number, and I hesitate to answer, but if I ignore calls, then I really am hiding away, and I don’t want to be that girl. “Hello?” I say tentatively.

“Nikki? It’s Lisa. We met in the cafeteria.”

“Oh!” I’m surprised to hear from her. “If you’re looking to do coffee, I’m not in the office today.” I don’t mention that I won’t be in the office ever again.

“I know,” she says. “Listen, I heard what happened, and I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. The press are a bunch of vultures, and it sucks that they’re shitting all over you.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“I dropped into the office to see you, and after I learned what happened, Bruce gave me your number. I just wanted to let you know that my offer for lunch or coffee is still open. Anytime. Just call me.”

“I will,” I say, and I’m not just being polite. I’d thought when I met her that it would be nice to have a few more friends in LA. And I’m happy to know that this one isn’t going to run screaming now that I’m the object of ridicule.

Blaine and Evelyn also call, equally horrified, equally supportive. Blaine tells me he feels guilty—after all, it’s the erotic nature of his art that has the press all hyped up.

“It’s not,” I lie. “It’s all about the money.”

I don’t think he’s appeased, but I promise him that I’m okay, and that Damien and I will come see them both soon.

I hang up, then realize that the only person I care about that I haven’t yet heard from is Ollie. I almost mention that to Damien, but I don’t. As far as he’s concerned, Ollie is at the top of the list of suspects in the leak, and the lack of communication would only fuel that fire.

Then again, considering how brilliant and observant Damien is, I’m quite certain that he’s already noticed that Ollie hasn’t made the effort to check on me.

I don’t think Ollie is the leak, but I can’t deny that my feelings are a little hurt.

“Do you want more popcorn?” Damien asks.

I roll sideways to face him, and just stare, drinking in that gorgeous face and the eyes that see me better than anyone. “Damien,” I say.

“What?”

“Nothing.” I smile. “I just like saying your name.”

“I like hearing it.” He reaches over and strokes my neck above the collar of his shirt.

“Damien,” I say again.

“Yes?”

“Would you mind very much if we skipped the movie? I have something else in mind.”

“Do you?”

I get out of bed and hold out my hand, then put a finger to my lips. “No talking,” I say. “Not until we get back in the bed. Those are my rules. Okay?”

In the spirit of the game, he nods. I grin, take his hand, and pull him to the bathroom.

It’s at least as impressive as the one in Malibu, but I’m not interested in the multi-jet shower or the humongous closet or even the heated towel rack. All I care about is the insanely large tub. I turn it on and let it start to fill. Then I return to Damien and slowly, wordlessly, I begin to undress him.

It’s a delightful process, because I allow myself a kiss with each tiny bit of skin that is exposed. His shoulder. His arm. His pecs. A tongue flicking across his nipple. A long lick above his navel.

And then there are the jeans that come down so slowly, and I brush my lips over his hip. Over those tight, sexy muscles of his lower abs. And his penis, erect and ready for my kiss when I peel down his briefs.

He doesn’t break the rules, but when I close my mouth over the head and taste the salty, musky flavor of him, his fingers clench in my hair, and that is as potent a reaction as him crying my name aloud.

I taste and tease and explore his cock. I stroke and lick his balls. I explore every inch of this man whose body I have come to know so well, and who knows mine with equal intimacy.

And I take immense satisfaction at his hand clutching the glass shower stall, because I know that without that support he would topple over, and that it is me who has brought him there.

I don’t let him come, though, because that’s not part of my game. Not yet. But I continue my exploration of kisses until the tub is full and Damien’s eyes are so heated that I know I will be thoroughly fucked.

The thought makes me smile.

I have added some bubble bath to the water, and now I step in, then hold out a hand to him in invitation. He follows me, and though this is clearly my game and I have been calling the shots, I realize soon enough that Damien has reached his limit. It’s his turn now, and when he grabs me by the waist and pulls me toward him, the violent movement sloshing water out of the tub, I do not protest.

On the contrary, I spread my legs in anticipation, and I’m rewarded when he settles me on his lap. I shift a little, using my body to stroke him, then cry out in surprise when he grabs my hips and settles me firmly and deeply on his cock. He grins, then lifts a finger over his lip. Gloriously wet and incredibly turned on, I lean forward, relishing the pressure of his cock inside me and the sensation of his pubic hair against my clit.