And I am just as wild as Damien.
I yank my skirt up, and he never once breaks our kiss. As his fingers thrust deep inside me, his mouth bruises mine and his other hand closes tight on my breast. So tight that it is not just trails of pleasure that shoot from my breast all the way down to my clit, but pain, white-hot and familiar.
Damn me, I want more. I want it hard. I want to spin off into an away place—and I want Damien as the tether to bring me back.
Damien, I know, needs that, too. He needs to dominate, to regain control.
And I need—god help me—I need the pain to get centered.
“Yes,” I say, and that one word is like a trigger. I feel his muscles tense, his body tighten, both with need and with trepidation.
“Nikki.” He backs off, the increased distance almost imperceptible, but to me it is a dangerous gulf.
I pull him back. “Yes,” I repeat. “You need it. And so do I.” I meet his eyes, knowing that he understands the depth of my craving. The extent of my need. Knowing also that I understand that he needs this just as much as I do. “You’re the only one who can take me there.”
“And the only way you will ever go there.” His voice is harsh and firm, but he is right. I will never turn to the blade again. I don’t need it. I have Damien.
I do not respond; I don’t have to. Whatever fears he had about my need have been either soothed or overwhelmed by his own desire. By his need to lash out and grasp firm to the strands of our life that have been whipped into a frenzy, spinning wildly out of control.
I am those threads, and by claiming me, he can take back that control. And I—I can find the center that I crave, lost in the storm that is Damien.
My dress buttons up the front and I hadn’t bothered to replace the belt when we’d dressed at the club. Without warning, Damien clutches the material and rips the dress open. I gasp as buttons fly, then suck in air as he turns me around, then pulls the garment free, tossing it negligently aside before turning me around again and thrusting two fingers roughly inside me.
I arch my back, my mouth open in a moan, and I grind down on his hand, wanting him to fill me.
He withdraws, pinching my clit and sending shocks of pain colored as pleasure racing through me.
I gasp, overwhelmed by this new sensation, then cry out in surprise when he lifts me up and carries me to the sofa, bending me over the back. I start to put my arms down to balance, but he is having none of that. “Behind your back,” he says, and I use my right hand to clasp the wrist of my left. It is uncomfortable; I feel unbalanced. But I know that is how he wants me to feel. Unbalanced, shaky, off-center. Because if I am not, how can he make me whole again? He stands behind me, and I hear the metallic glide of his zipper as he strips, then feel the warm press of his hand on my ass, stroking, exploring, teasing. He slides it down slowly, sensually, then finds my core, so wet and ready for him.
“Is this what you want?” he whispers. “Do you want my fingers inside you? Stretching you, playing with you? Do you want me to fuck you, Nikki? Do you want me to take us both over the edge?”
I do—but that is not all that I want, and Damien knows it. I say nothing.
“Tell me,” he says, bending over me so that I feel the warmth of his skin over my rear and over my arms as his weight presses them down into my back. I could stay like that forever, warm and enveloped within him. But he asks the question again, his lips now brushing my ear so that his voice makes me shiver. “Tell me, Nikki. Tell me what you need.”