Chapter 1
I scowl at my calendar for today and wonder how I am possibly going to be able to cram everything into one workday. I have three meetings, half a dozen phone calls to return, a lunch appointment, and plans to meet my best friend, Jamie, for drinks at seven. And somewhere in there I have to schedule time to actually get work done.
Frankly, I’m not sure if it’s possible without the aid of time travel devices or, at the very least, a part-time assistant.
I’m tapping the end of my pencil against the overfull sheet—because despite owning my own web- and mobile-app development company, I print my schedule every morning—when Damien approaches.
I know that he is there even though he has yet to say a word. Perhaps I heard his bare feet on the wooden floor. Perhaps the air shifted as he passed. Or perhaps he is simply Damien Stark, and I could no more fail to notice his presence than I could miss a tidal wave.
But more likely, I think it is because he has so thoroughly claimed me that there is never a moment when I am not blissfully and totally aware of him.
I am in the library on the mezzanine of the exceptional Malibu house that was still under construction when I first started dating Damien. Now it is our home, and every space within these walls is precious to me. I’m at the desk near the section where Damien has shelved his sci-fi/fantasy collection, tattered paperbacks tucked in alongside pristine, signed first editions. A few feet away, in one of the comfy leather chairs, the newest addition to our household is curled up into a tiny ball of orange fluff.
This is Damien’s favorite place to work, and that’s part of why I come here almost every morning—I like to feel close to him.
Right now, I feel very close indeed.
“You’re amazing, you know.” I speak without turning around, then smile when I hear his soft chuckle behind me.
“Because I can sneak up on you?” This time I do hear his footsteps as he moves even closer.
“I knew you were there. By definition, that isn’t sneaking. Or, at least, it’s not successful sneaking.”
“You make a good point, Mrs. Stark.” His hands press gently on my shoulders, and I close my eyes, just soaking up the feel of him. It’s more potent than coffee, and if I could bottle this sensation, I’d be richer than my husband.
I haven’t yet turned to look at him, but I don’t need to. I long ago memorized every delicious inch of him. His lush, raven-black hair, so familiar to my fingers. His perfectly sculpted face, softened by the slightest shadow of beard stubble. His lean, well-muscled athlete’s body that looks equally exceptional in jeans or a tux. And, of course, his dual-colored eyes that can look right to my core and see all my secrets.
It is not yet seven on a Friday morning and though I’m still in my typical morning uniform of a T-shirt and baggy shorts, I know that he is already dressed. I inhale, confirming that assumption. I smell the soap from his shower. The hint of musk from the cologne I bought him in Paris on our honeymoon, just a few months ago.
“So tell me, why am I amazing?”
“To properly answer that, I’d need PowerPoint, a projector, and at least two days.” I tilt my head back so that I can grin at him, and my heart skitters when I see his face, even more perfect than the picture I keep tucked away in my mind. “But in this particular instance, I was referring to your time management skills.” Damien accomplishes more in a day than most people do in a year. Frankly, I think it’s highly likely that superpowers are involved.
“Busy day?”
“By human standards. For you, it’s probably a cakewalk. But I’m going to have to do some juggling.”
I stand as I push the chair away from the desk, then turn and lean back so that I’m half-sitting on it, my rear pressed against the edge. Damien’s attention is entirely on my face, and there is such a look of hunger in his eyes that I have to smile. “Careful, or you’ll be late for work.”
“I find that’s one of the perks of running my own company. There’s no one to slap my hand when I break the rules.”
I hear the thread of playfulness in his voice and match it. “Do you break the rules often, Mr. Stark?”
He lifts his hand, then brushes my hair away from my neck, so that his fingertips stroke my tender skin, tracing down along my collarbone. “As often as possible,” he says.
I try very hard to continue breathing normally as his fingers drift lower, over the swell of my breast to linger on my nipple, now pebble-hard beneath the threadbare cotton of my favorite University of Texas T-shirt. He flicks it lightly, causing me to gasp. Causing a hell of a lot more than that, actually, as every nerve ending in my body suddenly seems to be connected to my breast by some sensual network that his touch has illuminated.
I say nothing, biting my lower lip against the instinct to cry out his name in demand and longing. He meets my eyes, his crinkling at the corners as his mouth curves up into a grin. He understands perfectly what I am not saying—what he is doing to me. He holds my gaze, his clever fingers traveling lower and lower until he slides his hand between my legs, cupping me intimately and making me moan. “What do you say?” he murmurs. “Want to break some rules with me?”
“Desperately,” I admit.
He makes a low noise of approval, then eases closer, taking his hand away so that I can feel the length of his erection hard between my legs. He pulls me fully upright, his hands now cupping my rear as he grinds against me, a slow sensual movement like a sexy dance in a dimly lit nightclub.
I tilt my head back and he bends to press a kiss to the corner of my mouth, that simple contact as wildly erotic as the deepest kiss, the hardest fuck. And though the brush of his lips against my skin is feather soft, I feel the hard, demanding weight of it between my legs, and I press my hips tighter against his in silent, desperate demand.