And I’m so close—so incredibly close—and I can tell that he is as well. And when he tugs on the chain—when he orders me to “come with me, baby, come with me now”—it’s as if everything inside me goes supernova and I explode into a billion pieces, and the only thing that saves me from flying off into space and getting lost forever is the feel of Damien’s arms around me. Tight and warm and safe and so full of love.
We are both breathing hard when he goes to the bathroom and returns with a damp washcloth and a towel with which to clean us up. I have to smile at him, still in his suit, his tie still knotted, his waistcoat still buttoned. “So very corporate, Mr. Stark.” I ease up and press my body hard against him. I’ve taken off the nipple clamps, and my sensitive breasts tingle from the friction against his suit. “I like it,” I add, then tilt my head back for a kiss.
“And I like my welcome home,” he says as he pulls me down onto the couch with him. He stretches out and I snuggle against him, feeling warm and safe and loved and used.
“You’re welcome,” I murmur. “But don’t get any ideas about going away more often just to get an enthusiastic greeting when you return.”
I feel more than hear his soft chuckle. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. And as I’m closing my eyes and starting to drift, his next words echo all through me. “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Stark. As far as presents go, you’re the best one ever.”
Chapter 2
It seems as though I’ve barely drifted off when I wake to the smell of frying bacon.
At some point in the night we’d moved to the bed, and now I toss the sheet aside so that I can sit up and then pad to the closet. I grab a silk robe—one of the many that Damien is always buying for me, and definitely nicer on the skin than the ugly robe I’d worn last night just to yank Damien’s chain. I slip it on as I walk barefoot toward the kitchen.
Unlike LA, the temperature in the mountains is actually cool. There’s no snow—not this early in the season, anyway—but there’s an early morning chill in the air and frost on the windows. It’s probably only going to break forty degrees today, and I can’t help but be delighted by how the radiant heat that comes up through the floor tiles warms my feet.
At nine thousand square feet, the house is huge, but much of that space is taken up by a recreation room, an indoor swimming pool, and a gym. The main great room is really quite cozy, and the huge, open kitchen is adjacent to both the great room and the two wide hallways that lead to the master suite and the guest rooms.
The hallway is where I emerge now, and the moment I do, I see him, and my heart leaps in my chest.
He is standing at the stove, his back to me. He has pulled on a pair of gray athletic pants, and they sit low on his hips, clinging to the tight, firm curves of what is a truly exceptional ass. Damien doesn’t play professional tennis anymore, but you couldn’t tell by looking at him. He still works out, and his back is smooth and strong, his movements graceful. I could stand and watch him forever, mesmerized by the steady rhythm as he moves from flipping bacon on the griddle, to stirring the scrambled eggs, to pulling the bread out when it pops from the toaster.
When he’s satisfied that it’s all done—and when I’m practically salivating from the delicious smell—he puts everything on a large tray upon which already sits a single rose in a glass vase. Then he turns toward the hallway.
As he does, he sees me, and I want nothing more than to freeze this moment and hold it next to my heart forever. Because the love and passion that I see is so pure, so warm, so real that it has the power to both bring me to my knees and lift me up.
“Well, good morning,” he says. “I’d planned on breakfast in bed, but it looks like my plans have been foiled.”
“How about breakfast at the table and then a shared shower?” To be honest, at the moment, I could go straight for the shower. I’d awakened hungry from the smell of bacon. But now, seeing Damien—his body hard and lean and his erection bulging against the gray sweats—I realize that even though it hasn’t been that many hours since he was inside me, I’m no longer hungry for food.
“My wife is brilliant,” he says, then moves to the far side of the kitchen and puts the tray on the round wooden table that’s tucked in near the bay window. “There’s just one problem,” he says as he returns to the kitchen. I’ve lagged behind him, and am now pulling a bottle of champagne out of the fridge. As far as I’m concerned, mimosas are a Christmas Eve staple, and I’m more than happy to take two into the bathroom with us. For that matter, maybe I should suggest a bubble bath instead of a shower…
“Wait,” I say as his words finally register with me. “What problem?” I put the champagne bottle down, then turn to face him.
He strides toward me, stopping right in front of me, close enough that I can feel the brush of his erection against the soft silk of my robe. He reaches around me and grabs the champagne bottle, then pops the top, sending a fizz of champagne shooting up to spray over us and then dripping down his hand that holds the neck of the bottle.
I laugh—but the sound turns into a little gasp when I see the heat in his eyes…when he raises his hand to my lips…when he silently indicates that I should lick the champagne off his fingers.
I do, moaning as my mouth closes over his fingertip. And then I am lost, all thoughts of a shower, a bubble bath, breakfast entirely abandoned as I suck, harder and deeper, the connection between us spiraling through me, heating and filling me, so that I feel the pressure between my legs, needful and demanding.