I go to his side, determined to get through to him. “Damien, I’m okay. I don’t know what all of that was about, but I do know that you were upset. You came to me. I wanted you to come to me.”

“I used you.”

“Yes.” I want to scream the word. “And I don’t care. God, Damien, you’re not some stranger off the street. You’re the man I—” But I can’t go there. “You’re the man who’s heard all of my secrets. Who’s been in my bed and in my head. That’s what makes it different. Don’t you see that? You can have me however you need me. You can tell me your secrets and it won’t change a thing.”

He looks at me. “Won’t it? I wonder.”

His voice is far away, but seems to hold a challenge. I stand there, unsure of what to say.

“I’m going to call Edward to take you home,” he finally says.

I find my voice. “No.”

“Dammit, Nikki.”

“I said no.” I move closer to him. “You didn’t hurt me.” I rise onto my tiptoes so I can whisper in his ear. “I was wet for you, and you damn well know it. So there’s no way you can say that you forced me.” I hold his arm with one hand to steady myself, but with the other I slowly trace my way over his chest and lower abs until my finger finds the waistband of his briefs.

“No,” he says, but I can hear the quickening of his heartbeat, the tightening of his body in anticipation.

“No doesn’t always mean no,” I say. I ease myself down onto my knees, thankful for the gym mat below me. His cock is straining against the briefs. I find the fly, then tug it out.

“Nikki …”

“I’m going to take care of you.” I run my tongue down the length of his cock, so hard and velvety. I taste salt. I taste me. And I want to take him all the way in. “Sunset,” I say. “It can be your safeword, too.”

Before he can say it, though, I rim the head of his cock with my tongue, teasing it as if it were a very large, very decadent lollipop. He gets harder and harder, and when I’m certain that I’ve brought him close to the breaking point, I draw him in, stroking and sucking and getting myself even hotter in the process.

I can feel the change in his body and I know that he’s close, but then he shifts position, pulling out of my mouth and then drawing me up until I’m pressed hard against him. He kisses me, this time softly and sweetly, then eases us both down to the mat.

I open my mouth to speak, but he presses a finger to my lips. “Shhh. No talking.”

He unties my robe and leaves it open, laid out beneath us as he climbs on top of me. I spread my legs and draw my knees up, and then close my eyes in pleasure as he thrusts inside me.

He moves in a slow rhythm, the complete opposite of the way he fucked me upstairs. This is making love, and his eyes never leave mine. He takes my hand and slides it between our bodies, and his silent command is easy enough to understand. I’m so aroused my body tingles all over, but I stroke my clit, getting hotter and hotter, my rhythm matching his thrusts until, finally, he explodes, and I do, too, just moments after.

Spent, he lays beside me, sharing the silkiness of my robe.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, his fingers tracing a lazy path on my shoulder. “And I’m so angry.”

“At me?”

“No. At me.”

“But why? I thought we already established that what happened upstairs was okay.”

He looks at me, his eyes hot with need. “Because now that I have you, I can’t stand the thought of ever losing you.”

27

Despite the drama, the evening takes a right turn toward normal. Blaine comes and I pose and he paints and Damien sits quietly in a chair and watches for four solid hours. After that we sit and drink wine and watch the moon on the ocean. Damien offers to let Blaine crash on the mat in the gym, and so we repeat the entire thing bright and early the next morning, finally wrapping at nine when Damien heads out for his office.

When I get home around ten, I find Jamie’s note that she’s gone to an audition. I cross my fingers for her and settle in for a lazy morning. Damien’s in meetings until lunchtime, and though I’d rather be snuggled in his bed, I’m also happy to veg with the television, the newspaper, and Lady Meow-Meow.

I make a pot of coffee, tune the television to a classic movie station, and debate whether or not I should do a load of laundry today.

My Man Godfrey is just about to start, and since that’s one of my favorite screwball comedies, I decide that laundry can wait.

The opening credits are still rolling when the phone rings. I see that it’s Ollie and snatch it up.

“Can you do lunch?” he asks. “Early, because I have a one o’clock meeting. Like maybe eleven? You could come here? I’ll have my secretary order us sandwiches.”

“Um, sure. Why the sudden urge?”

“I just want to see you. Does there have to be a reason?”

There doesn’t have to be, but of course I know there is. And I’m afraid it’s about Courtney. Or worse—about Jamie. I assure him that I’ll be there, then set the DVR to record the movie. No time to watch the whole thing now.

When I arrive in Ollie’s office just shy of an hour later, the receptionist is expecting me. She leads me to a conference room where Ollie has spread out sodas and Subway sandwiches. Not exactly high class, but it’ll do.

He’s not there yet, so I sip my Diet Coke and open my bag of chips, all the while reminding myself that I need to be supportive. Lecturing him about how he screwed up won’t do anyone any good at this point.

“Hey,” he says, pushing into the conference room with a stack of files.

“Please tell me those aren’t for me.”

For a moment he looks confused, then his face clears. “No, no. These are for my meeting. Sorry. It’s been a crazy couple of days.”

“So what’s going on?” I ask. It must be serious if he’s interrupting work insanity to bring me here.

He presses a button on the credenza and the vertical blinds that hang in front of the two picture windows that make up the open sides of the conference room begin to close. A moment later, we have complete privacy.

“You’re not going to like it,” he says.

I lean back in my chair, already irritated. “Shit, Ollie. Is this about Damien again? Can you please quit playing the role of big brother? I’m all grown up. I can take care of myself.”

He doesn’t flinch or react. As far as I can tell, he hasn’t even heard me. “Do you remember Kurt Claymore?”

I swallow. The infamous Kurt. Of all the things he might say, this really wasn’t on my radar.

“Yeah,” I say blandly. “I have a vague recollection.”

“He’s been working the past five years as a manager at a Houston-based manufacturing company.”

“So?”

“So your friend Damien had him fired this morning.”

“What?” I realize my fingernails are digging into the armrest of his guest chair. “You can’t be sure.”

“Yeah,” Ollie says. “I can. I said I never worked for Stark directly, but I do the work for Maynard. I’m the one who hired the investigator to find Kurt. I’m sorry, Nik.”