“Touch yourself,” he says.

The excitement that’s been building in me seems to shiver through my body like a jolt of electricity. “What?” I ask, then moan as he continues to slowly torture me, as if he knows exactly how much pressure will take me to the edge—and just how much more is needed to take me over.

“You heard me.”

I lick my lips and swallow. My fingers twitch with the desire to obey. To feel where our bodies are joined, and to stroke the hard length of him even as I tease my oh-so-sensitive clit.

“I—I thought that was naughty,” I say, feeling strangely shy.

His response alone almost sends me rocketing into space: “Maybe I like you naughty.”

I gasp, then swallow. Then I lift my right hand from the bed. It throws off my balance, but he keeps me steady with the arm around my waist. I slip my hand down, barely brushing over my slick clit. My body clenches, my muscles tightening greedily to draw him further inside me. I feel glorious, full, and so desperately close that I know only the slightest touch will be the end of me.

I want it, and yet I also want to feel him. The way our bodies are joined as he slides deep inside me. I ease my hand back along my own slick folds. I feel him there, like velvet steel, and I hear his guttural moan as I gently stroke him.

“Jesus, Nikki, I can’t hold back.”

“Then don’t.” I close my eyes, and my fingers have barely grazed my clit when he trembles, tightening his grip around my waist as he fills me. His release triggers my own, and I clench tight around him, dropping my hand back to the bed so that I don’t fall, too sensitive to continue touching myself, anyway.

“Nikki,” he says when his body stops quivering.

He releases my waist, then immediately catches me when I start to sag, my legs so weak I’m not sure if I’ll ever be able to stand again.

“I think you’ve unraveled me,” I say. “If you were going for punishment, though, you missed the mark completely.”

“Did I?” His voice rises provocatively. “Sounds to me like you’re assuming I’m done with you. I assure you, I’m not.”

“Oh.” My pulse kicks back up again. “That’s a very interesting bit of information.”

“I’m glad to hear you’re intrigued.” He slides a hand down my still weak legs. “But this time maybe you ought to lie down. You seem a bit unsteady.”

“You think?”

He scoops me up so that I am once again cradled against his chest. I feel warm and safe and cherished, and when he places me gently on the bed and presses a soft kiss to my forehead, I want to cry from the sweetness of it all. But then his eyes take on a devilish gleam. “Don’t go to sleep on me yet,” he says as he unties the cord from around my neck—then immediately ties it to my right wrist. He attaches the other end very firmly to the bedpost.

His face is right over mine, his smile undeniably wicked. “I’m going to enjoy this. And, Nikki? So will you.”

I lick my lips, all thoughts of gentleness fading under the weight of Damien Stark’s decadent, silent promises.

He retrieves the robe from the foot of the bed and pulls out the sash. He trails it lightly over my body, then smiles with purpose. “Left hand.”

I comply, raising my hand above my head and gripping the bar of the headboard. My arms are spread wide now, my back slightly arched, and my legs tightly together.

“Nice,” Damien says, once he’s secured that wrist as well. “But I think we can make it nicer.”

With obvious purpose, he slides off the bed, then walks to the door that leads to the patio. It’s made of sliding glass panels, and he opens them now, letting the night breeze come in. The air is cool, but my body is so much on fire that I don’t even notice. He stands next to the door, his hand running gently over the gossamer white drapes that fluttered against me as I posed for Blaine.

“Remember our first night?” he asks.

How can I not? Those drapes. This bed. And me, lost to Damien’s sensual onslaught, my fears and my shame soothed by his kisses and his soft words.

I say none of that now. I only whisper, “Yes.”

“So do I,” he says, then takes two drapery panels, one in each hand, and rips them off the metal rings that attach them to the curtain rod. From my perspective, I see the muscles in his back flex and then the soft swell of filmy white as the sheer material falls to the ground, set free by Damien’s will. A small smile touches my lips; he’s set me free, too.

He is back at my side in no time, and as I anticipated, he uses the drapes to bind my legs to the iron bars at the foot of the bed. The result is sweetly, painfully intimate. I am spread-eagled, arms wide, legs open. I can’t touch him or myself. I can’t roll over. And I certainly can’t close my legs to hide my swollen, sex-slick cunt. I turn my head to the side, part of me wishing I could burrow beneath the sheets, and part of me desperately aroused by the knowledge that I am completely wide open to Damien. His to do with whatever he wants.

I wonder what he has in mind, and then whimper when he moves away from the bed instead of climbing on beside me. I bite my lower lip, suddenly worried. I know that no matter what happens, this will end magnificently. But I also know that Damien’s a master at manipulating anticipation. If he leaves me like this—wide open and ready—I just might have to scream.

“Don’t worry,” he says, as if he can read my mind. “I might have it in me to torment you a little bit, but tonight that would be torturing me, too.”

“Sadism, not masochism?” I say archly, then smile when he bursts out laughing.

“Sadism, Ms. Fairchild? Let me see if I recall the definition. I believe that sadism is the deriving of sexual gratification from inflicting pain, suffering, or humiliation on another person.” He moves to the small table by the bed and opens a drawer. “I’ll admit to the sexual gratification—and I intend to be significantly more gratified before the night is over—but let’s explore the rest, shall we?”

I lick my lips as he pulls a box of matches from the drawer. I trust Damien completely, but what on earth is he planning to do with matches?

“So tell me, Ms. Fairchild, are you in pain?”

I swallow. I’m in very dire straits, but I’m a long way from pain. “No.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.” He crosses the room, then disappears from view. A moment later he returns carrying a thick candle, the flame flickering as he walks. “Candle wax can be very enticing,” he says in response to my questioning glance. “The sensation of the quickly changing temperature. The way it tightens when it hardens on the skin. Have you ever experienced that, Ms. Fairchild?”

I shake my head. “No.” I’m not certain if I’m scared or excited.

“Mmm,” he says, as if marking my words in his memory. “Well, today, I’m interested in only one thing from this candle.” He pauses by the bed and tilts the candle so that the wax drips onto the marble surface of the decorative side table. Then he sets the candle in the wax, letting it harden to form a stand. After that, he takes something else from the drawer. I realize only when the sconce lighting begins to dim that it’s a remote control. Soon we are in darkness, bathed only by the flickering orange of a single candle.