I lower my head to hide my grin as Damien assures her we will.
“How about you, Frank?” he asks. “Where are you staying?”
“The Beverly Terrace,” he says. “It’s on Doheny. Is that out of your way?”
“Not at all,” Damien says. In fact, Frank’s hotel is only about ten minutes from the Stark Century Hotel, the newly acquired and remodeled hotel where Dallas is staying.
Traffic is light, and it doesn’t take long to get from Santa Monica to Century City, which is a good thing, because Francesca seems so thrilled by the possibility of press coverage of her cat fight that she clearly can’t wait to get Dallas into bed. And while I’m actually a fan of limo sex, I’m really only partial to it if I’m a participant and not a spectator. And only if Damien is the only other participant with me.
It’s a relief when the limo pulls into the circular drive and the valet opens the door.
“Thanks for the lift,” Dallas says, then grins. “You saved my ass. Or Francesca’s, anyway.”
She rolls her eyes. “I could have totally taken the bitch.”
“Come on, baby,” Dallas says, and helps her out of the limo. As the door closes behind them and Edward pulls out again, I glance at Damien, amused.
Just a few minutes later, we’re at Frank’s hotel in West Hollywood.
“I’ll say thanks, too,” he says. “For the evening and the, um, entertainment. I haven’t seen that much excitement since I photographed the running of the bulls in Pamplona.”
I laugh, then make Frank promise to call me tomorrow after he sees the studio; I want to know what he thinks.
And then, finally, I’m alone with Damien, and it feels as though the weight of the world has just lifted from my shoulders.
“Wow,” I say. “That was crazy town even by our standards. How do you think he stands it?”
“I think Dallas embraces the philosophy that there’s no such thing as too much publicity. Or bad publicity for that matter.”
I shudder. That is so not my philosophy
“Come here.” From the heat in his voice, I know exactly what he wants. Hell, I want it, too. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to play a little first.
“Here?” I ask innocently. “I’m already sitting right next to you.”
“So you are.” As he speaks, he runs his hand up my leg. I’m wearing a silk dress that skims my legs just above the knees, and I close my eyes and lose myself in the sensation of soft silk and his gentle hands stroking my skin as he slowly edges the skirt higher and higher.
Lightly, he grazes his fingertip over the scars that mar my inner thighs. Once upon a time, I would have clamped my legs shut or run screaming from any man who got close to my secrets. Who caught even the slightest glimpse into my pain.
But Damien’s not just any man, and it’s not regret or fear or hesitation I’m feeling now. It’s desire, pure and simple. And not just sexual desire. No, I long for him. For the core of the man—a man who knows me as well as I know myself, and loves all of me, both my strengths and my weaknesses. A man who cherishes and protects me. Who understands me. And who I know without a shadow of a doubt will always stand beside me.
“Damien,” I murmur, both wanting and needing his touch.
“I know, baby.” He’s breathing hard, too, and when I open my eyes and glance over, I can see his erection straining against his trousers. I move my hand, intending to stroke him, but he shakes his head. “No,” he whispers. “Just this.”
We’re sitting close together, but our hips are barely touching. The only real contact is his fingertip on my skin, and it is as if I only exist right there in the spot he’s stroking. All my pleasure, all my desire, all my need is contained in that tiny patch of skin, and it’s too much. Too intense. Too incredible.
Slowly, he draws closer to the juncture of my thighs—closer to my core—and I know that when he finally touches my clit I won’t be able to hold back. I’m going to explode, to shatter, to lose myself completely.
I’m gasping now, trying to draw in breath as my body burns with need beneath his finger. As he strokes lightly along the edge of my panties, then slips under, just a little.
I bite my lip, determined not to beg for more no matter how much I want to. And he’s close—so close—and any second now he’s going to stroke my clit.
Any moment I’m going to explode. I’m going to—
What the fuck?
A sharp knock on the limo’s window startles both Damien and me, and he pulls his hand back as I reflexively yank my skirt down.
Damien catches my eye for a millisecond before jamming his hand onto the intercom button. “Edward, what the hell is going on?”
There’s no response, and Damien curses. Then curses again when he realizes that the volume is turned all the way down. “Say again?”
“I said, we’ve arrived, Mr. Stark.”
“Arrived?” He glances out the window, and I follow his gaze. We’re back at the Stark Century Hotel.
I meet Damien’s eyes and shrug with confusion.
I can tell he’s about to demand an explanation when Edward says, “Shall I open the door for Mr. Sykes?”
It clearly takes a supreme effort for Damien to maintain control, but he does. “No. I’ll open it.” He shuts down the intercom, then looks at me. “He must have told us he was turning around, and neither one of us heard the intercom beep.”
“My head was elsewhere,” I admit, then scowl. “Dallas owes me. Big-time.”